what now? | outerbanks

• eighty •

Sarah

I'm not sure what wakes me first—the light, or the empty spot in bed next to me.
It's morning now. Somewhere around eleven or noon, I'm guessing, but John B. has the curtains shut, so I can't quite tell how much sunlight there is. Still, some light does peek from around the edges and corners of the curtains, bathing the room in a hazy kind of glow that makes the dust flicker like glitter.
I'm not sure when I fell asleep last night. I remember closing my eyes and shifting over and over again. I remember hoping to myself that I'd at least fool John B.—make him think I was sleeping so he'd stop bothering me, stop trying to fix things. Most of all, though, I remember praying.
Praying. I don't do it as much as I used to, or as much as I would like. Back then, it was automatic. Every night. Every morning. Every tiny in-between that I didn't know how else to fill. I'd pray. That was what we did.
It started almost as a checklist task. I did it because Mom liked how it looked. I did it because Dad liked how it sounded. I did it because of the way Wheezie would sneak one eye open at the dinner table and mouth the word amen like it was a dare.
But as I got older and things started to feel more real, I actually started praying. I'd pray for help and advice and strength. I'd pray for comfort when I was alone. That's what I did last night.
With my eyes shut and my heart thudding, with John B. lying next to me with only his hand touching my arm, I prayed. It wasn't habit. It wasn't ritual. It was a need. The room was too quiet and the baby was kicking like she was mad too, but I did my best to block it all out.
I pressed my clasped hands to my lips as a few silent tears washed down my face. There were no big poetic words, or psalms, or polished phrases. There was just "Please," and "Let him still love me in the morning," "Let her be okay," and "Let me be enough."
I don't know if I was doing it right, or if I was talking to God or just the girl I used to be who thought a prayer would fix everything. It's hard to be sure if God's really listening, but last night I think he was. I really do.
And even if it doesn't actually change anything, it helped. It helped because no matter how much I've pulled away from that girl—the pews and sermons and post-church brunches—prayer has never stopped feeling like home. It's in my blood. It's who I am.
Praying is the last thing I remember before falling asleep, but I also remember every hour in between then and now. I tossed and turned and checked the time more times than I could count. I texted Kie to see if she was awake—she wasn't—and then Cleo—she was. I texted with her for a while about what I was feeling and all of the things I'm anxious about, but at some point, she got too tired and had to leave.
I don't remember when I actually fell asleep, but sometime since then, John B. left bed without telling me. Typically he wakes me up from bed. A warm kiss on the cheek or neck, a light massage, his fingers brushing through my hair. Even if it's just to let me know he's heading to the shop, he wakes me up to say goodbye.
But this morning, he didn't. Is he mad? Is he annoyed that I can't get over what he did? Does he think I'm being selfish and unreasonable? Suddenly my heart aches. It aches even more than my body. He doesn't want to deal with me.
I hear him before I see him. I hear his short, measured breath. It's not calm, but nervous, like he's preparing for what's coming.
    If my heart was already aching, now it's searing with an unimaginable pain. How could I project such hateful things towards him? How could I be so selfish to think he didn't care? I didn't have any faith in him, and here he is, just trying to make things right. Suddenly, half the anger I held towards him is now flowing right back towards me.
There's a small clatter, then a curse. I'm guessing he hit his shin on the corner of the dresser like he does most mornings when he's too sleepy to pay attention. I keep my eyes closed, though, secretly wishing he'll just leave me alone, even though part of me wants him to be here.
    A second later, the mattress dips. The sheets rustle a little bit in front of me where I assume John B. is now sitting on the edge of the bed. I don't dare move, though. I remain shut-eyed and try my best to keep my face relaxed. Maybe he really thinks I'm asleep now. I don't blame him—I've been doing a good job at pretending lately.
    Pretending I'm not terrified of everything that's running toward me. Pretending certain things don't hurt. Pretending one more task won't break me down.
