what now? | outerbanks

• sixty-two •

Rafe

    "Here, let me take it," I say, grabbing another bag from Sarah's hands.
    Sarah and John B. are leaving later today for their babymoon, and Sofia convinced me to stop by and help. Honestly, I think it's all insane—Sarah pregnant at nineteen, John B. becoming a dad—but I've overcome my misgivings and try to be as supportive as I can be.
    "I had it," Sarah mutters, bending down to pick up another bag.
    I chuckle to myself. "Sure you did." I toss the bag into the trunk of their car as Sarah hovers, double and triple-checking that everything is up to her standards. She shifts a few things around, buzzing with anxious energy even though she should be sitting down. Yet again, she's overdoing it.
She keeps saying she's only twenty-four weeks, but that's not how I see it. She's twenty-four weeks. She should be resting and taking care of herself, but she's Sarah; she'll do what she wants. Right now, with sweat lining her top lip and hair strewn messily over her forehead, she looks exhausted, and even if she won't admit it, I know she needs help.
    John B. is somewhere back inside tidying up and packing up final necessities, which leaves Sarah and me out here by ourselves—just the two of us. That is, until the unmistakable sound of bike pedaling floats from the sidewalk to my ears. I think nothing of it at first, the neighborhood being new and full of young families, but then it stops. Sarah doesn't notice it, her mind being all-encompassed by the trip, but I do. The bikes stop, and I hear someone laugh. It's mischievous and antagonizing.
    I know who it is before I turn around, and when I do, my body goes stiff. There, at the end of the driveway, is Topper, his foot perched down to balance his bike and himself. Next to him, Ruthie stands just as confident and annoyingly perky.
    "Wow," Topper drawls, moving his sunglasses from his face to the top of his head. His eyes flick between me, Sarah, and Sarah's stomach. "Would you look at that? Rafe Cameron helping his baby sister play house with her Pogue husband."
    Sarah notices now, her mind pulled away from everything she has to do for just this moment, and as she turns to face the two, she tenses. I step forward a little, going in front of her partially but also making sure I'm not doing too much. She wants to be able to hold her own, so I'll let her.
    Ruthie giggles, but it's more like a cackle, like an evil, witchy cackle. "I mean, honestly, Sarah, I'm impressed by your commitment. I thought maybe you'd wake up one day, but it looks like you're all in.
    Sarah sticks her hands on her hips, stepping forward to match me as if their words don't mean anything to her. "Why are you even here?"
    Topper scoffs. "Is it a crime to go for a nice bike ride?"
    "You could have gone anywhere, and you still picked my neighborhood?"
    "Didn't know you guys moved," Ruthie says, a plastic smile on her face as she narrows her eyes.
    "Bullshit," Sarah grits out, clenching her jaw.
    "You know," Topper starts, and with the way his eyes flick over to me, I can tell he's trying to start something. "It's kind of funny. You used to be the biggest dick about all this Pogue shit when she was just a Kook slut. But now that she's actually married to one and having his baby, you're helping her pack for her bullshit baby vacation, or whatever this is, like the good boy you are." He steps closer to me, leaving his bike resting on the driveway. "You never were tough, were you?"
    I bite the inside of my cheek. "What's your point?"
    "Just seems like you cared a hell of a lot less when she was fucking around with me. Guess it wasn't too big a deal back then, huh?"
    Suddenly, the edges of my vision blur into a hot, red background, and my fists clench at my side. I step forward, shoving Topper hard. He stumbles back, bumping into the bike and sending it skidding into the street. He catches himself, but he's flustered. His eyes are wide, like he didn't think I'd actually do anything.
    "Rafe!" Sarah barks from behind, her voice sharp. I know she doesn't want me to make things worse, but she doesn't get it.
    "You bitch!" Ruthie yells. She stomps forward, getting in my face like she thinks it'll affect me in some way. "Are you insane?"
    "He's psycho, Ruthie. Everyone knows that." Topper rolls his eyes, brushing his shirt off like Rafe's shove is something tangible and lasting.
    I point a finger at his chest, moving away from Ruthie. "You don't talk about her like that, got it? You have no business being here. And you know damn well you never treated her any better than or even close to how John B. treats her."
    Ruthie holds her hands up next to her head. "Touchy subject," she mutters with an antagonizing pout. I ignore her, though, keeping my eyes locked searingly on Topper.
    "Get her out of here, man, before I really give you a reason to leave."
