what now? | outerbanks

• fifty-five •

Pope

I lean against the cold kitchen counter of John B. and Sarah's house, my phone pressed to my ear as I wait for the call to connect. I look back to where the chest sits in the living room, still crusted with salt and grime from where we dug it out of the wreck. Even without the overhead lights on, the glint of gold and tremendously deep hues of gemstones peek through, a silent promise of fortune.
"Can I help you?" asks a gruff voice through my phone speaker.
"Hey, Mr. Kinsey. It's Pope—Heyward's son."
"Pope! It's been a while, son."
"Yeah, I know. We've—uh—we've been busy, if you haven't seen," I say, scribbling mindlessly on a random piece of mail. I hope it's not too important. "Listen, sir, my friends and I came into possession of some, uh, historic currency. Coins, gems, stuff that needs a real appraisal."
"Well, you called the right guy," he laughs, and I can hear him slap a hand onto his knee.
"I was wondering if and when we could come by your office."
"Let me check my calendar," he says, flipping through pages and taking a few moments before speaking again. "Actually, it looks like I have an opening tomorrow morning. How does that work."
I instantly look up from the counter, excitement running through my veins. "Tomorrow morning? Yeah, that's perfect. We'll be there," I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. I leave the kitchen and find Cleo observing a painting Sarah insisted be hung up in one of the hallways. I'm sure it means something, but it's so abstract that even my brain can't figure out what it's supposed to be.
"So?" She asks, noticing me immediately.
"He said we can come in tomorrow morning to get an appraisal. That easy." I wrap an arm around her shoulders and kiss her forehead. "Just gotta wait a day until then."
She side-eyes me for a second and then asks, "What's up?" It takes me back because, honestly, I don't know.
"What do you mean?" I ask back, genuinely confused. Either she's reading too much into something or she's more in touch with my emotions than I am.
"I don't know. You just seem kind of off. You have since a few days ago."
"Yeah, maybe because I got stabbed in the shoulder," I say, laughing off the trauma.
    Cleo doesn't say anything right away. She just gives me that look—the one that sees straight through my bullshit. The one that tells me she already knows exactly what's wrong, even if I don't. "You're homesick, Pope."
I shake my head. "I'm not homesick. I mean, we just got home."
She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, but home isn't just a place, Pope. It's people." She tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "When was the last time you saw your parents?"
I open my mouth to answer but come up short. Before Jamaica, we were running around the Outer Banks, tracking down leads and making sure no one killed us. And before that, well... it's been about a month. Not that long, but still long enough that I feel a pang of guilt in my chest.
Cleo crosses her arms. "Exactly."
"I mean, I've texted my mom a few times," I sigh, awkwardly rubbing the back of my neck.
Cleo rolls her eyes. "Not the same, Pope. You know that."
She's right. I hate that she's right. I hadn't even realized how much I missed them, how much I needed to see them. I've spent so much time chasing after something—treasure, adventure, answers—that I hadn't stopped to think about what I was leaving behind.
Cleo softens. "Come on, let's go see them."
I hesitate again, but she just grabs my keys off the counter and dangles them in front of me like she's daring me to say no.
"You really wanna show up looking like this?" I ask, motioning to my salt-stained shirt and the dried mud on my jeans. There hasn't been time to wash away Jamaica's stains.
"Eh, they've seen worse." That makes me laugh, because it's true. They've seen so much worse.
With a sigh, I grab the keys from her hand. "Fine. Let's go." I text the rest of the Pogues that we're leaving and let them know that we have an appointment in the morning, so they should all rest up.
The drive to my parents' place is quieter than usual. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. Cleo messes with the radio, landing on some old-school reggae station that makes her nod her head approvingly. I keep my hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, but my mind is already a few miles ahead—imagining what it'll be like to walk through that front door again.
When we finally pull up outside, I let out a slow breath. The house looks the same. It's the middle of the day, and the sun glints off the weathered, timeworn windows.
Cleo nudges me. "You gonna sit here all day, or are we going in?" I shake off whatever nerves I have, get out of the car, and head up the steps. Before I can even knock, the door swings open.