    Then I feel it—a hand. Not on my arm or back or shoulder, but on my hip, fingers barely there. His thumb presses softly once over the hem of my t-shirt before rolling up and down over the curve of my belly. It's almost like he's checking to make sure I'm still real.
    "I know you're awake," he says quietly. I'm almost certain if there was any other noise in the room—even just a quiet fan—I wouldn't have been able to hear him, but I'm just able to make it out. I don't move. Not yet.
    "You breathe different when you're awake," he says just a little louder. I don't answer this time, but I let my brow furrow just slightly as I shift around in my fake slumber.
    Thumb tracing under my eye, grazing where the tips of my eyelashes meet my sun-kissed cheeks, he then says, "I made you some toast. With peanut butter and honey how you like it." This almost gets me to smile, but I'm not that easy.
    His fingers drag slowly up and down my hip, and he leans down briefly to kiss my shoulder. Whether he knows I'm awake or not, he's not necessarily trying to wake me up. He's just trying to be present and patient.
    "I keep thinking about the look on your face yesterday," he says, voice low, like he's confessing something. "Like I cracked something inside of you."
    Now, finally, I open my eyes. He's right in front of me, sitting on the edge of the bed, back hunched a little bit. Even before I open my eyes, he's staring right into them. His hair is a mess, his T-shirt is rumpled, and his eyes are tired in that way you get when the guilt doesn't let you sleep.
    "You did," I say, voice scratchy. "You cracked it."
    "I know."
    We don't fill the silence after that. He just sits there, his hand still on my hip, his thumb still drawing slow, unconscious shapes.
    "You're trying to fix things," I murmur. "Things you can't fix."
    He swallows. "I know, I—I just need you to know that I'm trying."
    "I don't need you to fix me."
    "What do you need?"
    I close my eyes again, not because I'm tired, but because I'm too awake. "This," I whisper. "Just this."
    I think that's what breaks him. The next thing I feel is his forehead against my belly, his arms wrapping around me, careful and tight. One hand draped gently across the top of the bump, the other under it like he's cradling both of us at once.
    "I hate fighting with you," he says into the fabric of my shirt.
    "I know. Me too."
    "I didn't sleep."
    "I did," I lie.
    He huffs a small, broken laugh. "Liar. You were awake all night."
    The baby shifts between us, foot or hand rolling and jabbing lightly into my side. John B. kisses the spot she kicked, murmuring, "Be nice, baby girl. Daddy loves you, but you gotta be good to Mommy."
    He kisses there again, then the very peak of my stomach, then the soft inside of my elbow where my arm curls around my pillow, and finally, my mouth.
    It's not a make-up kiss. It's not the same as other kisses we've had after fights—the kind that's hot and rushed and steamy, like we're trying to prove something. It's not a firework or a promise or a restart.
    It's a quiet kiss. Unpolished and real. It's like he's pressing his mouth to mine just to say I know. I hurt you. I love you. I'm still here. Still, though, this isn't close to being over. The problem isn't fixed with a simple kiss.
    When he pulls back, I open my eyes again.
"Breakfast, huh?" I say.
    "With crusts cut off."
    "Whipped dork."
    He smiles. "Only for you."
    I try to sit up, but I end up right back on my pillow. Everything is a little more achy, and stiff, and swollen these days. John B. instinctively moves to help, reaching forward to lightly grab my arm, but I flinch. Not because of him, I don't think, but because the motion jostles something funny in my back.
    "Sorry," he breathes, already pulling back.
    "I know," I mutter. My hands drag from my belly to my aching back. I grimace as I finally get myself sitting upright. "It's not you." I can tell by his face, though, that we both know this isn't completely true.
    He's sitting there with his hands clasped between his knees like he's resisting the urge to reach for me again—physically and emotionally. Like he knows there's a line he can't cross until I move it or invite him over.
    I lean back against the headboard, head tipped to one side. I don't want to cry again. Not yet.
    "Did you eat yet?" I ask, staring down at the comforter.
    He nods once. "A little."