    He doesn't respond, but something in his eye changes—doesn't soften, but changes. It's like he's realizing something, realizing that I'm not the same Rafe I used to be. I'm not on a side anymore. I'm just me. He hesitates for a second, but shakes his head and picks up his bike, gesturing to Ruthie.
    "Just go. These assholes aren't worth it." They pedal off, and just like that, they're gone. I exhale shakily, my fists still clenched in balls at my sides. Sarah just stares at me, unimpressed.
    "Really?" she hisses.
    "You're welcome," I respond, rubbing a hand down my face to try and relieve some tension.
    "I'm serious, Rafe. You couldn't have just solved it with words? You had to shove him?"
    I look back at her with a smirk, raising my eyebrows. "Hm, if I recall, I think a little birdie told me that you actually got a little physical too, recently."
    Her nostrils flare and her eyes roll, but she's obviously embarrassed, bending down to pack up a few smaller bags. "It's understandable for me," she says, rubbing a hand over her belly. "I'm not in control of my emotions. You, however, could have totally stopped yourself."
    I pause. "You didn't seriously just use your pregnancy as an excuse to push Ruthie Buchannan. That's literally the one reason you shouldn't have done it," I explain, exasperated. John B. must have heard the commotion from inside because a few seconds pass and he's stepping out onto the porch, one foot with a shoe and one without.
    Before noticing him, Sarah blurts, "I just couldn't help it, okay? She's just so... shoveable."
    John B. clears his voice. "What's going on? I thought I heard somebody else?" Sarah stands up awkwardly and a little too quickly for someone who just completed her fifth month of pregnancy.
Plastering on a lopsided smile, she says, "Nothing."
Unfortunately, at the exact same time, I blurt, "Topper." John B. pauses halfway down the front steps, skeptical. He sighs, dropping his head into his hands.
"What was it this time? Something sexist? Something about me? Both?"
I let out a laugh. "Right. Same old shit as always, just with a little extra shit sprinkled on top. But don't worry; I handled it."
"Handled it how, exactly?" He asks, still standing on the steps with a shoe in his hand.
Sarah scoffs, perching herself on the edge of the car's trunk and trying to catch her seemingly eternally labored breath. "Wouldn't you like to know," she mutters, trying to seem nonchalant.
John B. seems to know what happened already, reading into Sarah's annoyance. He looks at me expectantly, saying, "Did you..." I raise my eyebrows just enough to confirm his suspicions. John B. nods once, shortly. "Cool, cool. Just checking," he states awkwardly.
"Oh, so it's okay when he does it?" Sarah exclaims, slapping her hands down to her legs like she can't believe it.
John B. just shrugs. "I mean, yeah. It's Rafe, and he was protecting you."
Sarah groans, pulling at her hair. She stands up from the trunk and stomps in the other direction. "Oh my God. You are such a hypocrite!" I stand between them awkwardly, stuck in the middle of an argument that has clearly not blown over yet. "I'm going to the bathroom," she huffs, crossing her arms as she walks away.
John B. watches her make her way to the porch, smiling, and says, "She'll get over it." I think he tries to whisper, but it's still pretty loud.
"Look, man, not my problem," I chuckle, freeing myself of the situation—or so I think. Sarah whips around, a smug look on her face. She braces one hand on her belly and one on her back as she stomps her way back down the front steps, her flip-flops slapping with each step.
"Not—Rafe! You're the one who pushed Topper, but somehow I'm the one getting lectured," she yells.
John B. sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sar, that's not the point." He's exhausted, and the look in his eyes tells me we both know there's nothing he can say that will make her back down. If there's anything she can do, it's stand up for herself.
Still, she's stuck—she doesn't really know how to reply. "You're just—ugh! You guys are impossible!" I wait for her to walk back into the house, and then I slap John B. on the back, laughing.
"You better watch out, Routledge. If this baby's anything like Sarah, you're gonna have your hands even fuller than they are now."
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck like he can see into the future. His expression shifts then, as he looks at me, softening a little. "Seriously, though. Thanks for having her back, man."
I shrug like it's nothing, but I know it's not. This was something I skipped out on for so long. For such a pivotal piece of our lives, I chose not to have her back. I did anything but that. "Of course. She deserves it, and I owe her."
The two of us stand there for a second, just two guys who hated each other for so long finally on the same side for once. Then, John B. pushes off of the car, exhaling sharply. "Alright, let's get the rest of this loaded up before she comes out here and starts yelling at us again."
I smirk, grabbing another bag. "Good call."