what now? | outerbanks

• fifty-seven •

Kiara

Wheezie's newly decorated bedroom at Tanneyhill looks different from when she first lived here. Gone are the preteen pastels and heartthrob magazine clippings taped to the walls. Now, the room is a little more grown-up—neutrals and warm tones, some of Sofia's influence seeping through in the details. A fluffy new comforter. String lights draped over the window. A framed photo of her and Sarah from the last Midsummers before everything went to shit.
We're finishing up the last of the unpacking, closet doors open, boxes half-empty, and light music playing through a speaker somewhere. I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding t-shirts while Cleo and Sofia sort through books for the shelves. Wheezie is standing by the vanity, deciding where to put all her random little trinkets, and Sarah—well, Sarah is sitting in the chair by the window, directing things like she's the queen of Tanneyhill. Which, I guess, in all reality, she is.
    "You know," I say, glancing over at her. "It's real cute how you're just sitting there while we do all the work."
    Sarah scoffs. "Excuse me, but I set up her entire nightstand."
"You put a lamp and a candle on it," Wheezie clarifies, deadpanned.
"Yeah. Perfectly, might I add."
Cleo smirks. "Come on, Sarah, you're just mad 'cause you can't get up off that chair without a whole production."
"I can help if you need it," Sofia says with a sly snicker.
"I can get up on my own, thank you very much." She shoots us all a glare, and it's almost enough to burn holes into my skin. Over the past couple of weeks, Sarah has grown quite a bit. She's only halfway through her pregnancy, but—in less accurate terms than the doctors explained it—something with her placenta is making her seem larger.
"Alright, then," I say, leaning back on my hands, eyeing the girl up and down. "Prove it."
Sarah narrows her eyes, scowling in that way she always does when she's annoyed. I think it's adorable. "You guys are the worst."
Still, she plants her hands on the armrests of the chair and starts pushing herself up. The chair is pretty deep, so her struggle is understandable, but it's an amusing sight if anything. A few grunts escape her lips, and she works her way up, her belly leading in front of her as she wiggles forward. Just as quickly as it started, though, it suddenly stops. She pauses where she is, stuck in some kind of awkward half-squat.
Wheezie covers her mouth to hide her entertained giggles. "You good?"
"I hate you all," she says through gritted teeth, groaning dramatically and dropping back down into the cushioned chair.
Laughter instantly fills the room, even from Sarah. It's a good moment. A normal one. The kind that makes me forget everything else—the treasure hunts, the near-death experiences, the fact that Sarah's life has changed more than any of ours in the last year—and that's enough.
"So what did it feel like to get shot?" The question comes out of nowhere—so blunt and casual that I can't suppress my laugh.
Wheezie plops herself down, cross-legged on the bed, looking at me expectantly, like she just asked something as casual as what I had for breakfast this morning.
I glance at Cleo nervously, and she raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. Sofia is sorting through a new stack of books, completely unaware of the abrupt shift in conversation. Sarah is watching us carefully, but, for now, she's keeping to herself.
I shake my head, smirking, craning my neck as I make sure I say the right thing. This isn't totally an easy thing to talk about. "I don't know, Wheeze. What do you think it feels like to get shot in the leg and have the bullet sit in there for hours?"
She rolls her eyes, clearly disappointed in my answer. "I'm serious. Like, did it burn? Did you even feel it right away?"
I exhale, shifting where I sit. I run my fingers back and forth along the pink scar. It stands out against my tan leg. My mind takes me straight back to the day it happened. I think back to how limp and helpless I felt in JJ's arms. How bright and quiet it all was, the pain drowning out every other sense. I don't think I'll ever feel anything like it ever again, and I hope that's the truth. I truly thought I was going to die right there.
    I shake the memories from my mind. "Yeah, I felt it. At first, it was just shock, I guess. Like my brain hadn't caught up yet. But then it started burning, and everything hurt, and I couldn't move right. Definitely not fun, if that's what you're wondering."
"Can I touch it?" she asks without hesitation, eyes bright with fascination.
"Wheezie!" Sarah snaps, widening her eyes as if to tell her that was not an appropriate question. I brush it off, though, letting Sarah know I don't really mind.
"It's fine, Sar. Sure, you can touch it."
Wheezie traces her finger lightly around the scar, and I make sure not to wince when she presses a little too hard in a sensitive spot. Her face wrinkles in disgust, and then she giggles, saying, "That's so gross. But also kind of cool."
"Only you would think almost dying is cool," Cleo snorts, walking away from us like she can't take our insanity anymore.
"I didn't say almost dying was cool," Wheezie argues, wrinkling her nose. "Just—I don't know. It's fascinating. Like, the fact that you can even sit here and talk about it like it's no big deal is insane."
Before I can respond, Sarah scoffs. "You never asked me any questions when I got shot." Her tone is light, teasing, but I know her too well. There's something else there.
Wheezie blinks, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah, I did."
Sarah laughs like it's a joke, one hand planted firmly on her shaking belly. "Uh, no, you didn't."
"Yes, I did!" Wheezie insists, sitting up straighter. "You just never answered any of them."
A layer of hushed air washes over the room, and for the first time, things feel awkward. Sarah doesn't respond right away. She looks at Wheezie first, then at me and Cleo, like she's realizing what we already know. Sarah never answered any questions because she didn't want Wheezie to know the truth of what really happened that day.
Cleo shifts slightly, sensing the tension too. But Sofia—Sofia doesn't. She's still sitting on the floor, sipping at her glass of sweet tea, completely unaware of the weight in the air. She's graceful like that, never letting anything around her affect how she carries herself. Simply, she's the complete opposite of who I am. I don't know how we dated the same person.
Sarah forces a small laugh, shaking her head. "I probably just forgot," she says lightly, waving it off like it's nothing. Then, without missing a beat, she nods toward the vanity. "Speaking of, Wheeze, are you actually gonna put all those trinkets somewhere, or are they just gonna stay in a pile?"
The subject change is so obvious that even Wheezie squints at her for a second. But eventually, she lets it go, turning her attention back to arranging her things. The moment passes. The tension fizzles out.
I don't say anything. Cleo doesn't dare to either. We exchange a knowing look, though. Sarah has tried to protect Wheezie her whole life—from everything. The truth about Peterkin, Ward, her gunshot wound, their mother. She's always felt responsibility for Wheezie. But now, there's a chip in her strength. Sarah didn't forget to answer Wheezie's questions; she avoided them.