    My fingers doodle and tap and dance along my belly, searching and yearning for any sign of life. The baby kicks again—softly this time. She feels sleepy and curious. I think she can sense that something is wrong.
I don't know how to talk about yesterday without breaking apart all over again. I don't know how to bring up the things that still hurt without sounding cruel. But the silence is heavy too, and it's starting to choke the air between us.
"I don't want to hate you," I whisper. It's the only thing I can manage without the dam breaking completely.
He closes his eyes like the words are a punch. Not because he thinks I hate him—we both know I don't, deep down—but because he knows I could. If things keep going like this, if these cracks grow deeper, the next thing that breaks could be us.
"I hate that I made you question me," he finally says. He's not looking at me anymore, and I wonder if he means anything by it—if maybe he's protecting himself from falling apart just like I am. One thing I do know is that he isn't looking for sympathy. He's just being honest. Honest in a special way that doesn't hide in apologies.
    "That's not what this is all about," I say. "It's not one thing. It's everything. It's all of it, John B. The lies, the danger, the secrets, the fact that you didn't think I could handle the truth. I can handle the truth—more than most people—I just need someone to be by my side while I'm handling it. You left my side."
    He nods again, slowly. "You're right."
    I blink at him. "You're not going to defend yourself?"
    "Not this time. There's nothing to defend." His response makes me pause for a second, mentally taking a step back and surveying the situation. Could he be using some secret tactic to get me to forgive him? Does he have ulterior motives?
    No. It's not a tactic. He actually means all of it. This makes something in me soften, even if only a little. Even with his constant apology, things hurt. I feel betrayed all the same as I did yesterday.
    "I'm still mad," I murmur.
    "I'm still sorry," he answers.
    We're quiet again. Not the same quiet from the car ride home yesterday, or the quiet when we didn't know how to ask what dinner plans were, or the quiet when neither of us said goodnight. It's not that sickening kind of quiet. It's more like a breath between us. Like a small moment of repose.
    He looks at me, still keeping his hands to himself. "You want me to go? Let you eat and breathe for a while?"
    I shake my head before he's even done asking. "I want you to stay."
    He nods, like maybe he wasn't sure I'd say that. Then, carefully, he leans back beside me, not touching at first—just sitting there. He's close, and he's ready when I am.
John B. stays with me while I eat, making me scoot up a little farther on the bed so he can sit behind me and brush my hair. He works the brush through my blonde waves slowly and carefully so it never snags or pulls.
When I'm finished eating and taking the final sip of tea from my mug, he moves from behind me and takes the dishes from my hands. He brings them downstairs before coming right back up and sitting back down beside me.
"Do you want to rest some more?" he asks me.
I know what he thinks. And I know what the doctor thinks. They think I should rest. And I almost agree, but then I remember that Wheezie is over, and I feel like I should be downstairs with her.
"No, no. I should go downstairs and do... something." I don't know what I'm planning on doing—John B. has been doing all of the chores lately so I don't have to—but I at least need to feel productive.
    "You sure?"
    "Mhm."
    "Okay." He doesn't argue, even though I know he thinks I should stay in bed more often and take things easier.
    Instead, he stands and offers me both hands like instinct. The look in his eyes tells me he's been waiting for me to need his help. I slide my fingers into his and let him pull me gently to my feet, standing there for a few moments to gather myself. There's no rush in his help either—he's moving slowly, watching my face intently for any signs of hesitation or pain.
    Once I'm steady, he moves to the dresser and pulls out one of the tank tops that's been in my recent rotations. He helps me into it with unexplainable tenderness, though neither of us says anything. It's not even the act itself that's tender, it's the fact that he isn't making a big deal about it. He isn't using this to get in my face and force me to forgive him for what he did. He's just being the husband he vowed to be.
    He crouches to help me into a pair of loose pajama pants, and I have to hold onto his shoulders firmly so I don't topple over in the process.
    "All set?"
    I nod once before heading slowly for the door. We walk together through the house and down the stairs—which take more and more effort each day—until we reach the living room.
