what now? | outerbanks

• forty-four •

Cleo

    I stand outside on the balcony, hair rustling in the thick breeze. The humidity, despite it only being February, sticks to me like a second skin. I tried to be inside with the others, to partake in their friendly bickering, but it was still too quiet, too easy. I pace back and forth along the creaky porch, feeling like if I stop—if I quit moving—I'll explode.
    My nails dig into my palms, my fists brushing my legs with each pass across the porch. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. His face, his arms around my neck, the way Sarah hit the ground. It's like it all happened in slow-mo, and still, I didn't do anything to stop it. I froze; I let him take control.
    Days have passed since it happened, and no matter how many sharp exhales I let go of, I can't seem to take my mind off of it. Everyone else seems to be back on track, though; John B's fixing the busted door, Sarah's making herself useful by cooking dinners and painting nails, and Pope is reading every map he can get his hands on. They keep telling me that I shouldn't feel guilt for any of it—for Sarah's fall and the chaos of it all—but it was my body that didn't move. My body that hesitated.
    The back door opens with a screech, and then footsteps walk some ways behind me. I don't have to look behind me to know who it is.
    "You just gonna stand there, or do you have something to say?" I ask smugly, my arms crossed in front of me. The person walks so that they're at my side now, and then they lean their elbows on the porch railing. It's Pope, just like I suspected.
He doesn't say anything at first, and that makes my blood boil even more. I want a fight. I want someone to say something so I can lash out.
"I know what you're doing," he says, his voice steady.
"Oh yeah?" I scoff. "What's that?"
"You're blaming yourself." He's too steady. I curse in my brain, angry at how well he knows me. I let out a sharp laugh.
"You don't get it."
"You think I don't get it? You think I haven't been in a situation where I felt useless? Where I felt out of control?" His voice is heightened in tone, but he keeps it at a whisper so the others don't hear too much.
I glare at him, but I know he's right. He always is. He's been through just as much hell as I have—as any of us have.
I shut my eyes a moment, letting my words brew. "I froze, Pope," I say quietly, staring at my shaking hands. "I don't freeze. I don't let people get ahead of me. That isn't me."
"No, it's not. But that one moment doesn't define you; it doesn't change who you are. You fought back. You won, Cleo." He picks his hands up from the railing and places them on my shoulders. At first, I don't do anything; I just keep my jaw clenched and my hands wringing at my sides. But, somehow, I melt in his touch.
    My breathing slows, and I carefully move my hands to reach his. Suddenly, all of the fight drains out of me like a wave pulling from the shore.
    "It's okay to be mad," he tells me quietly, "but don't let it eat you alive, you hear?"
    I sigh, something in my chest finally loosening, and though I don't say anything, I don't pull away either. For the first time today, I feel like I can breathe again. He grounds me.
    "You good?" He asks, searching for my eyes.
    Finally, I speak. "I will be."
    "Good, because if we don't open shop soon John B. might fire us."
    "I'd like to see him try."

    The shop smells of salt and musk, and despite how much I love being here, it's too slow today to have fun. Pope and I are both half-asleep at the counter, abandoning our real tasks and doing whatever we can to keep ourselves awake.
Our speakers broke last week thanks to JJ's ear-bursting music, so the only steady sound throughout the shop is the screeching of the ceiling fan.
"This is torture," I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
"Shit. Forget torture; this is Purgatory." I go to agree with the boy, but I'm cut off when the door opens and lets out a small ding! We both sit up sort of lazily, but welcoming enough not to scare away any customers.
Then, upon seeing who's walked in the door, I immediately deflate.
Ruthie: the bitch of all bitches.
She's donned in shorts that are far too short and a sweatshirt from a marina across town, and she's smacking her gum obnoxiously.
I don't move. "Nope. Not today."
Pope stifles a laugh, whispering, "This'll be fun." I elbow him in the side, plastering on an all-too-thrilled smile as Ruthie steps toward the counter. Pope abandons me, walking to adjust something on a shelf and leaving me alone with the evil barbie.
"Just need some ice," Ruthie chirps, smiling with narrowed eyes.
"Don't have any," I say, my words bland and cold.
"What kind of marina doesn't have ice?"
"The kind that doesn't want you in it," I seethe. Pope coughs from across the room, widening his eyes at me. I wrinkle my eyebrows, and he mouths, Be polite.
"Just get me a Coke, then," Ruthie says, rolling her eyes and sighing like I'm the one wasting her time.
"Like the soda? Or is that your drug of choice?"
She fakes a laugh, then licks her teeth menacingly. "Very funny, bitch." She throws a five-dollar bill onto the counter and pushes it forward. "The drink will be fine."
"Hm. I'm shocked," I mutter, turning to the fridge behind me and grabbing the first bottle in the row. I toss it to her, hoping she'll miss, frowning slightly when she catches it.
"Okay, is there a problem?" Ruthie asks, shaking her head in a way that makes her perfectly straight hair sway with her.
"Don't think so," I lie, pulling my lips into a tight, wiry smile.
"Good. Have a nice day." She turns around dramatically and walks her way through the store. "I'm never coming here again."
    "Bye, Ruthie," Pope says quietly, the boy always his same, polite self.
    "Good!" I call to the girl as she walks outside. I stand still behind the counter for a moment, catching my breath and regaining composure. Pope stands by the door with his arms crossed, an amused look spread across his face.
    "Now, that? That was a good show," he laughs, clapping his hands together in applause.
"Oh, shut up!"
"John B. really might fire you now," he warns with a smug smirk.
"He wouldn't dare. I bring the charm."
"The charm, huh?"
"What? Do you disagree?" I shoot back with a snarky tone and raised brows. He stumbles back with his hands up in surrender.
"Not at all. But you could maybe work on your customer service a little." Pope smiles a wide grin at me, and I roll my eyes, the two of us falling into a fit of laughter. He walks closer, and I sling my arms around his neck, leaning all of my weight on him.
"Whatever you say," I hum, my gaze flashing from his eyes to his lips. He smiles back at me sweetly, and then pulls me into a slow, honey-sweet kiss.
"I love you," he coos between kisses. "And I love that we get to work together."
"I love you too, baby."