As Willa rounds the corner toward the subway station, the air feels cooler than when they left the boat and clouds have filled in overhead, obscuring the stars. The wind tugs at her skirt and a soda cup rolls like a tumbleweed down the sidewalk. The first drops of rain fall heavy and she starts to run. She’s not used to running in heels, so she grips the railing as she hurries down the steps to the subway.

Willa is drenched by the time she’s rowed the dinghy out to Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. The rain is cold and relentless, the wind howling, and one of the boats has come free from its mooring and drifts dangerously close to the shore. Willa ties a double knot in the rope connecting the dinghy to the sailboat, then unlocks the cabin. Pumpkin jumps down off Taylor’s bunk and threads herself through Willa’s legs. Willa reaches down and strokes the cat’s back, taking comfort in the fact that she’s not completely alone. “It’s you and me tonight, Pumpkin.”

Once she’s changed out of her wet clothes and donned her weather gear, she texts Campbell again.

The weather has gotten really bad. Tell Taylor she should not come back to the boat tonight.

A few seconds later, the phone rings.

“Hey, what’s going on?” The concern in Cam’s voice would make her cry if she had time for tears.

“One of the boats has broken away from the mooring and I’m afraid we’ll do the same,” she says. “It’s grown too windy for me to row back for Taylor and I don’t want to leave the boat, so tell her to find a place to spend the night.”

“I’ll come help you.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Willa says. You can’t help me. You can’t make me want you, then just walk away. You can’t prove me right about you. I don’t want to be right. She wishes she had the nerve to say those things out loud, to shout them at him, but instead she says, “I got this.”

In the background of Campbell’s silence she can hear the distant sound of the band and people talking and laughing. Then, finally, he says, “Radio the Coast Guard if you need help.”

She disconnects the call, steps out into the cockpit, and starts the engine. As Willa checks the anchor line, the wind rattles the rigging, but tonight it’s less like music and more like a battle cry. The line to the mooring is secure, but as she watches the untethered sailboat swing in a wide arc, narrowly missing another boat, she knows there are no guarantees in sailing. She knows to expect the worst.