what now? | outerbanks

• seventy-three •

JJ

The air is thick tonight—marshy, smoky, and full of shit no one wants to say out loud. The fire in the center of us pops and hisses like it knows something we don't. Pope is hunched over his laptop again, eyes locked on the screen like maybe he'll be able to will it to tell him something useful. John B. is rocking in the hammock, one leg dragging the dirt, looking like he hasn't slept in a week. Which, in reality, none of us really have.
We've all sort of given up on sleep since Sarah's been pregnant. Things are different now. She sleeps when she can, but most nights, that's not very often. Her hours have changed, so ours have too. Whenever she really can't fall asleep, we all pile into the Routledge house and do what we do best—nothing. We sit around lazily and watch movies or play games, and sometimes we even cook Sarah meals and have her vote on her favorite dish. Some nights, though, when everyone is really tired but no one wants to leave Sarah awake alone, we all just sit in the living room in silence, keeping her company.
So, sleep has been slim lately. Partly because of Sarah, and partly because Miller's murder is still crawling up our spines. We know Sarah wants us to stay out of it, and we know we promised we would. I'm not sure what Kie actually thinks, but I know even if she wants to, she'll be on Sarah's side no matter what. Cleo definitely would jump in it if she could, but she's also loyal to Sarah. I respect Sarah fully, and I'm staying out of this—physically—because she asked, but she never said we couldn't do any research. And, none of them are here tonight.
We all knew Sarah wouldn't sleep tonight. She took a really long nap after lunch and didn't wake up until we had all finished eating our dinner. Then, from there on out, she was buzzing like a bee. She made Kie help her get dressed, get her "ready for the day," and then spent the entire evening cleaning things around the house. Kie and Cleo had to practically pry her from the laundry room—where she was re-washing and folding the tiniest clothes I've ever seen—to get her out of the house. Now, they're at mine and Kie's new house doing whatever they deem "decorating."
Without our wives and girlfriend, John B., Pope, and I decided to go to Poguelandia 2.0—where Pope and Cleo have been living full time, alone—and talk. We never said what we'd talk about, but we all knew in the back of our minds. Besides the baby and the Camerons' wedding, what else is there to talk about?
I kick a rock across the dirt. "Anything yet, Pope?"
I don't really expect too much of a response from the boy. He's fully in deep-dive mode—where the world can burn and he'd still be clicking through files. Sure enough, he doesn't even flinch, but he does eventually respond. "Digging through Miller's business records. Looks clean up top, but underneath? Total snake pit." Click, scroll, click. "Yeah. This guy was dirty. Way dirtier than we thought."
John B. sits up, rubbing at his face. "Define 'dirty.'"
"Shell companies. Fake land trades. He was trying to snatch up parts of the Cut under dummy names. Probably wanted to flip the land after the rezoning went through."
My jaw tenses. "So when Rafe killed the deal, all that money just... vanished?"
"Exactly," Pope says. "And Miller wasn't doing it alone; he had help."
I stop pacing. "Like... business help?"
He looks up, serious. "Like shady-ass friends."
I don't like that. Not because it surprises me—because it doesn't—but because it suddenly makes way too much sense. "You think those are the guys who trashed Tanneyhill?"
"Has to be," Pope says. "They worked with Miller, lost a ton of money because of Rafe, and now Miller's dead. Doesn't matter that Rafe didn't pull the trigger—they probably think he had something to do with it."
"What do you mean they lost a ton of money? Why is that Rafe's fault?" I ask, shaking my head in confusion,
"They were gonna profit from the rezoning, but Rafe made him call it off. Now, Miller's dead and those men are definitely not getting their money."
John B. exhales slow, running a hand through his hair. "So it's not just a murder now. It's a revenge story."
My voice comes out flatter than I mean it to. "And if they're already breaking windows and slashing tires, it's only a matter of time before someone ups the game."
"This is dangerous," John B. sighs. "Rafe is a close target, and they have to know about us. Sarah isn't going to like this."
"Then don't tell her."
"JJ—"
"No. You're not lying to her. We aren't even really doing anything, just researching safely from home."
He exhales a shaky breath. "Fine. For now. But if anything comes near us we duck."
"Deal."
Pope clicks again, quieter this time, breaking up our conversation. "I found something else buried in the transactions. Small. Just a name."
John B. leaned over. "Whose?"
Pope hesitates, and just from that simple movement I already know I'm not gonna like it. Then he says it.
"Leonard Maybank." Shit. Something so serious he didn't even use his nickname.
I freeze. I feel it in my chest before it even hits my brain. "My dad?"
"Yeah," Pope says, real careful. "One payout. A couple thousand. Labeled 'debt paid.' No context."
