“Hey,” Willa says softly. “Keep some of the ashes for a bead if that’s what you want.”

Taylor shakes her head. “I want to do this.”

“You can do both.”

Taylor picks up the bottle, and they step up onto the breakwall. The water laps gently against the rocks below as Taylor pulls open the stopper. She pours some of the ashes into the bowl of Willa’s palm and some into her own, leaving a little bit in the bottle.

“Do you think we should say a few words or something?” Taylor asks.

“I feel like we said enough at her funeral. Maybe we should just do ‘WTF.’ ”

“Scatter on ‘Foxtrot?’ ”

Willa reaches for Taylor’s free hand as she nods. She smiles. “Whiskey.”

Taylor smiles back. “Tango.”

“Foxtrot,” they say in unison, and they toss their handfuls of ash.

At that moment, a gust of wind kicks up and Finley’s ashes scatter backward, catching in their hair, dusting their faces, and blowing into their open mouths. Willa coughs as she inhales a bit of ash into her lungs.

“Oh my God!” Taylor cries out, choking with laughter as tears stream down her face. “This is the most Finley thing ever.”

Willa cracks up laughing, the ash like sand on her lips. “When I said we’d always have her with us, this is not what I meant.”

“We need to record this for posterity.” Taylor holds her instant camera at arm’s length and they lean into each other.

In the shadow of the buoy, they wait for the photo to develop.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Taylor asks. “Will you stay in Key West for a few more days or . . . ?”

Willa shrugs, but her cheeks dimple as she gestures at the southernmost marker. “I mean, Cuba’s only ninety miles away.”

“You can’t go to Cuba without me!”

She nudges Taylor with her elbow. “We’ll save that trip for another time.”

“Will we?”

Willa isn’t sure how to answer. Taylor is the last person she expected to have as a best friend. But maybe best doesn’t mean forever. Maybe best is the person you get at a time when you need her most and she stays only that long. Tomorrow might be the last time Willa and Taylor ever see each other. Or they might meet up at their tenth class reunion. Or maybe, fifty years from now—when their faces are etched with laughter lines—they’ll still be friends. No matter how their lives play out, if anyone ever asks Willa if Taylor Nicholson was her best friend, the answer will always be yes.

Now, though, she smiles. “Let’s play it by ear.”