“Well, you’ll want to turn yourself that way”—the older guardsman points 180 degrees from the direction the boat is currently facing, and Taylor feels the heat of embarrassment creep into her cheeks—“and maybe get some rest tonight. It’s a long way to Key West.”

“We will,” she says.

“So, are you just passing through Lake Erie?” the young guardsman asks Willa.

“We started out in Sandusky.”

“We’re stationed out of Ashtabula.” He burrows his hand beneath his life vest and comes out with a business card and a pen. He writes something on the back of the card. “This is my personal number. If you want to hang out, hit me up.”

Willa looks legitimately surprised that a cute boy is flirting with her in the middle of Lake Erie, but Taylor kind of respects that he saw his shot and took it. He could do a lot worse than Willa Ryan. She sneaks a peek at the card. “Maybe I will . . . Edison.”

“And you are?”

“Willa. Oh . . . and Taylor.”

“Okay, Romeo,” the older guardsman says. “We need to get moving.”

“Wait!” Taylor realizes she and Willa haven’t done anything to document the trip yet. If Finley were with them, they’d have snapped dozens of pictures by now, but so far neither of Taylor’s cameras have left their cases. She swings down into the cabin, grabs the instant, and returns to the cockpit. “Can I get a picture?”

The Coast Guard boat bumps softly against the sailboat as the guardsmen pose with Willa, who makes an okay sign with her fingers. Taylor’s camera whirs as the photo slides out.

“Ladies.” Edison tips his cap at both of them. The dent around his close-cropped hair is weirdly endearing, and Taylor wonders if Willa will call him.

“It was a pleasure. Be safe. And stay alert.” As he follows the older guardsman back onto the Coast Guard boat, Edison grins at Willa and mouths, Call me.

The boat speeds off, and Willa takes over at the helm, putting the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot back on its proper course. She traps the tiller between her knees while she reapplies sunscreen to her exposed skin. Her lips are a tight line, as though she’s holding back everything she wants to say, and Taylor wishes she would just yell. Fighting would be a lot easier than trying to penetrate Willa’s frosty shield.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” Taylor says.

Willa holds out the bottle of sunscreen. “Your nose is a little pink.”

Taylor had hoped taking a picture would lighten the mood, but the fun they had this morning seems to have evaporated and Willa has gone back into bitch mode.