John B. jumps in fast, seeing how stiff I suddenly am. "Could've been anything, JJ. Doesn't mean—"
"Doesn't mean he killed him?" I cut him off, staring hard at the fire. "Yeah. I know. But you really think it means nothing?"
No one says anything.
"Miller's been screwing people out here for years," I mutter. "And my dad's been on the brink of broke and boiling for most of his life. If someone like him was pissed enough..." I don't finish it. I don't have to. They know.
Pope straightens up. "We don't know anything. It's just a name. Let's not start connecting dots that aren't there."
"I'm not," I say, but I'm lying. I already have a dozen dots in my head, and they're slowly starting to line up.
"We follow the money," Pope says. "Figure out who else Miller was tied to, who had a real reason to go after Rafe."
John B. nods. "And we keep Luke out of it. For now."
I stare into the fire, jaw tight. "Yeah," I say.
It doesn't feel solid, though. It feels thin, like smoke. Because deep down? I'm not sure we can keep him out of this; and worse—I'm sure we should.
We would keep talking, keep discussing whether or not my dad is on some revenge jihad, but Pope's phone rings, cutting through the smoky haze.
"What's up?" he asks who we assume is Cleo. She must say something funny because he laughs and then puts the phone on speaker. "Say that again, babe. The boys can hear you now."
"They're trying to convince me to let them paint your kitchen wall pink, JJ. I think we need some extra authority in here."
"Wait... a pink wall in my house?!" I shriek.
John B. shoves my shoulder. "Oh, come on, JJ! Don't be afraid of a little color."
"I'm not afraid of a little color. I'm afraid of a lot of color; and Sarah with a paintbrush."
    "I think I'm somewhat of an artist!" Sarah yells through the phone.
    "Not in my house, you're not!"
    We yell back and forth a little longer before deciding we should probably head over there and stop anything too bad from happening. We put out the fire and lock the shop up before piling into the Twinkie and driving to the house.
    "I'm surprised they're still awake," John B. says around the halfway mark.
    "Really?" Pope coughs. "I think they'll take any excuse to have girl time."
    "And Sarah's been having such a hard time," I add. "I'm sure it's nice to do something fun."
    When we get there, I can feel the slight thump of music radiating through the house. A few of the lights are on and are shining through the window, bright against the darkness outside. I walk up first, jogging up the steps and jiggling the key into the lock.
    The first thing I see upon entering is Sarah—clad in a sports bra and biking shorts that reveal her thirty-two-month bump—teetering precariously on a chair with a paint roller in hand. Kie and Cleo are back on the kitchen island, snickering and tilting their heads side to side like they're observing some age-old masterpiece. Cleo has a mysterious yet telling red solo cup in her hand, and Kie is waving off the smoke from a joint.
    "Woah, woah, woah!" I shout before Sarah can touch the paint to the wall. I run forward and take her arm gently so she can't go through with anything.
    "You shouldn't be up there," John B. demands, helping her from the chair.
    "I'm fine," she whines.
    "Yeah, and you're trying to paint my wall pink. No way in shit that's happening," I mumble.
    Pope walks over to Cleo and takes a sip from the cup she's holding, immediately grimacing. "Holy hell! What is this?" He looks like he could throw up.
    She throws her head back with laughter. "Sarah made it. Said she'd make me drink for her too since, well," she points at Sarah's belly.
    Sarah's pressing her back against John B.'s chest, and he has his arms wrapped low around her belly, pulling up slightly. Sarah immediately sighs in relief, physically lightening up with the burden off of her bones.
    "How are you guys treating my girl?" John B. asks Kie and Cleo.
    "Like pure royalty," Kie hums.
    "Yup. She's showered, fed, and undeniably empowered to paint that wall," Cleo says.
"Not happening," I dictate again. "You can do whatever you want in your home, but this is my house, and it will not be pink."
I settle myself against the counter where Kie is sitting. She offers me her joint, and I take it happily, pausing suddenly after my first drag.
"Kie, where'd you get this?"
She can't help but giggle. "Your nightstand. What's yours is mine, right? That's what they say?"
I run a hand down my face. "Shit, Kie. This is, like, extra hardcore shit. How many drags have you had?"
Now, Kie and Cleo are both giggling uncontrollably, falling flat on the island. I look at Sarah for explanation, but she just lifts her hands.
"What was I supposed to do?!" she shouts jokingly. "They're adults, and I'm just a teenager."
Pope sighs, "Sarah, that is not a viable argument."
"But it's an argument nonetheless... right?"
"Don't lie, Sarah!" Kie laughs. "You told us we could do whatever we wanted because the boys weren't home."
I pluck the joint from her fingers and take a drag. "Well, why don't we lay off for a little while? You're about to be off your rocker."
