“I wonder why Finley thought we could be friends without her,” Willa says finally. “She was the glue. But there have been moments on this trip—lots of them, actually—when it seemed like she might have been right. It’s just—sometimes it feels like I’m Charlie Brown and you’re Lucy, and I never know when you’re going to pull the football away.”

A tear trickles down Taylor’s nose, but this time it’s not from laughing. “I guess I was just hurt that you shared something that big with a stranger instead of me.”

“But see, even now it’s not about you,” Willa points out. “I was planning to tell you, but I ended up telling Wyatt first. It wasn’t a deliberate choice, but it was my business and I shouldn’t have to defend it. You embarrassed me for no reason, Taylor, so what reason do I have to believe you won’t do it again?”

Willa grabs a towel and wipes up the mess on the floor, leaving Taylor to wonder if their hurricane truce has been broken. Taylor washes the dishes, then makes a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches as a replacement meal.

“So . . . I think Finley hoped that the things we experienced on this trip would become the glue.” She hands Willa one of the sandwiches. “But maybe she also wanted us to have another person in the world who knows how it feels to miss her. If we have each other, we’ll never really be alone.”

Willa takes a bite and just chews, not giving anything away. It’s torture not knowing what she’s thinking—and Taylor finds herself needing Willa’s forgiveness. “I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t want to be Lucy anymore. I’d kind of like to be Linus, but he’s the smart one like you. In reality, I’m probably the Charlie Brown.”

Willa rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “If we don’t die out here in the middle of nowhere, I suppose I can give you one more chance.”

“Hey, Taylor, can I ask you something?”

The girls are huddled between the sail bags in the v-berth since the windows have leaked all over their beds. They should be trying to sleep, but the wind is screaming and the turbulence is almost constant. Pumpkin has taken refuge behind Taylor’s knees, and the weather radio jabbers in the background as Dorian closes in on the Atlantic coast. The storm is still predicted to make landfall north of Savannah, but the boat is within the wingspan. The worst is yet to come.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What’s it like kissing a girl?”