    Wheezie's curled up on the couch with a book when we come down, flipping silently between pages. There's a window open across from the sofa, and I can't help but take a deep inhale of the warm summer air. She looks up when we reach the bottom of the steps, eyes flicking between John B. and me before turning back to her book.
She was down here with John B. earlier. Did he tell her anything? I hope not. She moves to the edge of the sofa so there's room for me to sit too. I ease down next to her, tucking my legs under me as best I can and leaning fully against the back cushion.
John B. watches me from where he's standing, making sure from afar that I'm settled. He hands me the remote, a blanket, and my water cup before stopping and crouching in front of me.
"You sure you don't need anything else?"
"I'm good. Really."
He doesn't believe me. I don't either. "Okay, well, I'm gonna head to the shop. Cleo said they could use more hands."
He leans forward just an inch like he's going to kiss me, but he can tell I'm not sure about anything yet, so he just stands up. It's not that I don't want to kiss him—we already kissed once today—but I still don't know how to deal with any of this yet.
John B. has his hand halfway raised into a wave to say goodbye when Wheezie cuts him off. "I need to ask you guys something," she says, snapping her book closed with extra force.
    John B.'s hand falls to his side, his goodbye wave long forgotten. He glances at me, then back up at her. "What's up?"
She takes a deep breath. "So, there's this party tonight," she says, already bracing herself for resistance. "For Molly's birthday. Just a few people. It'll be chill, I swear."
    John B. looks at me like he's either asking permission to be the bad guy or hoping I'll do it first. I sigh and shift a little, trying to get comfortable against the couch cushions.
    "Who's going to be there? Do you know?" I ask.
    She shrugs. "Molly, obviously. Ava. Marcus. Some people from the surf team, I think. It's not, like, a rager or anything."
    "Where is it?" John B. adds. His tone isn't sharp, but it's measured.
    "Molly's place. Her parents are out of town, but her older sister's gonna be there. She's, like, twenty-one or something."
    I almost go to say that twenty-one's not old enough to be a chaperone, but then I remember that I'm not even twenty yet, so I probably shouldn't judge.
    "Is there going to be drinking?" I ask quietly.
    Wheezie hesitates. "Maybe? Probably. I mean, I won't drink if you don't want me to, if that's why you're asking ."
    "Would you tell us if you were planning to?" John B. says, not unkindly.
    Her eyes dart between us. "Yes... but I really don't plan to. I just wanna go."
    I fold the blanket a little tighter around myself, still battling with which version of myself I'm supposed to be right now—the fun older sister who doesn't make her feel like a kid, or the one who's practically a mom now, with a baby kicking inside me to prove it.
    "I don't know," I murmur. "It's not that I don't trust you, Wheeze. It's just... things are a little different now. I feel like I should be more careful with everything."
    She nods, not offended. "I get it."
    I look at John B. for a second before deciding, "How about you go upstairs real quick? Let me and John B. talk it over." My voice is calm, but there's an edge also that I don't bother softening.
    Wheezie hesitates, reading the room like she's used to doing. Then she nods and slips out. Her footsteps pad up the stairs, then a door clicks shut behind her.
    I lean back against the couch, arms folded. "A party."
    John B. watches me, quiet for a beat. "You thinking no?"
    I roll my eyes. "I'm thinking she's sixteen and still thinks cheap wine coolers are fun."
    He almost smiles but sees my face and reins it in. "She's smart."
"Smart doesn't mean safe, and it certainly doesn't mean being prepared."
He rubs the back of his neck. "We were going to worse parties way younger than her."
"Exactly," I snap, sharper than I mean to. "And we made terrible decisions at them." This hangs in the air heavy and real.
"She's not us," he says gently. "She doesn't run headfirst into storms for fun."
"No," I mutter. "She just idolizes the people who did."
His jaw flexes, but he doesn't rise to it. "You're not being fair."
"I'm being honest."
"Look, I'm not saying we let her go wild. I'm saying she deserves a little trust."
I give him a look. "You think I don't trust her?"