"I thought it was regular!" She's about as close to a child as a twenty-year-old can be, and it takes some force to coerce her out of the kitchen and safely into the living room. She flops down on the brand-new sofa and then obviously comes to some horrifying realization.
"Oh, no!" she shrieks. "The new sofa's gonna smell like weed."
Sarah giggles from the spot she and John B. have moved to, and if I didn't know how pregnant she was, I'd think she was high too. "My baby will not sleep on this sofa! No babysitting for you guys."
"Trust me, you don't want JJ babysitting, weed sofa or not," Kie mutters under her breath.
I look at her offendedly, swatting at her arm. "Excuse you! At this rate, you'll never be sober enough to babysit either."
"It's not my fault your stash wasn't labeled!"
Just then, John B. calls from the kitchen, "Did somebody say sober?" He's holding up a six-pack in each hand, smirking at us.
I'm immediately up from the sofa, joining him with a, "Don't mind if I do." We pass the beers around, as well as a ginger beer that Kie bought just for Sarah, and that sets the night off.
We fly through card games and funny memories, lowering our voices when we join an intense bet to see who can make the baby kick first—John B. wins. Rigged. Then, Cleo yawns sleepily, "Anyone got any good gossip?"
Sarah doesn't even wait a second, already sitting up straighter to tell a story in great dramatics. "I heard, there's this girl on the island who got pregnant at nineteen," she explains seriously. "Her and her boyfriend-husband didn't even know each other for a month before they got married; and it wasn't even legal."
John B. looks at her in mock disgust. "Kids these days."
When we get over our laughter, Pope snorts. "I don't know any current drama, but I got a whole lot of shit on Kook-year Kie." Kie doesn't say anything, but she just about kills Pope with the look on her face.
Cleo's face twists. "Wait, what's Kook-year Kie?"
Oh my God. She doesn't know. "You don't know?" She looks around clueless.
Kie rolls her eyes, deciding to start the story herself so that no one gets the details wrong and totally vilifies her. "So, after eighth grade, when I got super close to JJ, Pope, and John B., my parents started getting really strict. They hated me hanging out with the Pogues—mostly because my dad was a Pogue—so they moved me to the Kook Academy and pretty much banned me from hanging out with them altogether."
    Kie sinks into the couch, realizing that since she's this far already, there's no escape. She stares at Cleo, who is gawking at her like anyone would after finding out their best friend used to be island royalty.
    Sarah chimes in, just excited to be part of something. "Yeah, so, after eighth grade—back when she was still running around barefoot and spending every day with the boys—Mike and Anna decided she needed to, and I quote, 'start acting like someone with a future.' Which, apparently, meant she had to cut all ties with John B., Pope, and JJ."
I scoff. "She literally abandoned us."
"No kidding," John B. adds. "One morning she was eating soggy cereal on my porch, and the next she was driving some golf cart named Gucci."
"Don't be ridiculous. Her name was Prada," Kiara corrects. "And we still have her in the garage if we ever need to whip her out someday."
    Pope clears his throat. "Point is—it was all forget the Pogues, let me get my driver to take me to parties."
    Kie rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't exaggerate," she says, although she really did have a driver. "They pulled me out of school and stuck me in the total money grab that is the Kook Academy. I mean, full-on uniforms, yacht club meetings, kids who use 'summer' as a verb."
    "Yeah, and every bonfire we had, you pretended like you didn't see us," says John B.
    "Oh, yeah, I was pissed," Kie says, remembering. "And I was trying to fit in with all these private-school preps, so I was a complete Pogue hater for, like, a year."
    "You and Sarah were a unit. A force not to be messed with," I joke. "You guys called us Cut Rats."
    Sarah sucks in a sharp, regretful breath. "Yeah, sorry that was awful; yet, somehow not even close to the bitchiest thing we did."
    "I mean, we were constantly getting in fights at parties, and Sarah and I had nothing nice to say. I'm honestly surprised how normal things are now."
    "Crazy to think we're married now, huh, babe?" I mumble into her shoulder, and she kisses me right back in response.
    "I remember," Sarah giggles, "We were the water girls for the rowing team—said it was for service hours, but we really just wanted to watch the hot guys."
    John B. cocks his head, confused. "Wait, but weren't you already dating Topper at that point?"
    Her cheeks flush at the sudden accusation. "Well...yeah, but—" She's at a loss for words. "Oh, honestly! Don't make me sound like the bad one—Kie had a boyfriend too!"
    I widen my eyes, realizing what part of the story is coming next. I look at Kie, and we both know what's about to happen.
    Cleo is enthralled with the story. "You were dating someone?"
    "Yeah, babe! You were dating someone?" She glares at me.
    When Kie hesitates with her answer, Sarah just about bubbles over with excitement to spill, and can't help but shout it out. "She dated Rafe!"
    "Sarah!" Kie scolds.
