She returns to the boat, where a saucepan of water steams on the stove and Taylor is sitting in front of her laptop. “I’m making spaghetti,” she says without looking up from the screen. “Do you want some?”

“Yeah, um—thanks,” Willa says.

Taylor nods. “I’m also creating an Instagram account. We’ve been gone four days and I’ve only taken two pictures.”

“That’s criminal.”

“Right?” Taylor says. “If we’re going to be doing stuff no one we know has ever done, there should be proof we did it.”

“So, wait . . . Does this mean you’re okay with going through the canal?”

“Only if we can take a break and chill here for a day.”

“That’s fair,” Willa says as the water in the saucepan rolls to a boil. She empties a box of spaghetti into the pan. “We could ride our bikes to the beach tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Growing up, they practically lived at the beach across the road from Finley’s house. Their little-girl selves had sculpted elaborate sandcastles with margarine tubs, decorating them with bits of clamshell and seagull feathers. In middle school, they’d spent an inordinate amount of time doing their hair, then screaming when the neighborhood boys—the ones they were trying to impress with their cute hair—tried to splash them. By the time the girls reached high school, they were completely over those boys. Instead, they’d read books and listened to Taylor’s playlists. They’d slept under the stars. If she were here now, Finley would say riding their bikes to the beach is an outstanding idea. But she’s not here, so Willa has to accept that Taylor’s “okay” is better than nothing.

Taylor

THE SUN HASN’T EVEN BROKEN the horizon yet when the VHF radio crackles with an incoming call, informing Taylor and Willa that their transit window through the Welland Canal will open in thirty minutes. Willa scrambles out of bed to acknowledge the call, then quickly changes out of her pajamas and into her bikini with a pair of cutoff shorts. She seems perfectly at ease getting naked in front of Taylor, but Taylor still hasn’t gotten used to the lack of privacy. She waits until Willa is out of the cabin before she changes into a tank top and shorts.

“I’m going to empty Pumpkin’s litter box and get some coffee,” Taylor says.

“Don’t take too long.” Willa pulls a misshapen fender from the cockpit storage locker. “We don’t want to miss our window.”

“We’re not going to miss our window.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

“Just because I fell asleep one time doesn’t mean you can treat me like I’m going to fuck up everything else,” Taylor snaps.

“What the—” Willa’s eyebrows form a deep crease of confusion. “Are you seriously picking a fight with me right now? Over this?”

“I just—”