The lump in Taylor’s throat is lodged so tightly that she can’t tell Heidi that she’s already lost her best friend. Or that she doesn’t want to lose the only other person who knows how that feels. She wouldn’t blame Willa for hating her. She wouldn’t even blame her if she packed up her suitcase and left Taylor behind. Gnawing her lower lip, Taylor glances back at the house, but Heidi tugs her hand.

“Taylor, sit. Let Willa cool off a little bit first.”

Pushing against the instinct to go apologize, Taylor sits. And when Corrine hands her the charred stub of the last joint, Taylor takes the hit. She laughs when everyone laughs at something Shaun says, but her mind is elsewhere. Taylor doesn’t want to be the crappy friend anymore, but she doesn’t know how to undo the damage she’s done.

Everyone is getting ready to go watch the fireworks when Willa and Wyatt return. They’re holding hands and Willa is smiling, which Taylor takes as a good sign.

“Hey, um—” she begins.

“I just want to have fun tonight,” Willa interrupts, her words as cold and sharp as the icicles that dangle from the roof of the Nicholsons’ garage in the winter. Taylor’s face heats at the understanding that fun does not include her. She gets into a skiff with Shaun and Corinne and someone’s parents, and as they caravan down the sound to Corolla, Willa feels so far away. Too far away. And as the first rocket bursts into bloom in the fading daylight, Taylor is certain this is the worst Fourth of July ever.

Taylor

“SO, THIS IS HOW IT’S going to go,” Willa says as she stuffs clothes into her duffel bag. Even if Taylor were unable to hear the anger in her voice, she can see it in the way Willa packs. Her hairbrush clatters against a bottle of shampoo, and nothing is neatly folded. “We get to Key West as fast as we can. No more clues. No more pretending that we’re ever going to be friends. We finish this and get on with our lives.”

Taylor doesn’t know what to say because how do you argue with someone who has already made up her mind? So she says what Willa wants to hear.

“Fine.”

Willa

NOT LONG AFTER THEY MOTORED away from the marina where they’d first met Wyatt, the radio chatter began. A tropical depression had developed off the coast of Africa and was projected to build into a major hurricane as it traveled across the southwestern Atlantic. Dorian—the fourth named storm of the season—was predicted to make landfall somewhere around Cocoa Beach.

“Should we be worried about that?” Taylor asked, her mouth full of crunchy sour cream and onion chips. The noise dragged up Willa’s spine and she clenched her teeth against it.