what now? | outerbanks

• seventy •

JJ

We wake up the next morning in a tangle of lazy, jet-lagged limbs, heavy and hungover with sleepiness. Sunlight shines bright through the guest room curtains, but that's not what pulls me out of sleep—it's Kie.
Her legs are draped across mine, and her hand rests on my chest, fingers curled like she's holding onto a dream. She looks so peaceful like that, all sun-dappled skin and messy hair, breathing easy like the whole world was quiet for once.
    And the best part is: she's my wife. My wife. I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying that.
    She stirs a little, murmuring something against my chest. Then, half-asleep, she mutters, "Good morning."
    I smile. "Good morning, baby."
    "You're staring."
    "And you're hot."
    She cracks one eye open. "We're not on vacation anymore. You can't seduce me in Sarah's guest room."
    "I'm not seducing," I gasp. "Just appreciating what I have. Though, I might take up your offer once we're home alone."
    We stay like that for a while—no rush, no plan, just a perfect little breath in the middle of everything. Eventually, we get up, get dressed, and wander barefoot downstairs like two teenagers who crashed at their friend's house after a party. Except, this time, we're not teenagers anymore—except for Sarah—and we were actually invited to stay.
    Sarah's sitting on the sofa eating fruit straight out of a bowl with that same dazed look she always has in the mornings. John B. is flipping through a stack of mail like he can't find what he's looking for, or maybe he just doesn't care.
    "Look who's finally awake," Sarah says, smiling over her pineapple.
    "Hey," I point to her, "you can't rush greatness." I walk over to the fridge, my eyes roaming back and forth over the shelves. "Is this quiche fair game?"
    "Help yourself," John B. says. "It's Sarah's fourth favorite food right now."
    Kie drops onto the sofa next to Sarah, and the two kiss cheeks like sisters. Then, she places a comically dramatic kiss on Sarah's belly and steals some pineapple from her bowl. I just stand at the counter, eating cold quiche with my fingers, watching it all.
    John B. nudges me. "They're gonna be fun when they get old, huh?"
    "Fun? More like bat-shit crazy."
"They already are crazy," John B. responds.
I chuckle. "Yeah, so imagine what it'll be like in fifty years.
Sarah picks up her phone excitedly, putting it to her ear and grinning like a little girl. I try to imagine who she could be that excited about, but then I remember that that's just Sarah. She'll always be a little girl at heart. She talks back and forth with the other person for a little bit before hanging up and explaining. She announces—very animatedly—that we must go to the shop now to see Pope and Cleo.
And because it's Sarah who says this, we do.

The shop is beautifully rickety and standing proud like always, fresh and woody and clean in a way only Cleo can manage. Sarah and John B. walk ahead, us falling behind even with Sarah's slowed pace, sluggish like we never really left the honeymoon speed.
We don't make it three steps into the shop before Cleo and Pope come rushing from the back like they've been waiting all morning.
Pope beams at Kie and me like a proud older brother, and we all collapse into this tangled web of greetings—tight hugs, shoulder bumps, kisses on cheeks, Cleo swearing we look "obnoxiously tanned," and Pope pretending to gag when Kie calls me "husband" for the fifth time in one breath.
With all six of us—seven if you count baby Pogue—together again, I realize that there really is no better feeling than being with your family. Sure, none of us are blood, but that's not what matters. These are the people I'll have for life, and I could never wish for anything more.
"Longest two months of my life," Cleo drawls, clutching Kie's hand tightly and dragging us further into the shop.
"Tell me about it," mumbles Pope. "I've been stuck with two demanding women and one dazed John B. Kie's the only other sane one here, and she left me to hold down fort alone for two months."
"You didn't miss me?" I bark in mock pain.
"Didn't say that. Just that you're not gonna help make anything more sane."
The three girls are behind Pope and I, Sarah ranting at lightning speed about something the baby did last night—apparently she kicked so hard she made the remote fly off of Sarah's belly. Cleo and Kie are very intently listening, strangely enamored by it all, and John B. is walking even slower, distracted by something interesting to him but otherwise unimportant.