    "Sorry."
    "You dated Rafe?!" I've never seen Cleo look so excited about anything. Her usual mellow temper is now replaced by childlike wonder. "How have I never heard this?"
    "We've sort of erased it from our memories," Pope mutters. "Scary times."
    "Plus, it was only a few months."
    "Um, six months," Sarah corrects.
    "Fine. Look, Sarah was my only real friend, so I was over at Tanneyhill all the time, and it just fell into place. He was actually nice back then, before—everything."
    I don't say anything. I just sit there with my legs kicked out, trying to look unfazed. I can feel it creeping in, thought,—that weird, bitter little twist in my gut. It's not like I didn't know. Hell, I lived through it. But hearing her say it again, hearing her laugh about it, watching her try to downplay it like it wasn't anything hits different now.
    She's mine. She's my wife, and I know that what we've got is real and deeper than anything she ever had with him. But part of me still wants to look at Rafe and remind him that it's over. That she chose me and always will.
    Instead, I just take another drink, lean a little closer to her on the couch, and rest my hand on her chest. Just so everyone—and maybe especially me—remembers who she came home to.
    No one really knows what to talk about now, so Pope just awkwardly stifles out, "Sounds like someone got a little more sober."
    Kie throws her head back against the cushion. "Oh, please. I'm a pro—been smoking since freshman year. Sarah's the real lightweight." The blonde almost puts up a fight, but we all know it's true.
    "I'll be sure to let you know when the weed Olympics are."
    "I'd podium for sure," she boasts.
    "But I'd get gold. Easy."
    The rest of the night—or morning, however you'd classify it—is the perfect buzz. Better than any buzz from a joint or a beer, this buzz is from being full. Full of each other, of love, of life. As minutes pass, Sarah slowly leans further and further into John B. At some point, someone lays a blanket over her, but no one says anything. We just keep chattering and keeping company.
    She's asleep first, and none of us are surprised. Even when she can't sleep—when she stays up for hours and hours like tonight—she always looks tired. Not empty or beaten, just a little more exhausted than she used to. Her head is tilted into John B.'s shoulder, and her hands are wrapped underneath her belly. She has one leg half-hitched over his, and her face is the calmest I've seen it in weeks.
    "God, she looks like a baby herself," Cleo whispers after a while, barely loud enough for us to hear.
    "She is," I say softly. "I mean... nineteen. She's got everything to figure out."
    Cleo speaks again. "I'm two years older and have lived a hell of a lot of life, and I can't imagine doing half the things she does."
    "And she's doing it all pregnant. While also keeping us all alive and in line."
    John B. shakes his head in disbelief, looking down at her wistfully. "She's my whole world." He pauses. "I remember the first time I brought up kids. I thought she'd break up with me right there. She was all, 'John B., we have time,' and, 'We need our privacy, babe.'"
    "Wonder what that Sarah would say if she saw her now," Kie says sleepily.
    "She's gonna be a pretty sick mom," I chip in. "I don't have too good of a gauge on good parents, but I'd bet money on Sarah Cam."
    "Same here."
No one says anything for a bit, the house just floating with soft sighs and grumbles from Sarah. The room is quiet but cozy. We're sprawled out in different positions, too lazy and content to move, but eventually Cleo whispers, "Can we just stay like this forever?"
Kie, leaning her head against my shoulder, answers, "I wouldn't mind."
"Me neither," I say.
Kie plays with my wedding band. "Promise we'll have more sleepovers before the baby's here." We all agree.
Eventually, we do shift—slow and careful, like we're trying not to disturb the moment. John B. gently lifts Sarah in his arms and carries her to the guest room without waking her. He tucks her in, kisses her forehead, and returns quietly.
We all pile into the living room, collapsing into the cushions and blankets and each other. It's the first night hanging out in mine and Kie's new place, and somehow the newness still smells like paint and dreams.
John B. ends up in the armchair, Pope on the rug with a throw blanket, Cleo curled up on the loveseat, and Kie and I intertwined like vines on the main couch. There's barely a sound except the hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle as someone gets more comfortable.
Sleep comes slow but safe. It's one of those rare, golden nights that you don't realize you'll miss and remember forever until it's already gone. Sure, I have hundreds of things to worry about.
Are we being targeted next? Is my dad a bigger rat than we thought? Could he be a murderer?
Somehow, though, those all seem so infinitesimal against everything here. The fearful thoughts elude me, and sleep comes easily as I surround myself with the people I love more than life.

——————————————————————

wow!!!!! new chapter

vote and comment of course!! 🌟🌟
thoughts on the case and storyline so far!!??

luke?!!!