what now? | outerbanks

• fifty-nine •

Rafe

I hear the screen door creak open, followed by the sharp slam of it shutting, and I already know who it is before she says a word. I tense up, bracing myself for what I know is coming.
"You gonna be mad all night?" Sofia asks, her tone laced with annoyance and bite.
I exhale through my nose, gripping my beer tighter. "Not in the mood, Sof."
"Yeah, well," she moves closer, resting her hip against the porch railing beside me. "I wasn't really asking."
I shake my head, dragging my gaze toward her. Her eyes are colder than they usually are, and she's looking at me like I'm being impossible, like she has me all figured out. It pisses me off.
"She shouldn't have told her," I mutter.
"Why?"
I scoff, turning back toward the yard. What does she mean, why? Is it not obvious? "Because it wasn't her place."
"She was their mom too, Rafe." This makes something in my chest tighten. She's talking like she really understands what's going on, but how could she? She wasn't there when it happened. She's only just becoming a part of our family—this isn't her place to meddle.
"Yeah, and I was the only one old enough to care what happened," I snap, finally looking at her. "I had to watch it all, Sof. She doesn't remember it like I do."
Sofia tilts her head, her eyes steady. "You think she doesn't remember?" Her words are somewhat genuine, like she actually wants me to answer, but there's some spite and reprimand there as well.
"She was four," I say, like it's obvious—because, well, it is. "You don't remember shit from when you're four."
She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. I have to look away because she's so beautiful. "She remembers everything." I stop in my tracks, taking a swig of beer before placing it down and shoving my hands into my pockets.
"John B. called me," she continues, softer now, like she thinks I'm going to break. "He told me about her nightmares and how scared she is to have her baby. It really affects her."
My fingers flex in my pockets, and my rings burn cold notches into my skin. "That doesn't mean she should've told Wheezie," I say, but it doesn't sound as strong as it did before.
Sofia shakes her head. "You can't keep protecting her forever."
I set my jaw. "Watch me."
She steps closer, placing a hand on my arm. I almost back away, but I force myself to stay in her touch. "I get it; I do. You wanted to shield her from it, just like you always have; but at some point, that's not protection—it's just avoidance."
I stare straight ahead, my whole body tensed. I hate this. I hate feeling like I don't have control over this anymore. And I hate that, deep down, Sofia's right.
"And maybe Sarah didn't handle it how you would have, but it's done," she says. "Wheezie knows now, and there's nothing you can do to change it back." I don't respond. I just take another sip of my beer, keeping my eyes on the horizon.
She sighs, her fingers squeezing my arm before she lets go. "You can be mad, but don't shut her out over this." I don't say anything. She steps back, and I expect her to just go inside, but instead, she lingers, watching me like she's waiting for something.
"Fine," she finally says. "Be mad. But don't expect her to come crawling back to make it right." She turns and walks inside, her nightgown swaying at her knees. Now, I'm alone.
I let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over my jaw. The night air is thick, suffocating, pressing down on me with everything I don't want to deal with. I'm not any less mad at Sarah—she should have talked to me first—but even as I stare out into the dark, glossy horizon, I know Sofia's right.
I drain the rest of my beer into the grass, the warming liquid starting to settle wrong in my stomach, and set the empty bottle down on the railing. Then, with a sigh, I pull my phone out of my pocket. I hover over Sarah's contact on my phone for a long time, debating internally whether or not it's a good idea to call.
It's late, and I'm sure she's already in bed. This pregnancy has been really hard on her sleep. Still, I know I should at least try, so, after a moment of hesitation, I press the call button.