"I think you're scared," he says, not unkindly. "And I get it—it scares me some too—but fear isn't the same thing as parenting."
I sit up straighter, defensive. "Oh, so now I'm overreacting?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
He sighs, eyes dropping for a second. "Sarah..."
"If I say no, I'm the bad guy. If I say yes, there's a possibility she'll get into some shit and she won't be safe because of me."
"She will be safe. She'll be with people she knows."
"We were with people we knew! You know the kind of things that happened at those parties we went to, especially Kook ones!"
His voice is quieter now, but more intense. "We can't project ourselves onto her. We won't know how it'll turn out if we don't let her go."
"I know that," I say, almost too fast. Then softer, "But you don't just stop being afraid because the odds are a little better."
He watches me carefully, like he wants to reach for me but knows I won't let him. "So what, we lock her in the house until she's thirty?"
"No," I say. "But I'm allowed to hesitate before sending her into a dark room full of drunk teenagers who think a red Solo cup makes them grown."
"We give her boundaries. Rules. We trust her to follow them."
"And if she doesn't?"
He meets my eyes. "Then we deal with it."
I don't answer right away. That part of me—the sharp-edged one—still wants to push, to throw every fear I've been choking down since yesterday at him just to get it out.
"Midnight," I say finally. "She checks in when she gets there, checks in when she leaves. No leaving with anyone you don't know, no sneaking off."
"And if she breaks any of it?"
"She's never going anywhere ever again," I mutter.
He lets out a short breath—half a laugh, half relief—and stands. "I'll grab her."
"No." I hold up a hand. "I'll do it."
I head to the stairs and call up, "Wheezie! Come down."
She's already halfway down before I finish. "Soooo...?"
"You can go," I say, arms still crossed. "But you're checking in every hour, you're home by midnight, and if you break any of that, you don't get to pull the 'I lost track of time' thing."
Wheezie's face lights up, a huge smile breaking through. "Seriously? Thank you." She kisses me on the cheek.
"Don't make me regret it," I warn, not smiling yet.
She grins. "I won't. Promise. But um... can I go to Ava's house to get ready? She has this curling iron that makes my hair look actually good."
I glance at John B., who sighs again but nods. "Yeah. Just don't be late getting to Molly's after. And text when you leave Ava's."
"Got it," Wheezie says, already grabbing her phone to make plans.
John B. leans down and squeezes my shoulder lightly. "I'm heading to the shop. I'll be back before dinner."
I nod, watching him gather his keys and slip out the front door. Maybe I should have said goodbye. Maybe I should have let him kiss me before he left.
    The silence stretches just enough to settle before Wheezie speaks again. "You guys got in a fight, didn't you?"
    I squint at her. "Can you tell?"
    She gives a one-shoulder shrug. "Kind of. Well, actually, I could tell from the second John B. walked down here. He was acting really weird, and now you're both doing that thing where you're super polite to each other like strangers."
    I huff a laugh, but it dies quickly.
    "Why'd you fight?"
    The question lingers in the air like smoke. I can't tell her the truth. She shouldn't know about Miller and the murder and the threats. It's too big, too dark, and too tangled up in things she shouldn't have to carry.
    I get up from the sofa and start tidying things to have something to do with my hands. I have to channel all of this energy into something.
    Absently sorting through a stack of mail, I search my brain for an acceptable answer, finally landing on, "It was John B.'s fault. We came to a conclusion yesterday, but it's still lingering."
    She purses her lips at me. "So... then you didn't really come to a conclusion."
    "What?"
    "Well, if it's still lingering, I think you guys might've just come to a 'conclusion' to put a bandaid on things."
    "How would you know?" I snap. It comes out all edge, no filter. It comes out like I'm trying to prove to her that she's sixteen and I'm not, that I have a monopoly on pain and baggage and she's just a kid playing pretend at understanding.
    Wheezie blinks once, but she doesn't flinch. She's used to getting snapped at—whether it's me or Rafe or Rose before everything changed. She just crosses her arms and squints at me with her signature deadpan face. "Because I lived in that house too, Sarah."