Cleo beams. "We've got so much to show you. We got so bored while you were gone that we made some improvements." She walks us around, though we know the floor plan well, and shows us everything she and Pope did.
    Kie's eyebrows shoot up as she looks around. "Oh, whoa. Okay—this is...wow."
    "Right?" Sarah says from beside her, already perched at the counter like she owns the place. She's still got her pineapple bowl, and John B. is leaning behind her, arms crossed, watching us with that smug 'we already saw it all' look.
    Cleo points toward the mural first, guiding us like a museum tour guide. "First off—this bad boy."
    It's bright and bold, painted across the side wall: an ocean scene, dreamy and wild. There's a tiny John B. jumping off the side of a boat, Pope balancing a book in one hand and a surfboard in the other, me chasing a chicken, and Kiara mid-air in a perfect surf stance, spray curling around her like magic. In the background? The marsh, Tanneyhill, and even a tiny baby with a crown sitting in a clamshell, like some kind of coastal princess. It's chaotic and unsettling in the best way—perfectly Pogue.
    Kie lets out a soft gasp, singling in on a certain small doodle in the corner of the mural. "Is that—"
    "Your childhood home?" Cleo grins. "Hell yeah, it is."
    Kie presses a hand to her chest. "Cleo, this is so beautiful."
    "I cried," Sarah says simply, licking juice off her thumb.
    "You cry at everything," Pope calls from the back.
    Cleo leads us on. "Okay, next: new merch section. Pope went full robot mode on it."
    Pope walks out carrying a clipboard like he's been prepping for this reveal for days. "Everything's organized. Eco-friendly gear, new shirts, custom water bottles with our logo. I even got some kid-sized stuff coming in for later."
    He tosses a bottle to me. It's light blue with a stylized sun-and-wave design, the words Surf OBX curved around it.
    "Color-coded by style," he says. "Also, we have tote bags now. You're welcome, planet."
    Kie dramatically lifts her hand to her heart. "Did you really make all of this stuff Eco-friendly?" she gasps. "You know me too well."
    Cleo grabs her by the wrist. "And this—" she gestures proudly to a giant blackboard on the side wall, already covered in chalk doodles, surf forecasts, and a very unflattering drawing of John B. with a mustache, "—is the community board."
    "I love this," Kie says, already laughing. "Someone wrote 'Free shrimp behind the Wreck.' That's not ominous at all."
    "It was me," Sarah giggles. "I was bored."
    "Yeah, well, you're a real bitch for it," Pope mutters, half-sarcastically but not actually mean at all. "I went. Spoiler alert: There was no shrimp."
    We're all cracking up as Cleo guides us toward the back.
    "There's more?" I ask, growing impatient about the lounging I know is sure to follow this. John B. told me about some new beer they stocked up on and this new cigar shop they ordered a few shipments from. He stopped smoking joints when Sarah got pregnant, but not cigars. There's nothing more undeniably classy than a cigar. I groan when we walk even further into the shack.
    "Almost done," Pope says. "Back here is the new repair station. I cleaned it up, mounted the tools, actually made it, you know, usable."
    I chuckle as I recall days of frustrated shouting when someone couldn't find a tool, or when a boat would come in for a repair and we'd argue for far too long over who'd have to brave the mess of a closet to fix it. I hate to admit how much I like the change, but I can't deny how nice it is.
    "And I added plants," Cleo says, pointing to the corner. "I tried to teach Pope how to water them, but," she winces slightly, obviously thinking back to something tragic.
    "I have a life," he replies. "I'm not out here nurturing ferns like they're babies, or pets, or something."
    She swats him on the arm. "Boy! You don't tell me you have a life! Who's the one cooking you dinner every night?" Pope looks at his feet like a reprimanded schoolboy. "That's what I thought," she mutters.
    Kie and I just laugh, soaking it all in—our little shop, updated and cleaner, but still full of personality and chaos and us. The sun filters through the windows, catching the soft green of the plants and the glint of light off the merch shelves.
