what now? | outerbanks

• seventy-six •

Sarah

The kitchen smells like burnt toast. I toss the third piece of charred bread into the sink with a growl and take it as a sign to abandon the effort. The burning smell in the air is making me lose all of my appetite anyway. My hair's sopping wet, my toenails are still drying and sloppy since I had to get John B. to do them, and the dress John B. got me is now hanging on the back of the bedroom door. It's barely nine a.m., and I already feel like I'm running two hours late.
"I swear to God, if someone moved the safety pins—" I mutter under my breath, even though I'm the only one who would've moved them. I can't even remember why I needed them in the first place.
John B. pokes his head into the kitchen, still shirtless, and slowly slides a hand across my lower back. "Woah, babe," he says gently, "you're kinda vibrating."
I spin around, holding up my finger like a dagger. "Don't start with me, John B."
He raises his hands. "I come in peace."
"Then make yourself useful and check on the dress. Is it steamed? Are the straps still twisted? Did Cleo text back about the Spanx?"
He doesn't even blink—he just turns and disappears without another word, because he knows. He knows today is not the day to push.
I walk halfway up the staircase, then pause to pull my phone out of my robe pocket. Five missed texts. Three are from Kiara—asking if I've eaten. The other two are from Sofia.

Sofia: "How are you feeling?"
Sofia: "No pressure, but do you think you could be here early? I'm kinda freaking out."

I groan. "Great. Add that to the list."
"Babe," John B. says gently, like I'm about to snap, "maybe take a break? Sit down for a sec?"
I don't even look up. "No time."
"It's not even ten o'clock yet, and you've already polished my shoes twice."
"They were scuffed."
He sighs, but I can feel him hovering behind me. I grab my phone from the counter just as it starts buzzing again.

Sofia: "Do you remember what shade the napkins are?? I think the planner ordered the wrong ones!!"
Another buzz.
Kiara: "Hey, have you eaten yet? You better not be ignoring me."

"I literally can't even breathe without someone checking in," I mutter, shoving my phone in my pocket and grabbing my keys.
"Where are you going?" John B. asks, watching me like I've lost my mind.
"I have to go get Wheezie from Tanneyhill. She needs help getting ready, and I need to make sure she's out of Sofia's hair. And Rafe's. And the planner's."
    "I'll go," he says, stepping in front of the door.
    "No, I'll go."
    "You're not driving."
    I stop. Narrow my eyes. "Move, John B."
    "You're thirty-two weeks pregnant, Sarah."
    I take a deep, grounding breath and put on a stoic face. "John B., baby, I need you to get out of my way."
    He doesn't. So I go around him.

    I drive with one hand on my leg and the other clutching the steering wheel tighter than necessary, muttering about potholes and Tanneyhill's long-ass driveway. Wheezie is already waiting on the porch when I pull up, arms crossed, ponytail lopsided.
    "You're early," she says, tugging open the door and slinging her bag into the back.
    I glance at her. "You think I trust you to be ready on your own?"
    She rolls her eyes. "Fair."
    Back at the house, I march her inside, handing her a hairbrush without saying a word and nudging her toward the bathroom.
    "Go brush your hair. I gotta get your dress."
    "Why are we getting ready so early again?"
    "Because," I say, sifting through her bag, "there's a lot to do today. We need to be helpful for Sofia, and we need to look presentable; and right now, you just look like a...teenager."
    "You're a teenager too," she rebuts.
    "And I'm also not arguing today. So go brush your hair."
    We fall into a rhythm, surprisingly. I find her dress in one of the guest closets and find a pair of heels from my collection that actually fits her. She picked the dress she wanted a few weeks ago, but I didn't trust her not to stain it, so I took it for safekeeping.
    I keep her hair in its natural coils, pinning back the front pieces with fancy gold bobby pins and making sure it's out of her face. I do her makeup heavier than it's probably ever been done, knowing also that it'll be even heavier tomorrow. Somewhere in between curling her eyelashes and arguing about whether or not she needs mascara, the nausea hits me like a truck.
    I stop mid-sentence. My stomach twists violently. "Wheeze—move—"
    I barely make it to the sink before my knees buckle slightly and the bitter taste comes rushing up fast. I retch twice, coughing, gripping the counter so tight my fingers ache. I'm throwing up everything I haven't eaten.
    At the same time, I hear the front door open, and John B's voice calls out from downstairs. "Hey, love! Kie's here!"
    I wipe my mouth and swish a mouthful of water before walking downstairs. I order Wheezie to not—under any circumstances—alter anything I've worked so hard to achieve.
