what now? | outerbanks

• sixty-four •

The past many weeks had been full of slow yet somehow fleeting changes.
At the Routledge house, things were getting real. Lazy mornings were interrupted occasionally by doctor's appointments and regular checks. New house decorating soon turned to baby-proofing, which John B. swore it was not time for yet. Though, late one night, Sarah did catch him frowning disapprovingly at the sharp corners of their coffee table. The next day, there was a rounder wooden one in its place.
Sarah and the baby were meeting new milestones by the week—full flips in her stomach rather than just kicks and hiccups, growing far past convincing herself she could still squeeze into her pre-maternity clothes, making meticulous decisions for her most perfect nursery.
John B. was also growing in new ways—making Sarah stay in bed or on the sofa as much as possible, following her orders even when he was annoyed, not freaking out when Cleo and Sarah insisted on having a girls' day and that they did not need supervision. He was protective, and there was nothing more lovely yet anxiety-inducing than Sarah, but he was learning to let go a little.
Pope and Cleo, for the week that they were left fully alone, made some much-needed changes to the shop—things the six of them had been meaning to do for months but never got to with all of the chaos. Cleo expanded her menu and Pope started tutoring a group of third-graders every Thursday evening. They weren't great listeners, but Pope enjoyed the company and being able to talk about everything Cleo didn't find interesting.
Wheezie was finishing up her sophomore year of high school, which Sarah and Sofia had gone full mom-mode about. She tagged along with a junior to prom, which she insisted was a big deal because "not a lot of sophomores are cool enough to do that." Sarah and Sofia hand-picked a dress and jewelry and teamed up day-of to tackle hair and makeup. Wheezie joked that she hadn't felt this dolled up since the last Midsummers, and Sarah joked back that, even then, she wasn't old enough to truly appreciate it.
Wheezie had grown absolutely fascinated with Sarah's pregnancy, asking every question she could imagine—some to Sarah's dismay—and doing everything she could to seem helpful, whether she actually was or not.
Sofia had too, but she was a little bit more helpful around the house. She was over at least once a week, helping to clean, rubbing knots out of Sarah's back while John B. was fishing, and keeping Sarah company while she waited for her best friend to be home from her honeymoon. Sofia had become obsessed with buying things for Sarah and the baby—clothes that would take months for the baby to grow into, small blankets and accessories, and special snacks she knew Sarah felt too bossy to request. Sofia was unknowingly showing Sarah all of the minute, subtle ways to be a good mom.
Off somewhere unknown on their honeymoon, JJ and Kiara had perpetually no worries in the world. Sure, Kiara couldn't help but think about Sarah back home, but other than that, she was in a state of pure bliss. Every morning, they went out to catch the break, then came back in for breakfast, and then went right back out to the waves. It was an unending cycle, but a perfect unending cycle.
Rafe was learning how to become supportive. He was still unsure about it all because of how young they were, but he learned to love it and be a support system for Sarah. When Sofia wasn't at the Routledge's with Sarah, she and Rafe would plan wedding details—guest lists, menus, colors. It was all coming to life during late-night, huddled conversations.

/PRESENT DAY/

John B.

Standing here in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall, I feel so bad waking her up. She looks so peaceful sleeping on the back patio furniture, and peaceful sleep is a rarity this far into her pregnancy.
At thirty-one weeks, Sarah's belly has rounded out a lot more, and it's become an obstacle for everything. She can only lie on her side, and even that fails more times than not. Nights are held captive by pained groans and restless shifting, searching for some perfect position that we both know doesn't exist. And when she's awake, she battles heartburn, cramps, backaches, and the occasional stabbing pain in her side when the baby lodges herself in places she shouldn't.
    So, watching her finally asleep, not a wrinkle in her brow, I feel bad; but I know she'd kill me if I didn't wake her up for this.
    Crouching in front of her on the sofa and brushing a few strands of hair from her face, I hum lightly. "Love," I say, running soothing fingers up and down her arm.
    She grimaces, rolling over before I can even explain myself to her. "Mm-mm," she refuses, shaking her head before trying to settle again.
    I kiss her shoulder gently, breathing in her vanilla-y scent. "I have something for you, baby."
    Sarah shifts again, turning to me and murmuring something incoherent before squinting open one eye. "What?"
    I flick up the postcard in my hand, smiling a great big grin. "Came in the mail," I explain.
    She stares at it for a second, comprehending what's going on and shaking sleep from her foggy brain. Then, her eyes flick up to mine, hopeful and big. "Is it from—"
    "JJ and Kie," I finish.
    She's fully awake now, sitting up from her nap excitedly. I hurry up and place a pillow behind her back before she has to ask. She giggles as she pulls her sleep-wrinkled shirt over her belly, and then sticks her hand out to me expectantly. "Gimme."
    I plop down next to her and slide the card into her hands. "All yours."
    She glides her fingers over the postcard, flattening down the curled corners to the best of her ability and taking in the picture on the front. It's a golden sunset, and on the beach below is a couple and their surfboards. There's a note in the corner of the card—clearly JJ's handwriting—of a scribbled surfboard with P4L sketched in the center. The paper is worn from the mail and a little wrinkled from moisture, but it's perfect still.
    She flips it over, taking a deep breath before she reads the long, long message on the back. It's in Kie's unmistakably practiced and perfected handwriting, and the look in Sarah's eyes tells me she realizes this too.
    "You're gonna cry, aren't you?" I tease, nudging her shoulder.
    "No doubt."
    She exhales once more before reading it aloud. The card reads,