    Then Pope stops walking. "Okay, okay. One last thing." He glances at Sarah, who's gone quiet.
    Her eyebrows furrow, as do John B.'s. "That was everything, though?"
    John B. nods back, still confused. "Yeah, you didn't show us anything else when you first did all of this stuff."
    Pope grins. "That's because this part wasn't finished until last night."
    Cleo walks over to Sarah and places a gentle hand over her eyes, really making this moment special. We walk a few steps to a closet door—a room that used to hold mops and brooms and all of the cleaning product I'm pretty sure only Cleo has ever laid a hand on. There's something about a surf shop that begs to be sandy and a little dirty at all times, so none of us really ever bothered.
    The four of us who are clueless stand impatiently as Cleo and Pope exchange knowing looks, Pope's hand inching for the door handle. When he opens it, my jaw almost falls. The room is entirely different than what it once was. We step inside.
    The room has been transformed. The walls are pale yellow, warm and soft. There's a plush rug in the center, a rocking chair in the corner with a soft quilt folded on top. A baby bookshelf, already half-filled with children's books and tiny plush animals. A changing table—refinished wood, maybe from one of the old surfboard racks. Hanging above it all is a sign, hand-painted in Cleo's loopy script:
    Baby R's Corner.
    John B. stops dead. His hands fly to his mouth. "Guys..."
    Pope runs a hand over the back of his neck. "We figured she's gonna be here a lot. Might as well give her a spot. You know, somewhere to sit with her, or read to her, or just breathe. Sarah's gonna need it."
    Cleo's voice is softer than usual. "It felt right. She's already part of all this."
    Sarah steps into the little corner, still silent, and for a second—just a second—she doesn't say a word. Her fingers skim over the quilt on the rocking chair, then the tiny shelf of books. Her shoulders rise like she's holding in something too big to name.
    Then she turns to Pope, and without a word, just folds him into a hug. Not one of those polite, thank-you kind of hugs. It's full-bodied, honest like she's trying to say: I see you. I love you for this. Her voice is thick when she finally speaks.
    "Thank you, Pope," she whispers, voice breaking. "Thank you so much for doing this."
    Pope hugs her back and says with a soft kind of pride, the kind only he can pull off, "You deserve it, Cammie."
    Sarah just crumples. Not in a bad way, but more like she's finally letting herself be held by all of it. The nickname is what gets her in the end.
    Cammie. It's sweet, safe. It's something Pope started calling her some months ago, and something only Pope calls her. The rest of us know it's something just between the two of them, and we know just as well why it matters so much.
    Sarah hates her real last name. She hates what it stands for, what it carries. I've heard her say it before in the dark hours when we're all a little too tired to lie—how she doesn't feel like a Cameron anymore, but still can't shake the parts of herself that were built from it. She's said it like a curse, like her whole name was a brand burned into her skin.
    Pope found a way to soften it, though, in a way none of the rest of us could have. He took something sharp and sanded it down to something she could live with. Even though she rolls her eyes at it sometimes, pretends like it gets on her nerves like most things we guys say, I've seen the way her face softens when he says it. It's because Cammie doesn't sound like the girl she used to be—the bitchy, controlled Kook-robot. It sounds like the girl she is now—the sweet, free, loving girl, mother, wife. It sounds like her.
    Sarah wipes her eyes and laughs through the tears. "God, I'm a mess."
    Pope smiles at her. "You're not a mess. You're just loved."
    Cleo points to the sign. "The R is detachable so you can put her name up there when you decide."
    "Is that your sneaky way of getting us to tell you her name?" John B. asks with narrowed eyes.
    "Worth a shot." She clicks her tongue and points finger guns at him.
    We stand around for a few more minutes, going through all of the details and talking about what else we've missed at the shop. One of the locals concerned that the 'shady' kid hadn't been around in a while—me, presumably—one of Kie and Sarah's friends from middle school walking in and asking if she'd be invited to the shower—she's a bitch, so, no, she will not be—and even one of the kids Pope tutors surfing a wave bigger than John B. can. The last one might be a lie to make John B. look bad, but Pope's too good of a liar for me to really tell.
