Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.11

"Whose clothes are those?"

For the first time since putting them on last night, I inspect what I'm wearing as I pull up to The Château. Green shorts billow around my thighs and are rolled up several times at my waist. An oversized white shirt with a lighthouse printed on the front hangs from my frame like a potato sack. Quickly sniffing the collar, I discover it still smells vaguely like him.

Like Rafe.

"Nobody's," I tell John as I hop off Wheezie's bike. Hopefully she won't be needing it. "Who was that girl I saw riding away from here?"

On my ride here, I was zoned out, staring off into space (which isn't the safest thing to be doing while riding a bike), when someone passed me. Turning over my shoulder, all I saw was a streak of blonde hair beneath a baseball hat before the rider rounded the corner. I can't shake the itch that she looked a lot like Sarah.

"Nobody," John says, straightening his posture. He's sitting in a lawn chair beneath the shed awning. Our house looms behind him.

"Mm-hmm. So what's the SOS? Other than the fact that you're currently unemployed?"

"Ahh, thank you for reminding me what a pleasure it always is to see you, Sis," John grumbles. "And before you ask what happened" —he holds up a finger, effectively shutting up anything I was about to say— "it really doesn't matter. I did something stupid. I got caught. I've learned my lesson, and I'm sorry. I'll do better. Is that what you want to hear?"

Pressing my lips together, I think on it for a second. "Yeah, actually."

"Great." He stoutly nods, eyes wide in frustration. I have to look away. "So about the SOS... It isn't actually me that needs help."

"Oh?" I lift a brow.

He then tells me that Pope needs some help delivering grocery orders for his dad's store. JJ already enlisted, because he needs the extra cash. John claims we could too since he's jobless and my internship is unpaid.

"And you can't do it yourself because...?" I ask, hands on my hips. Looking around like an answer will appear out of thin air, his mouth opens and closes around nothing. So I roll my eyes and say, "Whatever. I'm on it."

"Thank you, Sissy! Thank you!" He jumps up from his seat and plants a slobbery kiss to my cheek. "You're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, yeah," I mumble as I walk up to the house to get changed, hand on my lower back the entire way there. My injury from last night is starting to ache again, along with my head the more I think about it, the more I think about what happened this morning between Rafe and me.

One moment I think I might be learning how to read him—how to relate to him—and the next he's a stranger again.

And things are even worse with Sarah and Ward. Before a few days ago, I thought I knew where I stood: Sarah's best friend, a friend to the rest of her family, an intern, a big sister. I knew how and why I hated Rafe. I never cared about Pogue's and Kook's and all that bullshit. But ever since those gunshots went off on the beach that night... I feel like I know nothing about anything.

As I walk into my childhood bedroom, staring at the drab walls and the moth-eaten comforter, flashes of my room at the Cameron's flash through my mind. I ask myself where I fit. Here, at The Château or there, at Tannyhill. I know where I want to fit. I know where I feel more comfortable. But none of that matters, I guess. Ward's words to Rafe come back to me: This is exactly why I gave Cecilia the internship over you. Yet another Pogue with more integrity, reliability, and tenacity in her little finger than you probably have in your whole body.