    I freeze.
She looks me right in the eye. "You think you're the only one who had to grow up too fast? I saw it all. I heard everything. Rose wasn't just a bitch to you and Rafe. I was there too."
I stare at her. She's not yelling. She's not crying. She's just stating it like it's obvious. Like it's been obvious for a while, and I'm the one who's been playing pretend.
Wheezie keeps going, voice quieter now. "I know what it's like when people pretend everything's fine just so they don't have to deal with the stuff underneath. That's what you and John B. are doing—pretending the fight's over so you can stop talking about it."
I cross my arms, still defensive, still mad—except now I don't know who I'm mad at anymore. "So what, you think you're some kind of relationship expert now?"
She tilts her head. "No. I just think maybe you should stop acting like I don't see things just because I don't say them."
I look away. Her words hum in the room, bouncing off every surface and resonating in my brain.
Eventually, I say, a little hoarse, "When did you get so wise?"
Wheezie snorts a little, but her smile is sad. "Probably when everyone forgot to pay attention to me."
I look down at the floor, suddenly too tired to keep arguing. "Sorry," I mumble, like it might fix everything I didn't realize I'd been missing.
She stands up, brushing nonexistent crumbs off her pajamas. "I gotta get ready."
I nod, barely lifting my eyes as she heads up the stairs.
Around an hour passes before she calls down, "Sarah! I need your help with something!"
I sigh, already bracing myself to haul my aching body upstairs again, but I don't move. "Wheeze, no. I'm not going upstairs just to come back down in a minute. If you need help, you can come to me."
She groans from the landing, but eventually comes thumping down the stairs, one hand clasping the ties to her shirt behind her back and the other holding her twisted-up hair. "I can't get it tied."
I push myself up from the sofa and waddle over to meet Wheezie in the middle of the living room. She turns around, and I take the ties from her hand. My fingers work slowly as they tie a bow to fasten her shirt together, making sure the loops and strings are even.
I start to get a little teary-eyed when my fingers trace along her back, and I catch sight of the little curl that cascades perfectly down her neck. It makes me think of my daughter and how even one day, when she's grown and big and too cool for me, she'll still need my help sometimes. She'll always be my little girl.
As soon as I let go of her top, Wheezie pulls away and moves toward the mirror on the wall, brushing on a light pink lip gloss. Seconds later, Ava honks outside, and Wheezie hugs me quickly, smelling like heat protectant and drugstore perfume.
    "I'll text when I get there."
    "You better."
    And then she's gone. Something in me breaks at the emptiness of this moment, at the knowing that she's growing up into her own person. She can go places without me now. She can stand up for herself. She isn't the same Wheezie I used to run around with in my arms. I wonder if one day she'll get so grown up that she'll start introducing herself as Louise. I hope not.
    I'm halfway through the house, heading for the backyard when my phone rings. Unknown number, but local. I never answer calls, but for some reason, I can't let this one go. I put the phone to my ear.
    "Sarah Cameron?"
    "Yes. Who is this?"
    "It's Sheriff Shoupe. Sorry to bother you directly, but I thought you should hear this from me."
I pause, every hair on my arms rising. "What is it?"
He sighs, not dramatically—just tired. "Rose is out. Early release."
He doesn't know about the wedding. He doesn't know I know. "I know. She showed up at the wedding this week. Why weren't we notified?!"
"We didn't get news that she was out until after the fact. Bureaucratic mess, but she's out. Did she pull anything at the wedding?"
I comb my fingers through my hair. "No, just—just being a bitch."
He clears his throat. "If I were you, I'd file for a restraining order. And if you and your brother want to keep Wheezie where she is, you're going to need to pursue formal custody. Right now, Rose technically still has parental rights."
"What?" I bark. "She never even took care of her."
"I don't know the logistics, but I do know that as long as it's in writing, Rose can take Wheezie back whenever she feels like it."
I'm pacing on the back patio now, one hand braced on my back and one holding the phone an inch from my mouth. "That's bullshit!"