    I get to the front door, and Kie's footsteps hit the tile a second later. "Okay—what did I just walk into?" She's holding a brown bakery bag and a large iced ginger tea, eyes wide as she takes in the scene.
    "Breakfast?" I croak between breaths, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "How'd you know I needed breakfast? John B.—did you make her come all the way over here?!"
    "No—no. I just know you," she says simply, handing me the tea. "I know you skipped dinner last night, and I figured this exact thing might happen."
    "You're a witch."
    She grins, wiggling her brows. "Only for good."
    Wheezie hands me a towel, and I wave her off, willing her back upstairs. My face is pale in the kitchen window's reflection, and my shirt is damp from leaning into the sink.
    "Sit," Kiara says firmly, already unpacking the bag. "You're eating this croissant if I have to chew it for you and spoon-feed it like a baby bird."
    I sit—begrudgingly—and eat. Slowly, the nausea fades. The ginger tea helps. Kiara watches closely like she's tracking every bite, and as soon as I finish the last flaky bit, she kisses my forehead and stands.
    "I gotta go get ready. I'll see you later; text me if you puke again."
    "I always do," I say with a playful smile.
    "I know. That's why I love you."
    She heads for the door, calling a quick goodbye to Wheezie and John B., and I'm suddenly grateful for how much she doesn't make a big deal of it.
When I make it back upstairs, Wheezie is standing patiently in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of her dress with nervous fingers.
"Stop fidgeting," I correct gently, coming up behind her. I smooth a wrinkle from her shoulder, then fix the little twist in her headband.
She glances up at me through the mirror, her expression somewhere between shy and skeptical. I meet her eyes and pause. I hadn't been focused enough to notice it earlier, but now I see just how pretty she looks.
"You look beautiful," I whisper.
She shrugs, brushing it off like she always does. "It's just a dress."
"No," I say firmly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not just the dress."
She looks at me again, and I see it—her. Our mom. The curve of her chin, the way her eyes tilt when she smiles. I was four when she died, but the memory still burns clear when I look at Wheezie like this. It's like seeing a ghost I've missed for far too long.
"You look just like her," I say softly. "Like Mom."
Wheezie's face falters. "You think?"
"I know."
For once, she doesn't argue. She just gives me a quiet, watery smile.
Once I've rehydrated and stopped seeing stars, I finally get dressed. The yellow dress is still hanging where John B. left it on the bedroom door, and even with all the nausea and chaos and crumbs on the kitchen floor, I feel a little thrill at seeing it again.
It's soft and simple, yes—but fitted just enough around my curves and flowy in the right places. It hugs my bump without making me feel like I'm trying too hard. For once, I don't feel like a stranger in my body.
I start zipping it up when Wheezie steps into the doorway and stares. With perfect timing, the zipper catches.
    "Shit!" I curse, covering my mouth as soon as the word leaves my mouth. "Sorry!"
    "Come on, Sarah," she says. "I've cursed before."
    "I know," I sigh. "Sometimes I forget you're not still a baby."
    She chuckles, shuffling in closer and surveying the zipper. "You're lucky I'm not a baby because you really need some help with this."
    I flop my arms to my side, leaning my head back in exasperation. I don't have time for a stubborn dress.
    "Sarah, you need to suck in."
    I whip my head around. "Suck in?! Wheezie, there's no sucking in anymore."
    "Well, you're going to have to. Just a little until I get the zipper to the top."
    I groan and squish my hands onto my hips, trying to make my frame as small as possible.
    "There," she says happily. "All done."
    "Do you like it?" I ask, turning around girlishly. I feel like a girl at prom, and suddenly the memory of school dances makes me yearn for those days. I miss getting ready with Kiara just for our makeup to get ruined and smudged by the after-party.
    Wheezie grins. She can be really annoying—she is really annoying—but she has her sweet moments. "I do," she says simply. "I really do. You look beautiful. And strong," she adds as an afterthought.
    I look in the mirror. She's right: my arms do look stronger than before, and I wonder how long they've been like that. "Life'll do that to you."
    She pauses, shifting a little while she thinks about her next words. "Do you think this'll be good for him?"
    "What?"
    "Like, do you think this wedding will be good for Rafe?"
    I blink at her, surprised. Not just by the question, but by the way she asks it—soft, thoughtful—like she's already been turning it over in her mind for a while.
"I think," I begin slowly, "that Rafe needs good things right now. And Sofia is good."