    As the conversation lulls, I shift awkwardly on my feet and wait for the right time to speak. "So, Miller?"
    We decide that we'll really need to sit and settle to talk about this. It's too big of a topic to just turn into small-talk. We work harmoniously like bees in a hive, each one fulfilling their work and needs to make the perfect fire. It's something we've really perfected, and something we'll continue to perfect as we keep having them.

    Now, with the fire blazing in the center of our circle, we can talk. I sit on a tree stump stool, and Kie sits on the ground in front of me, in between my knees. Her back is pressed against the stump as I play with her hair, trying my best to work in some sort of braid but failing miserably.
    "I just don't get it," John B. breathes, going over the timeline for the third time. "He puts out the rezoning, and naturally, the whole Cut is angry. Rafe finds out and pays him double. Now, he's rich, and the Cut is happy. Right? Shouldn't everyone be content?"
    Pope chimes in. "It doesn't make sense. There isn't any motive."
    "Unless someone really wanted the cut," Kiara adds.
    "Or someone in the Cut really wanted Miller dead and didn't hear about Rafe's deal."
    There's a pause. Sarah breaks it.
    "I say we squat," she says, firm and final. We all just stare. "We aren't really in it yet, and we shouldn't get in it. The cops have it, and they will handle whatever needs to be handled." Her voice is soft like it usually is, but something in her tone tells me she isn't letting this down.
    I sigh, conflicted. "Sarah, you know Shoupe. When have the police ever actually helped in a situation?"
    Pope stutters in a breath, debating whether he should say something too. "I know the case sounds simple on paper, but I've been going over things constantly the last few days, and I think this is bigger than we can tell."
    Cleo looks at him. "You know our cops. They don't know how to solve this kind of thing. We do, Sarah." I look to the blonde, hopeful. Hopeful that maybe she's changed her mind. All I see is her face stained with something rich and foreign—something hurt and betrayed.
    She looks at John B., who is staring straight into the fire, lips tight and eyes wide. I see through him. He's staying quiet to seem supportive and neutral at least, but Sarah is too intuitive for that. She knows and I know that his silence is louder than anything he could say. He doesn't agree with her.
    "Unbelievable," she lets out with a sharp huff, throwing her hands up in exasperation.
    I'm sort of scared to say anything else, but I take the risk. "Look, all I'm saying is that we've been through gold hunts, fights against foreign killers, and a cursed amulet. We'd be stupid if a little property fight was what got us in the end." I shake my head as I laugh, my hair ruffling back and forth in the wind. Cleo chuckles, agreeing.
    "This isn't something to laugh about!" Sarah says, almost shouting now. "You guys are all idiots. This isn't treasure anymore. This is a real, hardcore murder that has hit way too close to us, and if we don't play it safe, it could be one of us next. You're acting like it's all one big joke treasure hunt, but guess what? You're wrong."
    All of us stop. Stop moving, talking, thinking.
    She continues. "We've each just made millions of dollars. You two just got married and bought a house; Pope and Cleo, you guys have established your own special ways of giving back to the community. I'm having a baby." She sighs, catching her breath. She's still angry, still hot and fiery, but she's getting slightly softer. "I'm not doing this. I'm not throwing myself into whatever secret agent shit you guys want to do now. If you feel so inclined to, then go ahead, but I'm out."
    She pushes herself up from her chair, pushing away John B.'s hand when he offers to help, though we all can see that she needs a hand when she winces slightly. She storms off into the shop, breathing rapidly through her nose and clutching her belly tight. The look on her face is familiar—it's the one that always shows up when she knows she's about to cry but doesn't want to. When she wants to be strong or stoic or wants to make a point—times just like these.
    John B. goes to get up, to follow after her, but Kie shoots him a piercing glare. "Don't you dare," she says quietly under her breath. Instead, she gets up herself and walks slowly to the shop, giving Sarah space. She looks back once with a seething look on her face before she disappears into the dimly lit building.
    "I'm dead."