"I know, but it's not my job. All I can do is get you in contact with people, but you and Rafe have to handle this one on your own. Speaking of Rafe, I'm surprised he hasn't called me shouting about any of this yet."
"He," I bite my tongue, deciding whether I should say anything out loud, or if it'll just bring more shit into existence. "He doesn't know."
Shoupe scoffs. "Well, now your chance. I'd tell him soon, princess, or someone else is gonna do it for you, and I don't want to be there when that happens."
I go to say something else, to ask something, maybe, or to make some rude remark, but the call ends with an obnoxious beep, and then there's nothing.
I throw my phone down against the patio sofa, breathing heavily in and out of my nose. Can anything go my way?
    I want to scream and cry and throw a fit, but I can't. I shouldn't, really. I'm a wife, and a mom, and a respectable lady, so I shouldn't.
    I pick my phone back up and think about calling Rafe, but then I remember that he's on his honeymoon. He shouldn't have to worry about this right now. I can't tell him yet. I just have to pray someone doesn't beat me to it.
    I press a hand to the small of my back, then to the curve of my stomach, and try not to scream. It doesn't work. What comes out instead is some strangled, guttural sound—half sigh, half snarl—that tears its way from my chest. It's all I can manage without shattering something.
    Everything feels like it's tilting. I feel like I'm carrying nine delicate glass plates on my head and someone just shoved another one on top. No warning. No care. Just more weight. And I know—I know—that the second one of them slips, they all will.
    I walk back into the house, each step deliberate, controlled, because the second I stop being precise, I will fall apart. I don't stop to fix the rug when my foot catches and turns over the corner. I don't bother turning on any other lights. I don't stop to breathe.
    I go straight to the living room and stare at the baskets of clean laundry I've ignored for over a week—tiny onesies, impossibly small socks, gauzy swaddles, all jumbled together in a perfect mess like it's not foreshadowing my baby's entire life.
    I pick up a basket and sit. I need something to do with my hands or I'll start throwing things.
    Fold. Smooth. Stack.
    The silence is a relief. I couldn't tolerate sound right now if I tried. Not music. Not the buzz of the fridge. Not anyone's voice.
    Fold. Smooth. Stack.
    I try to remember what Kiara said about the going-home outfit, whether she put it in the blue basket or the white one. I can't hold the thought, though; it slips away. At this point, it feels like everything is slipping away.
    The motion helps, though. Mechanical. Sharp. I'm folding like I'm preparing for battle. The corners are tight. The seams are lined up like little soldiers. It's the only part of my life that I can get remotely under control.
    And then, of course, he walks in.
    The front door opens, and I hear his voice before I see him—loud, upbeat, like the world isn't crumbling. He's already telling me about my day. Typically, I'd be at the door at the sound of him in the driveway, ready to kiss him and have him in my arms. Not today.
    "Babe, you would not believe what happened today," he says, almost laughing. "One of the surfboards fell off the truck right into—"
    "You're yelling," I cut in, still not looking up. My voice is cold.
    He stops mid-sentence. "Oh. Sorry." He sounds more confused than hurt.
    I don't respond. I keep folding. There's a little stain on one of the baby's shirts. I can't tell what it is, but it only makes my blood boil even more. No one's even worn it yet. How could it be stained? I scoff as I shove it back into the basket.
    The silence stretches until it buzzes in my ears. My fingers are trembling now, but I keep working. I just keep folding, like if I stop, I'll snap.
He steps closer, slow. Testing the air. "Hey," he says. "I, um—I missed you today."
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "That's nice," I mutter, folding another shirt with military precision. "I missed having one single second where I wasn't about to lose my mind."
He flinches. I hear it more than I see it.
"What's wrong?" he asks, finally registering that I'm not just tired; I'm undone.
I look up at him. My eyes are dry for a beat, but then the tears come—not soft or sad. Angry. Hot. Furious at the world. Furious at him. Furious that I even have to feel this much.
