“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”

He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”

I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.

He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”

“Of course it’s not.”

He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy. Magic, I tell you.

Kit texts me: What are you doing?

Having a birthday smoke with a friend, I send back.

K: Guy or girl?

I make a face, and then type: Guy

He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.

I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not, he sends.

I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.

K: What were you typing?

I laugh out loud. Nothing. Go away.

He sends a sad face.

And then…

K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?

Should I?

I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.

K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.

That scares me, I send back.

K: Precisely the reason you should do it.

He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.

I’ll think about it.

Kit sends a thumbs up.

K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.

I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond: In a Range Rover on the ferry.

It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.

K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.

I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.

I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water. It scares me. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.

I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.

There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.

K: #Fuckfear

We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.

In my dream, Port Townsend was emerald-glossy—a place where nature is given reign to be free and loud. It is so in real life, too, but I didn’t imagine all of the water. Water with the Cascades etched in a jagged shadow behind it. Cold, blue water, where if you watched long enough, you’d see a seal break the surface and then dip back down, its body a glossy black. All so crisp, like a postcard. I arrive on a day when someone is blowing giant bubbles down Main Street. “This isn’t real. Is this real?” I say to myself. It’s okay to talk to yourself here; I saw someone else doing it.

The store windows are decorated for fall. They’re perfectly curated—plump pumpkins piled next to rosy-cheeked scarecrows. The air already smells like nutmeg and crushed leaves. A shop owner is hanging scarves on a rack on the sidewalk. She smiles at me, her long gray hair catching in the breeze. “You look new,” she says.