Taylor: This time it’s cool. Pumpkin and I are lying on a giant porch swing overlooking the ocean. And Willa is out with a guy who won’t break her heart.

Vanessa: It sounds like the two of you are in a better place.

Taylor: Definitely. I’ll call you in a few minutes.

Campbell: Where are you?

Taylor: Outer Banks

Campbell: I was thinking about hopping a ride. What’s the closest airport?

Taylor: Why?

Campbell: Why what?

Taylor: Why do you want to hop a ride with us?

Campbell: Cabin fever. And I wouldn’t mind seeing Willa again.

Taylor: Nope. You had your chance and you blew it.

Campbell: What do you mean?

Taylor: You took advantage of her feelings and then hurt her by showing up in NY with another girl. Willa really liked you.

Campbell: Past tense?

Taylor: Right now she’s on a date with a guy who is worthy of her.

Campbell: That’s kind of harsh. You’re my sister.

Taylor: That’s why they call it tough love.

Willa

WYATT PULLS A WIRE MESH trap out of the water at the end of his parents’ pier on the Currituck Sound side of Carova. Inside are at least a dozen crabs. Willa is wearing the same red sundress she wore to the drive-in with Campbell—hoping to attach a better memory to it—but now she wonders if she might be overdressed for this date. “What exactly are we doing?”

“The market price for blue crabs is really high in restaurants this time of year,” Wyatt says, tossing one of the animals back into the water. “So we’re going to bring a few of these guys to my friend, who will cook them for us.”

Wyatt keeps nine of the crabs, putting them in a red plastic bucket he stows in the back of his Jeep. They drive down the beach until they reach the paved road marking the end of the protected area for the wild mustangs. The beginning of civilization. The beach houses in Corolla are closer together, and they pass boutique shops and a few restaurants before Wyatt turns onto a smaller road. He parks in front of a shabby-looking red wooden shack called Number One Jimmies.

Beside the restaurant is a handful of picnic tables with strings of lights crisscrossing overhead that will be prettier when it’s dark. Beach music spills out through the front screen door as Wyatt holds it open for Willa.

“This place is so great,” she says.

“It gets better.”

Inside, the walls are painted white and hung with old sepia photos of crabbers and their boats. There are no tables, only a blackboard menu featuring nothing but seafood and an order window.

Willa smiles. “You’ve said that before.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?” Wyatt says. “So trust me on this.”