"What's wrong?" I echo, my voice low and hard. "Everything, John B. The baby. The abruption. The fucking Miller case. You. The fight yesterday—yeah, remember that? You just walked in here like it didn't happen. Like we didn't scream at each other. Like everything's fine."
"I didn't think—" he starts.
"No," I snap. "You didn't. Then there's Rose. And now Wheezie too."
"Wheezie? What about Wheezie? We're just taking care of her for a week or two."
"Shoupe called today, John B. Said Rose still has custody rights. Said it's complicated, but legal. If she wants, she can just come pick her up and take her away."
His face darkens, but I don't care.
"And I haven't told Rafe," I go on. "Because he's on his honeymoon, and I don't want to ruin it, but I know if he finds out he's gonna kill me. And I haven't had one fucking second to think! I'm holding everything together with a sweet voice and a prayer, and you walk in here talking about surfboards like I'm not standing in the middle of a fire!"
    He rocks us gently, and I hate how much I needed this. I hate how much I needed him. I hate that I fought so hard just to collapse into his arms, but I love him. God, I love him.
    We sit like that for a while, the room dim and quiet except for my sniffles and the creak of the floorboards beneath us. Then he pulls back just enough to see my face. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, careful and gentle like I might fall apart again.
    "I don't want to keep screwing this up," he says. "Tell me what you need."
    I blink at him, throat dry. "I need help. I need to not feel like everything is my job. I need you to ask me how I'm doing before I explode, and I need to not be the only one worrying about things like custody and safety and hospital bags and laundry."
    He nods, quick. "Okay. Okay. You're right. You shouldn't be doing all this alone. We're supposed to be a team."
    "Yeah, well," I say, softer now, "we've been playing like two people on the same field, not on the same team."
    "I'm with you now," he says. "Starting today, we split it down the middle. Not just the chores. Everything. All of it. If something's scaring you, I want to know. If something needs to get done, I'll do it."
    "You're gonna fold tiny socks?" I ask, raising an eyebrow through the leftover tears.
    He cracks a smile. "Hell yeah, I'll fold tiny socks. I'll fold them over and over again if that's what it takes."
    Despite myself, I laugh. It's a small, wet sound, but it's real. "Fine...but don't mess up the seams. You have to line them up like this." I pick up a pair and show him, extra pointed.
    "Yes, ma'am." He salutes me with a grin, and then leans over to grab a fresh pile from the basket.
    We sit on the rug together and fold the rest. He's not as precise as I am—his stacks are a little lopsided and his onesie folds are too wide—but he's trying. And more than that, he's here. Not halfway. Not distracted. Just here.
    When we finish the last piece, he brushes his hands off on his jeans and looks at me like he's made up his mind about something.
    "Get dressed," he says.
    I frown. "What?"
    "You need air. You need out of this house, away from baby prep and drama and everything else for a little bit."
    "I'm a mess."
    "I know," he says. "But you're also tired. You're worn down. And sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away for a second. So come on. Grab whatever you need. We'll go somewhere. Just us."
    I hesitate, because the idea of moving right now feels heavy—but so does staying still. "Where?"
    He shrugs. "It's a surprise, but you'll like it. Trust me?"
    I look at him—really look at him—and the way he's looking at me. He's tired too, but he's all in now.
    "Okay," I whisper.
    He helps me off the floor, brushing the dust from the back of my pants and giving my hand a soft squeeze. "Go get changed, babe. I've got snacks and blankets and everything already packed in the truck."
    My heart twitches. "You planned something?"
    "Kind of. I figured if you were still mad at me, it'd be a peace offering. If you weren't... then I'd just call it a date."
    A real smile breaks across my face—tentative, but growing. "It'll be both."
    "Then let's go."
    And just like that, the weight starts to shift. Not gone. Not forgotten. But lighter, because I don't have to carry it alone anymore.

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Love love loved writing this chapter but also COMPLETELY broke my heart!!
my Jarah babies

vote and comment like always! thank you guys for everything 💋💋