Wheezie nods but doesn't look entirely convinced. "It's not just the wedding," she says, coiling a chunk of hair tight around her finger. "It's the forever part. The being a family part. I mean, he barely handled being our family. What if he messes this one up too?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, the fabric of my dress fanning out around my legs. "I think Rafe's trying in a way he never did before," I say carefully. "And I think Sofia makes him want to be better. That doesn't erase everything he's done, but it's a start."
Wheezie crosses her arms, voice quieter now. "It's just hard. Sometimes I want to be happy for him, but I still get so mad at the things he did."
"I know," I say gently. "Me too."
She glances at me again, searching my face like she's testing the water before diving in deeper. "Do you think people like him—people like us—can really change?"
I reach out, brushing her curls gently back behind her ear again. "I think change is messy," I say honestly. "And hard. And sometimes you don't even realize it's happening until you look back and see how far you've come. But yeah—I think it's possible."
Wheezie nods, still fidgeting with her fingers. "Okay."
I smile at her. "You know, I think this wedding might be good for all of us."
That earns a small laugh from her. "Even you? You're gonna be complaining about stuff before the wedding even starts."
I snort. "You bitch."
We're both quiet for a second before she says, "Promise you'll tell me if it gets too much. The baby, the dress, the everything."
I look at her then, really look at her. This half-kid, half-grown little sister of mine who somehow knows just when to pull me back down to earth.
"I promise."
She smiles. "Good. Because we still need to fix your hair. It's frizzing up in the back."
I groan, flopping back dramatically onto the bed. "This is why I can't have nice things."
"You can," Wheezie says, grinning now. "You just have to let me supervise."
Despite everything—the nausea, the nerves, the heaviness of memory—I laugh. Somehow, even with everything we've lost and how different we've all become, we're still here. Still getting ready together. Still holding each other up.
Wheezie does something to my hair, and I decide to trust it looks good. Once her fingers are out of my hair, she stands back, admiring her work.
"What?" I ask, one hand still on my hip.
She shrugs. "You look really pretty."
I blink at her. "Did you hit your head? The whole deep conversation was one thing, but a compliment?!"
She rolls her eyes. "Don't get weird about it. I'm just saying."
Then she walks away like it's nothing, like she didn't just make my entire morning.
"Don't go too far!" I call as Wheezie starts heading for the stairs. "The Pogues will be here soon, and then we're leaving!"
"Yeah, okay," she calls back, but she's already down the stairs and halfway to the backyard.
"Wheeze, honey, please don't go outside. You'll wreck your hair. Just—stay inside and make yourself useful."
I glance at the mirror once more, smoothing my dress over my belly and trying not to spiral about the puffiness of my face or the fact that the baby feels like she's somersaulting on my bladder. I grab the tiny woven clutch I packed with touch-up makeup and a protein bar—just in case—and start waddling toward the stairs.
"John B.?" I call a little rudely as I descend. "Baby, you need to get ready! I already set your clothes out on the bed!"
I sigh shortly as I take the last step, just about to yell again—angrier now that he didn't answer the first time—but when I round the corner into the living room, I stop short.
He's standing at the kitchen sink, in front of the big window, squinting at his reflection in the glass as he wrestles with the collar of his shirt. His khakis are pressed—miraculously—and he's actually wearing the shirt I picked out. He even remembered the nice watch I left on his nightstand. His hair's still a little wild, but it's him. Handsome and trying.
"What?" he asks when he sees me staring.
"You got dressed," I say like it's the most romantic thing in the world.
He gives me a crooked grin. "Well, mostly. I can't get my collar right. And I've never tied a tie before."
I walk over, smiling despite myself, and start unbuttoning the top of his shirt to smooth it out. "Your buttons are off by one," I murmur. "You look like you got dressed in the dark ."
He groans. "I knew something was off, I just didn't have the patience to start over." This makes me giggle, although I smile knowing he'll always have patience for me.
I fix it quickly, then reach for his tie. "Have you really never tied a tie," I ask, shocked.
"I've never really gone anywhere tie-worthy. Why have you tied a tie?"
    I loop the tie over his shoulders and begin to knot it slowly, the motions muscle memory now. Topper used to make me do this every time we had a formal event—homecoming, some dinner with his parents, even church. He didn't know how, and he was always too lazy and selfish to learn. I always hated how smug he looked afterward, like he'd just manipulated me into something intimate. I'd roll my eyes and do it anyway because it was easier and I didn't feel like arguing. Part of me thought that's what love was supposed to look like.
    But this—this is different.
    John B watches me quietly as I work, and something about the silence makes the memory settle more heavily than I want it to.
    "You've done this before," he says now, not accusing, just observant.
    I pause for half a second, eyes flicking to his before I return to the tie. "Yeah," I say carefully. "A long time ago." Although, it really wasn't that long ago. I wish it was.