Sarah

My eyes squint open, blinded by the morning light, stretching across the white sheets in golden waves. I take a deep breath into my pillow, sighing at the scent of warm linen as the remnants of sleep still cling to me. For a moment, I let myself soak in the quiet—the slow rise and fall of John B.'s chest and the peaceful rhythm of his breath. It's one of those rare, perfect moments.
I shift carefully onto my side, my belly making the movement a little more awkward than it used to be. Propping my head on my hand, I watch John B. sleep. My eyes trail down the slope of his nose to his perfectly parted pair of lips. His hair is a mess, dark waves curling against his forehead, his face smooth and relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. He looks younger like this, like the carefree boy I fell in love with before life got so complicated.
With my eyes roaming his features, I can't help but wonder what our baby will look like. Will she have his wildly dark hair that always seems to fall right into place? Or will she have mine—light and wavy, yet untamable in the salty air?
I try to picture her with dark eyes, and then honey ones, though I can't really imagine what she'll look like. Then, I wonder if maybe she'll inherit the Cameron blue-eye gene—the one I always felt left out of. Secretly, I hope she doesn't; it'd be like passing down a part of me I've never known.
Will she have his charm? The way he can get anyone to trust him, to love him. Or will she have my stubborn streak, the kind of fire that doesn't know how to back down? If we're lucky, she'll get a mix of both.
    I think about how her tiny fingers will wrap around one of his, and the way he'll melt when he meets her for the first time. He's going to protect her with everything he has, just like the way he protects me.
    A soft flutter against my ribs pulls me from my thoughts, and I instinctively press my palm to my belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kicks. She's awake too.
    I smile to myself, tracing small circles over the curve of my stomach. "Morning, baby girl," I whisper. Tiny tears prick at the backs of my eyes, but they're much nicer than the tears I've been shedding the past couple of days.
    I look at John B. again, and he must hear me talking to the baby because his brow wrinkles just barely, and he shifts beneath the covers. I don't want to wake him, but I have to tell him what happened last night.
    With a quiet, reluctant sigh, I reach out, brushing my fingers lightly through his hair. He scrunches his nose and shifts, murmuring something unintelligible before his eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep.
"Hey," he mumbles, voice rough and warm. "You okay?"
I nod, my fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles over his shoulder. "Rafe called me last night."
Suddenly, he's much more awake. John B. blinks, then pushes up onto his elbows. His body tenses, and his eyes grow sharper. "He what?"
I hesitate, watching the way his jaw tightens. "He called me. It was short. I mean, he wasn't exactly pouring his heart out or anything, but he called."
John B. scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. I can tell he's still tired, the way it's taking him longer to process everything. "Why?"
I chew on my lip, muttering, "Because Sofia made him."
"That tracks," he says, huffing out a dry laugh.
I smirk, but it fades just as quickly. "He was definitely still pissed, and he wasn't exactly falling over himself to apologize, if that's what you're thinking."
John B. gives me a look, settling back against the headboard. "Didn't expect him to."
I shift, propping my back up on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling. The baby kicks again, harder this time, reminding me she's listening. My hand instinctively presses over the spot. "He basically just said that he was sorry for getting mad. And that he's sorry he belittled me." I pause, then let out a dry laugh. "He didn't use those exact words, but that's what he meant."
John B. lets out a low hum, rubbing his palm over the stubble on his jaw. "So, like, a half-assed apology?"
I breathe out a laugh. "More like a quarter-assed apology."
John B. smirks. "A miracle, then."
I nudge him with my elbow, shaking my head. "Something like that."
For a moment, he just watches me. The weight of his gaze is steady, grounding. "Did it make you feel any better?"
I think about it. About the tension in Rafe's voice sounding like the words physically pained him to speak. About the fact that he hadn't argued, hadn't snapped back. He hadn't fixed anything—not even close—but he'd called.
"I don't know," I admit, my fingers skimming over my stomach absently. "He didn't really argue. Not like he usually does. He just kind of... let me say what I needed to say." John B. studies me, like he's trying to gauge what that means to me. I shake my head. "I don't know. It's Rafe, so it's not like he had some huge realization or whatever, but, for once, he didn't try to control the conversation. He just listened."
John B. exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "And then?"
I shrug, giggling. "Then he just said, 'I'll talk to you later,' and hung up."
John B. scoffs, shaking his head. "Classic Rafe."
"Yeah." I shift again, pulling my knees as close to my chest as I can manage and resting my chin against them. "But at least he called."
John B. glances at me, his lips pressing together. I can see the battle happening in his head—his gut reaction to anything involving Rafe, his instinct to protect me, to keep a barrier between me and anything that could hurt me. He still doesn't totally trust him. He doesn't want me to get hurt again.
Finally, he lets out a slow breath, his shoulders losing some of their tension. "Yeah," he mutters. "At least he called." I reach over, lacing my fingers through his. His grip tightens around mine, warm and steady. It's not a fix—not by a long shot—but it's a start.