“That was cool,” Taylor says. “Thanks.”

Willa smiles as she starts the engine. “You’re welcome.”

The Oswego intersects the Erie Canal at Three River Junction, and they push their way across Oneida Lake, slipping into a dock at Sylvan Beach just before sunset. There is a rickety-looking amusement park at the edge of the lake, but they’re sweaty and too tired to do more than sip bowls of soup before crashing out in their bunks. Taylor stretches out and looks across the narrow space at Willa, who is facing the wall. Closed off. No longer the girl who’d had such a great time in Niagara Falls. Taylor wonders if this trip will ever be that fun again.

41.0857° N, 73.8585° W

Don’t lose your head.

Willa

WHAT DID I DO WRONG?

The question spins around in Willa’s brain whenever she replays her time with Cam. He was sweet and romantic, and he kissed her like he meant it, but she wonders if “Thanks for a fun night” was Campbell Nicholson–speak for “See you later, loser.” She worries she was too slutty. Or maybe not slutty enough. Maybe she was such dull company that stealing away in the night was the equivalent of gnawing off his own leg to escape a trap. Willa wants to believe Cam will come back. Even though there’s no history to reinforce the claim, she refuses to be just another bug in his zapper.

Willa wishes she could analyze this with someone, but Taylor has zero objectivity when it comes to her brother and Willa would never have been able to talk to Finley about Cam. Willa’s mom has had a series of dead-end relationships, so she’s more cautionary tale than role model. The only person left is Campbell himself and he’s in the wind.

“Can I borrow your laptop?” she asks Taylor, who shrugs rather than actually answering. “Thanks.”

Willa logs into her e-mail account and finds an in-box full of messages from her mom. At least one a day, which is pretty impressive for someone who hates using the computer. E-mail is the deepest Willa’s mom has ever delved into the Internet. She’ll ask Willa to look things up for her and she refuses to use social media, calling it a “time suck” even though she wastes hours of her life watching decorating shows and cooking competitions on television. Willa has to admire her tenacity with these e-mails, though. There are only so many ways you can ask your daughter what the hell is wrong with her.

To: Mom <[email protected]>

From: Willa <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: I’m worried about you.

I called from Cleveland, the night you blew off work to hang out with Steve. Maybe I’m not the one you should be worried about.