Tonight, Willa is wearing a pink sequined skirt that she bought for two dollars on half-off Wednesday at the Salvation Army. Even though their outfits are similar—T-shirts and skirts—Willa belongs on the New York City subway. Her hair is piled on her head in a way that looks like it might tumble down at any second and her lips are painted red. The guy with the dreadlocks keeps stealing glances at her legs and Taylor can’t really blame him. She doesn’t really burn with a jealous rage anymore, but Taylor still kind of wishes she was as effortlessly cool as Willa.

They exit the subway at the Delancey Street station and round the corner to the Donut Shop. A line has already formed, and as they walk to the back, Taylor scans the faces, looking for Vanessa. Taylor texted her a few days ago—when they were in a town called Amsterdam—to let Vanessa know they’d make it to New York City in time for the concert. Vanessa had replied that she’d be there, but none of the faces are hers and Taylor tries to squish her hope back into a more manageable size.

She gnaws on her thumbnail as the line moves slowly forward.

“Are you okay?” Willa asks. “You seem . . .”

“Sister Kismet is my all-time favorite,” Taylor says quickly, technically not lying. “I just want to get inside.”

The line shuffles forward, and she catches sight of Vanessa walking toward the club. Her pale skin has turned pink in the neon glow of the Donut Shop lights, and Taylor’s fingers curl into her palms to keep from pulling Vanessa in line with them. But Taylor is still trying to find a place for everything in her head—and in her heart. She will always love Finley, but long days on the water have given her a lot of time to think. She’s never used any specific words for herself. She loved Finley. She loved Brady. Now Taylor feels wings fluttering in her chest when she thinks about Vanessa. She’s okay with being bisexual, but she’s not ready for Willa to know just yet.

They pass through a cloud from the smokers gathered outside the front door and enter the club. The first floor is an actual storefront bakery/bar, but a narrow stairway leads down into the redbrick basement. Ahead, there’s a small soundstage with a shimmering red and pink backdrop and speaker stacks at each corner. Behind are a couple of old leather couches and a few tables and chairs, but the rest is an open space for dancing. The warm-up band is doing their sound check.

“I’m going to the mosh pit,” Taylor says. “Do you want to come?”

“I think I’ll just stay here, if that’s okay with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go!” Willa motions Taylor away. “Have fun!”