what now? | outerbanks

• sixty-one •

Sarah

    I feel my night start to wind down—my back aching and my eyelids getting heavier—but the fun around me doesn't slow. I stand up slowly from my spot on the porch sofa and scan the backyard. It doesn't take me long to find John B. He's propped up against Pope, slurring out a joke no one really understands, clearly far past tipsy and approaching full-blown wasted.
    I walk down the back stairs and look down the side of the house to where our car is parked in the driveway. Groaning, I look back at the group. Surely one of them is sober enough to help me carry John B. to the car. My first hope is Cleo, who usually finds it childish to join in on the fun too much, but she's dancing hand in hand with Kiara way too close to the fire. Oh God.
    John B. notices me standing and observing, and in the midst of telling some arm-flailing-worthy story, he shoots me a goofy yet charming drunken smile. I sigh at the sight, both in love and annoyed with it. Putting on a brave face, I admit that there's no one to help, and that I'll do what I need to do.
    "Alright, Champ," I huff out, starting toward the group with my hands on my hips. "Time to get you home."
At first, he seems pretty steady, but then he tries to walk. His steps are more like stumbles, and his coordination is poor when he tries to wrap his arms around my shoulders.
"Uh-oh," he giggles, an innocent smirk on his lips, "I think I'm a little wobbly, baby."
I roll my eyes, but I can't suppress the laughs that emit from my lungs. "Couldn't tell," I tease. I love him—I do—but this is going to be a nightmare.
    I brace myself, putting one of my arms under his shoulders and the other around his waist. "Let's get to the car, buddy. Tonight's gonna be rough for the both of us."
    Just getting to the car is a hassle. We walk slow—painfully slow even for a pregnant lady like me—taking one step at a time as we walk around the perimeter of the house. If that isn't hard enough, it's even harder to actually get him into the car.
    "I'm gonna need you to work with me, John B.," I grit out, trying to lift one of his legs into the car.
    Just as I think I've gotten him halfway into the passenger seat, his body flops against mine, and I stumble back with the force. I'm out of breath, with my belly pressing against the door, and for a moment, all I can think about is how badly I wish I wasn't the only one sober enough to handle this. But I know if I ask anyone else, it'll be even more of a disaster.
    Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I get him settled. I slide into the driver's seat, but the seatbelt doesn't sit right with my belly, and I have to readjust a few times before I can even think about driving. My arms are stiff, my back is aching, and honestly, I feel like I might pass out from the effort.
    Halfway through the drive, John B. groans out, "I don't feel good."
    In reply, I tell him that if he throws up in my car, I'll divorce him. He keeps it in.
    By the time I pull up to our house, the moon is high in the sky, casting a soft, blue glow over everything. Normally, I'd take a second to enjoy it—the peace, the calm—but right now, all I can think about is the steep driveway, my growing belly, and the fact that I have to drag my drunk husband inside.
    I open his door, and he slumps to the side, groaning.
"Hey, get up," I mutter, pushing him gently, my cold keys jingling as they press from my hand into his arm. I don't have the energy to be sweet anymore. He's dead weight, and I grit my teeth as I try to get him upright.
He tries to lean on me, but he can't make any steady movements, and it only makes things harder. "Sorry, baby," he mumbles as he leans in for a kiss, though he completely misses and ends up planting one to my ear.
I can't help but laugh, even though I'm exhausted. "You're lucky I love you," I say, pushing him toward the steps.
I'm this moment, the driveway is my worst enemy. John B. takes a few steps up the slope at a time and then stops to ramble on about something—the fact that we really need trees in our front yard, or his concern that he can't find the North Star. He cannot stay focused.
    It takes forever to get him inside. Each movement is slow, my chest tight from the strain. I'm out of breath, my belly pressing uncomfortably into my clothes, but I keep going. Just a few more steps. By the time we reach the front door, my legs are aching, and I'm ready to collapse.
    Inside, I steer him toward the guest bathroom. There's no way we're making it up the stairs right now. "Shower," I tell him. "You reek."
    He grins at me, wiggling his eyebrows and unintentionally swaying on his feet. "You gonna help me?" I roll my eyes, turning on the shower and watching the steam fog up the glass immediately.
    I pull his shirt off, barely having the energy to lift my arms, and then sink onto the floor with a sigh. The cool tiles feel nice against my back, and for a second, I just let my eyes close.
    John B. fumbles with the rest of his clothes before turning to me with a lopsided grin, naked. "Hey, baby," he says with a wink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Think maybe we can, you know, do something?"
    I open my eyes wide and stare at him. Then, I burst out laughing—somewhere between amused and delusional. "Are you seriously asking me for sex right now? You can barely stand!" I shake my head, trying to stifle my laughter. "And I have a whole human inside of me, so you're really out of luck."
    He pouts, but his drunken smile doesn't fade. "Worth a shot."
    I raise my brows at him, scooping hair out of my face into a bun at the back of my head. "Try again when you're sober. You still have a shower to take." He chuckles, mumbling something unintelligible as he stumbles into the shower.
    By the time he's done, he's clean but still completely out of it. We work together, slipping on the pajamas I got for him from upstairs, and then hiking up to the bedroom slowly. Once upstairs, I barely have the strength to help him into bed, but I do it anyway, tucking the covers around him before leaning down to kiss his forehead. My hands instinctively rest on my belly, feeling the baby hiccup inside me.
    "I love you," I whisper.
    John B. mumbles something, and though it sounds sweet, I can tell it's mostly nonsense. I just shake my head, rubbing my tired eyes. Tomorrow, I'll scold him. Tomorrow, I'll make sure he knows how exhausting this was.
    But tonight, I'll rest. I take a few minutes to myself, combing my hair and washing my face before slipping on a soft set and drinking a glass of water. Then, I sink into bed next to John B., stealing some of his covers and flicking off the lamp. I have to place a pillow between my legs and knees to get comfortable, and when I finally do, I sigh, pleased.
    Lying here now, full of ache, I think back to everything that's happened. Admittedly, it's getting harder to ignore that I can't push myself like this anymore. Of course, I believed the doctor when she told me, but it wasn't until tonight that I actually understand what she was saying—my body can't handle it.
It takes me a while to fall asleep. I shift occasionally, trying to find a position that I at least feel somewhat comfortable in, but it's much easier said than done. My mind moves through the day, stumbling through Sofia and I's conversation about Mom, and then the surprise of JJ and Kie getting married.
I place my hands on my belly, feeling the tiny movements against my palm. It's comforting and grounding, but even that isn't enough to calm the anxieties looming in the corners of my mind.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, willing myself to let go. I curl my fingers around the edge of my pillow, but not before sneaking a long, awed glance at the ring on my finger. This is life; this is us. I wouldn't change it for anything.
    The room is quiet except for John B.'s soft, steady snoring, and eventually, the rhythm of it lulls me into a heavy, dreamless sleep.