"Pope?" My mom stands in the doorway, eyes widening in surprise before she pulls me into a hug so tight I almost forget how to breathe.
"Hey, Ma," I manage, laughing into her shoulder.
"Boy, don't 'hey, Ma' me! You just show up out of nowhere?" She pulls back and gives me a once-over, her face instantly shifting to concern. She leans back on one hip, pursing her lips. "You're too skinny. Are you eating enough?"
I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "Yes, Ma. I'm fine." She squints at me like she doesn't believe it, then notices Cleo standing behind me. Instead of surprise, her face lights up.
"There's my girl!" She exclaims, eyes lighting up more than they did for me. She pulls Cleo into a hug just as tight as mine. "I was just saying how boring it's been without you, sugar." I laugh at the nickname and its irony. Cleo is a lot of things—all good—but certainly not sugar.
Cleo grins. "Oh, you know me, Miss Heyward. Always causing trouble somewhere."
My dad appears from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Well, look who finally decided to stop chasing treasure long enough to come home."
    Sitting at the worn kitchen table, I feel a familiar warmth settle over me. The smell of my mom's cooking lingers in the air, even though she's just making sweet tea right now, moving around the kitchen like always, never skipping a beat. My dad sits across from me, arms crossed, studying me with that quiet, intimidating patience he's always had. Cleo leans against the counter, sipping her tea like she's been here forever—because, in a way, she has.
    "So," my dad finally says, "you gonna tell us what really brought you back, or are we just supposed to act like this is a normal visit?"
    I glance at Cleo, who just raises an eyebrow at me. She knows I need to be the one to say it. I exhale, drumming my fingers against the table. "We found another one."
    Mom turns from the sink, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Another what?"
    "A treasure." I look up at them both. "A real one."
    Dad lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Let me guess, John B. got you all roped into something again?"
    I smirk. "Actually, it was JJ this time."
    "That kid," he says, shaking his head in laughter. "Surprised y'all made it out alive."
    Cleo grins, then continues the story. "We pulled it out of a shipwreck in Jamaica."
    Mom's eyes widen. "Jamaica? You went out of the country and didn't tell me." It's been a while since I've lived at home, but still, her motherly tone never fails to scare me a little.
    Dad just sighs. "Of course you did."
    I rub the back of my neck, bracing myself. "And... I want you to have my cut."
    Cleo doesn't react because we already talked about this on the drive over, but my mom just blinks at me, like she can't have heard me right.
    "What?" she says, voice softer now.
    I sit up straighter. "I mean it. You and Dad—you've done everything for me. Worked your asses off to give me a good life, made sacrifices I didn't even realize until I was older. And now I have more money than I'll ever need. So whatever my share is, it's yours."
    Dad shakes his head, rubbing his jaw. "Pope, we don't need—"
    "I want to." I meet his gaze, unwavering. "It's not just about need. You and Mom deserve this. You can finally take time for yourselves, go on vacations, fix up the shop—whatever you want."
    Mom's hand comes up to her mouth, her eyes shining. "Baby, that's... that's too generous."
    I nod. "I know."
    Dad leans back in his chair, studying me the way he always does when he's trying to figure out what's going on in my head. "You're sure about this?" I nod again, no hesitation.
    Mom steps forward, wrapping her arms around me, and for a second, I don't care how old I am—I just let her hug me. When she pulls back, she cups my face like she did when I was a kid, her eyes full of pride.
    "You've always had the biggest heart," she says softly. "We don't deserve you."
    I shake my head. "Nah. I don't deserve you."
    Cleo smirks from the counter. "Y'all are gonna make me cry."
    Mom laughs, wiping her eyes. "Please, you couldn't shed a tear if you tried."
    Cleo holds up a hand. "Not wrong."
    Dad finally sighs, shaking his head again, but there's a small smile on his face. "Well, I guess I'm retiring early, then."
    "About time," I say, grinning.
    Mom wipes her eyes again, exhaling deeply. "Alright, alright. I need to sit down. This is too much for one afternoon." She pauses, looking between me and Cleo. "Are you two staying for dinner?"
    Cleo glances at me. "I mean, I won't say no to a free meal."
    I smirk. "Yeah, we're staying."
    Mom beams. "Good." And just like that, everything feels right.