Pretty When You Cry ୨୧ Rafe Cameron

thirty

It was weird for Isla to be back in the Outer Banks again. She knew her arrival would cause a fuss. Dead girl back to life, looking like she hadn't eaten or slept in a year— she looked dead.

Rafe dropped her off at the Chateau. He knew she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, despite his attempts to connect with her. She was a brick wall. The emotional girl he once knew died on that island, or maybe when he tried to kill her.

As she set foot onto the incredibly cluttered and untamed property, the sound of Rafe's boat departing echoed in the distance. Sunlight filtered through the tangled branches of her favourite oak tree, casting a dappled pattern on the overgrown grass. This was home, yet it felt like a punch in the stomach.

She headed inside, the doors were still unlocked to the Chateau. Of course, they were, there was nothing to steal other than some empty beer cans and fairy lights. Isla let her fingers trail on all the dusted surfaces as she walked by, taking in the familiar smell of her home.

This hurt, and as much as she hated him, this was one of those moments where she wanted a hug from her dad. One of his big bear hugs, like he'd give her after he screamed at her, but nonetheless great hugs. She also thought about John B, probably still on the run in Barbados with her friends. God, how did she let herself go off with Rafe and leave them there? Truthfully, it was because she wanted to feel the normalcy of her own bed more than she wanted to breathe.

She needed a drink. Those were words she hadn't had the opportunity to act on in a long time, old habits. Yet she still opened the liquor cupboard and grabbed a bottle of brandy, taking it to the couch and clicking through the five available channels on the twenty-year-old television.

Isla knew what she was doing. She was drinking the pain away, on an empty stomach too. She wasn't feeling mature enough to put down the bottle, but she did grab some stale cereal from the cupboard she hoped would heal her hunger, which it did.

After that, she took a much needed shower. She shampooed her hair at least four times, removing every last bit of sand and sweat. She then put on deodorant, a standard of cleanliness she hadn't been able to uphold for a while and headed to her bedroom to find some clean clothes in her robe.

Of course, it all fit her far too loosely, which made her queasy, and she was buzzed enough to cry about that for a moment— sinking into her unmade bed. Despite the bitter thoughts running through her mind, being in her bed was her biggest craving, and its fulfillment was unmatched.

She got up eventually and threw on some old clothes from when she was fourteen and looked like Flat Stanley since she hadn't gained her curves yet.

Still teary-eyed, Isla searched around her room. She finally found what she was looking for, a bag of weed. An already made blunt in there too. She went down on the wharf and smoked that bitch, just like she did when she was thinking of her dad.

When she saw a random boat approaching, she was more than confused.

No. Fucking. Way.

It was the Pogues— and they shouted out to her more than overjoyed to see her. She saw another familiar face and she assumed her intoxicated mind was causing her to see things, but he was really there.

Her 'dead' dad.

'Hey kiddo,' he said with a friendly yet soulful tone of voice as he stepped off the boat, expecting to be greeted with a hug and some tears. Isla came to her feet, but she just looked at him for a moment, dropping her blunt. He wrapped his arms around her, grabbing onto her hair. 'I'm so happy to see you.'

Isla shot John B a look that said 'what the fuck??'. He just shrugged with a massive grin on his face.

'I don't understand, how are you here? You're supposed to be dead??' Isla asked as she pulled away from the hug, her mind spinning too fast for her words to keep up with her internal dialogue.