    I don't want to bring Topper up, but I don't have to. John B. understands somehow. He doesn't say anything, but I feel his hands gently settle on my hips. Not possessive—steadying. His thumb brushes the side of my belly like he's reminding himself I'm here. We're here.
    When I finish the knot, I smooth it down and glance at the watch on his wrist. It catches the light in a way that makes me blink.
    "You know," I say lightly, "that watch looks a lot like the one my dad used to wear."
    He lifts his wrist and turns it a little. "Really?"
    "Yeah," I say. "Just less intimidating." I laugh a little under my breath. "Less evil."
    He tilts his head. "That a compliment?"
    I grin. "Yeah. Weirdly."
    "Is that why you bought it? It looks like your dad's?"
    "No. I don't think so. But now that I'm looking at it, it really does."
    We stand like that for a second, my fingers now resting on the lapels of his shirt. The house is quiet except for the muffled sound of Wheezie banging around somewhere on the porch and a bird outside chirping its guts out.
    He watches me as I finish smithing down his hair. "You look good," he says softly. He drags his fingernails lightly up and down my sides, sensually. "Really good."
I arch a brow, trying not to smirk too much. "Careful, I'm already waddling. You get me too worked up and I might not make it out the door."
He laughs, low and warm. "We don't have to go."
"Yes, we do," I say, giving him a look as I step back and gesture toward the door. "We promised. And anyway, this is the first nice thing we've done in weeks." I turn, grabbing his blazer off the couch where I left it earlier and holding it out. "Arms in."
He slips them through obediently, and I smooth the fabric over his shoulders, tugging it just right so it sits clean. He smells like soap and saltiness and fresh air. I linger a second longer than I need to, straightening the collar. I don't say anything, but I think he feels it too—that slow, electric current of quiet love we've been leaning into more and more lately.
"Thank you," he says after a beat, softer this time. "For helping me. For everything."
I look up at him, swallowing the emotion that wells up too fast these days. "You're welcome."
Just as quickly as I softened into a soft, doting wife, I snap out. "Shit!" I curse, checking the time. "The Pogues were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago!"
"Sarah—"
Pope calls right on time. I answer on speaker. "Pope. Please tell me you're pulling into the driveway."
    He doesn't even say hi. "Okay, listen, Sarah, before you say anything, this is not my fault."
    John B. looks over at me, already trying not to laugh.
    Pope continues, his voice tense but way too familiar with chaos. "So first, the hot water went out and JJ decided that instead of just taking cold showers, he had to try and fix it. He broke it. JJ and Kie slept here by the shop last night so we could all get ready together, and they even brought all of their things. But, with no hot water, we had to drive all the back to their house to shower.'"
    "Oh my God," I mutter.
    "And then Cleo couldn't find her other heel because—get this—JJ swapped one of hers with one of Kie's as a joke last night, and neither of them noticed until this morning. So now Cleo's stomping around, and JJ's claiming that it's a 'symbolic protest against conformity.'"
    I shut my eyes. "Pope..."
  "And then," Pope barrels on, "JJ thought he lost the keys, except they were in his mouth, Sarah. His actual mouth. Like he was holding them between his teeth and forgot."
    I stare at the wall, trying to take deep breaths. "I can't do this."
    "So now we're finally in the van," Pope says. "Except Cleo wants to stop for iced coffee and I told her no, so she's not speaking to me. JJ's trying to DJ but his playlist is awful, and Kie's meditating in the back seat because her chakras are, quote, 'all out of whack from the shoe energy.' But—"
    Click. I hang up. There's a beat of silence.
    John B. raises his eyebrows. "Did the call drop?"
    "Nope."
    "You—" he tries not to smile. "You just hung up on Pope?"
    I toss my phone into my clutch like I'm disposing of a cursed object. "I love them. I do. But if I listen to one more second of that circus, I will fake contractions just to get out of going."
    John B. is grinning now. "So we're going without them?"
    "I'm going without them." I adjust the hem of my dress and hoist myself off the couch. "If they show up, great. If not, oh well. I'm bringing Wheezie. You stay here and wait for them. I'll take our car and leave the van for you guys."
    "You sure?"
    I'm frustrated again. "Yes, John B., I'm sure. Sofia already asked me to get there early, and I know she knows nothing about makeup." I stomp toward the back door. "Wheezie! We're leaving."
    She comes inside and gathers whatever she needs and we make our way to the door.
    "Sarah, wait—"
    I don't even look at him. I stay trained on the door. "I love you, but not right now."
    He grabs me lightly. "You don't have shoes on, baby."
