“How would you feel about coming over to my house tonight?” she asks. “After dinner?” I’m panicking, trying to think of a way to say no. Because it makes me queasy, thinking about spending the evening with Cole and Willa. With Brody. But she goes on. “The boys will be gone, so it’ll just be the two of us.” She smiles. “A girls’ night.” And her eyes are so warm. “I thought I’d show you some more videos.”

“I’d like that,” I say.

When I knock on her kitchen door that evening, Willa is wearing shorts and a T-shirt. She’s barefoot and her hair is loose. She has a glass of wine in her hand, and she looks so relaxed and comfortable. It makes me feel incredibly special that she’s invited me here. To her house. To be with her like this.

And then it makes me feel impossibly guilty. Because I know what my mother was doing.

What Brody did.

What they did together. Behind her back.

Willa is at the counter. She’s arranging some cheese and crackers on a tray for us, and my eyes are drawn to that little painting of the muses again. Those beautiful girls dancing by the edge of the lake. There’s something about it that speaks to me. That girl who is a fountain, water streaming from her invisible holes. It’s beautiful and strange. Like everything at Whisper Cove.

Without even thinking about it, I reach for the frame. I just want to lift it off the wall. To hold it in my hands and get a closer look. I need to see if that girl with all the holes looks as much like me as I think she does.

But Willa is pressing a wineglass into my hand. It’s less than half full. “Don’t tell the others,” she warns me. She’s trying to look stern, but her eyes are sparkling. And I laugh.

I forget about the girl with the holes.

Willa leads me into the living room. This time I notice a bookshelf tucked into one corner. I hadn’t even seen it before, but now I’m staring in awe at her Tony. It sits next to a half dozen other major awards. Drama Desk. Drama League. Critics’ Circle. Others I don’t recognize. All for Midnight Music. I can’t stop staring.

Willa is leaning in the doorway watching me. “Do you want to hold it?” she asks, and I nod. I sit my wineglass on the shelf, and I’m barely breathing as she lifts the Tony and puts it in my shaking hands. It’s heavier than I expect it to be.

I’m looking at my reflection in the shiny silver plaque on the front of the award. BEST PLAY, the lettering says. MIDNIGHT MUSIC. WILLA CULVER.