I pause mid-stomp, looking down like I've just noticed my bare feet for the first time. "Fuck," I mutter, leaning one hand against the doorframe for balance. My ankles are already sore from standing too long, and my patience is evaporating by the second.
John B. disappears without a word and returns quickly, holding out the pair of sandals he picked—soft leather, low strap, dressy enough without being fussy. They even have subtle gold buckles that match the earrings I'm wearing.
"You like them?" he asks, a little careful now, like he's not sure how much longer my fuse is.
I stare at them for a beat. Then sigh. "Yes, love. Thank you."
He crouches down in front of me without hesitation and gently slides one onto my foot, buckling it for me without a word. His hands are warm and sure, and I steady myself on his shoulder, my breath catching a little.
"You know," I murmur, "you doing this is actually more romantic than the whole getting dressed thing."
He glances up with that crooked smile of his. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
    As John B. goes to buckle the second sandal, he glances up at me with a mischievous glint in his eye and says under his breath, "Need anything else while I'm down here?"
    I roll my eyes so hard I think I might pull something. "John B.," I warn.
    He grins, totally unrepentant. "You just seem kind of high-strung today. Maybe you could use... something... to lighten you up."
    Without hesitation, I knee him lightly in the shoulder—not hard, just enough to make my point. "The last thing I need right now is you auditioning for Magic Mike."
    "Just sayin'" he hums, like that wasn't the dirtiest thing he's said this week. Like he didn't just say that in front of Wheezie.
    We stand there for a moment, me still holding onto John B.'s shoulder, trying to regain some composure. Wheezie's standing just off to the side, her face scrunched up in horror.
"Gross," she cries under her breath, shaking her head. "You guys just have to flirt in front of me, don't you?"
I shrink down, but John B.'s proud. "We're married."
"Yeah, and barf-worthy." She gags, and I honestly can't tell if it's real or fake. "Like, oh my God, do you have any decency?"
"You just gotta ignore him," I say with a small, awkward laugh. I'm trying my best to hide how embarrassed I am.
John B. stands up after adjusting the buckles of the sandals one last time. "You know, I did just cheer you up a little. You should thank me."
I glared at him. "Insinuating sex in front of my baby sister is not my idea of cheering up, John B." I mouth the word sex instead of saying it out loud. "Come on, Wheeze, we're leaving."
I pick up my clutch and the bag of things I packed because I know Sarah won't have them, and we head out the door.
"I love you!" John B. calls out to me.
I roll my eyes, but I'm melting on the inside too. I could never stay frustrated. "I love you too. I'll deal with you later," I threaten, pointing at him in the doorway.
His grin never wipes off of his face. "Looking forward to it," he winks.
We make it to the car, and as soon as we're inside and I start the engine, Wheezie's looking out the window with the most put-upon expression I've ever seen. "I just—I really am disgusted," she groans.
    I laugh again. "Wheezie, come on. We're married!"
    "Yeah, you said that already."
    "I mean, I'm pregnant. How do you expect we got here?"
    Her face is one of pure mental torture. "Oh, God! Sarah, I hadn't even thought about that until now!"
    "And one day, you'll be married, and you and your husband will—"
    "Stop, Sarah. Just stop." I'm giggling, but she obviously does not find it funny.
    "You know," I tease, partially playful but also in honesty, "You'll have to have sex one day."
    "I'm not talking about this with you again. One time was enough," she says, tight and unwavering.
    "I'm your big sister. I have the right to talk about this."
    "But—"
    "You're gonna get married one day, Wheeze." She goes to stop me, but I'm one step ahead. "And don't try to act like you're not because you've been planning it on Pinterest since you were nine."
    "Whatever," she grumbles.
    "And the night of your wedding, you're going to have to sleep with your husband."
    She's not enjoying the conversation, but she's a little more in it now. "Says who?"
    "Says everyone. That's how it works. Wedding night sex," I smirk.
    She groans dramatically and throws her head back against the seat. "Oh my God, Sarah, why are you like this?"
"I'm just preparing you for the realities of adulthood."
"I didn't ask for this," she mutters.
I glance over at her, barely suppressing a grin. "I promise it's not that bad."
"Sarah!"
"What? I'm trying to help you out. People say it's bad the first time—and it kind of is, I guess, for most people—but John B. was great. And then, like, every time after that, you're golden."
She slaps my arm. Hard. "You're making it worse!"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. But just wait—you'll be thanking me when it happens."
She groans again, turning fully to look out of the window. "I hate this car ride."
"No, you don't," I say, smiling as we turn into Tanneyhill's driveway. "You love me."
"Not right now, I don't."