what now? | outerbanks

• eighty-one •

Sarah

    Once I was dressed and ready to go, John B. took me to the wharf at the end of our neighborhood, lunch and necessities packed. We ate together, slow and calm—much different than the start to our day—and the entire time we were there, sitting out on a dock, John B. had this goofy, knowing grin on his face.
    "Why are you smiling like that?" I asked him plainly, trying my best to hide my smirk.
    "My wife's not mad at me anymore," he grinned childishly.
    I snorted. "Don't ruin it."
    It was perfect, pretty much. We sat there even after we finished eating, talking and giggling and kissing. We talked about nursery plans and names and dreams. While we talked, though, I couldn't stop noticing his smile. This isn't all he has planned, I kept thinking.
    I was right.
    Now, he's holding my hand on the center console—bringing it to his lips occasionally to kiss it—as he drives us down a half-familiar road. It's an off-road—the kind no one goes down anymore unless you've planned specifically to do so. I know we've driven down it before, just the two of us, but I can't place the memory. I can't remember what for.
    As we drive further, though, it starts coming back to me. He took me down this road for our first date—not the day in Chapel Hill, or the nightmare at the Eagle's Nest, but our first real date.
    "John B..." I breathe, shocked.
    He glances at me, squeezing my hand over the center console. "I figured since we have so much coming at us for the future, we should take a step back into the past. You know, remind ourselves where it all started."
    "A little cheesy, don't you think?" I tease.
    He looks offended. "You don't want—"
    I giggle, clutching my shaking belly. "Relax, relax. I'm just kidding, babe!"
    The road curves a little and opens up to a clearing, and there it is—still standing, crooked cross on top, paint even more peeled than I remembered, windows streaked with salt and dust and sun.
    The Church.
    I don't know how long ago it was running, or if it ever really was, but it looks like it's been forgotten for a while. Now, it's a spot for sacred teenage hook-ups, end-of-year ragers, or proper Cut drug deals. It's misused and abused, but for us, it's always been something special. Something uniquely us—no matter how many people have been here.
The ground crunches beneath the tires as John B. pulls in front of the weathered building. As we get closer, I can see all of the rubble and char left from when Rafe tried to smoke us out of the bell tower when we were hiding from the cops. The back half is burnt to a crisp, but somehow, the front stands pristine.
    John B. gets out of the car and walks around to my side to help me out, hands sure as always. He laces his fingers with mine, steadying me as I slide out onto my own two feet.
We stand there for a second, staring up at the old Church. The char marks from the fire make it look darker than it used to, more haunting maybe, but I can still see past it—to the time he kissed me in places I'd never been kissed, when we thought maybe the worst was behind us.
He lets me take my time, and when I'm ready, we start walking—slowly, carefully, his hand always right there on the small of my back like some kind of unspoken shield. The front doors creak when we push them open.
The inside smells like smoke and salt and warm pine. The pews are still knocked sideways from whatever party happened last, graffiti sprayed over cracked hymn boards, beer cans in the corners. That's not what's important, though.
John B. helps me over a half-busted floorboard and then points up. "I checked it earlier—it's still solid," he says, motioning to the old wooden ladder tucked in the corner, hidden behind what's left of a crumbling arch.
The bell tower.
I just stare at it for a second. My chest tightens. I have a hard enough time going up and down the stairs at home; can I really climb a wooden ladder?
"You up for it?" he asks gently. "We can just stay down here if not—"
"No," I cut in quickly, surprising even myself. "I want to."
He nods once, steady, and then climbs up first, testing each rung before I follow. He reaches the top, then changes his mind, climbing back down. "You go first, actually," he says. "So you don't fall."
I peer at him warily. "You just want to look at my butt," I tease, playfully hitting his shoulder.
He shrugs, not even bothering to defend himself. "Maybe, but I'd also hate for you to fall."
    I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling because I can't believe this is my life now. Carefully, I take the first rung. It creaks under my weight, but it holds. My hands are clammy against the old wood, but I climb, one slow step at a time. I can hear John B. just below, murmuring encouragement, a hand always on my calf or ankle or thigh in case I slip.
    The climb is harder than I remember. My center of gravity's all off now, and every stretch of my leg reminds me that I'm not the same teenager I was before, but I keep going.
    I keep going because this? This is what changed me. Not just the thrill or the chaos or the treasure hunt. This is where I was changed forever.
    By the time I reach the top, I'm winded, but it doesn't matter. Because the second I pull myself into the tower, it's like no time has passed at all.
    The bell tower looks smaller than I remember, though maybe that's just me. Time and pregnancy and everything else expanding around me. The boards still creak, and the same shards of sea glass in the cracked window throw little rainbows across the soot-streaked floor.
    I sink to the spot where we laid down that first night, right on the warped wood, and everything comes rushing back.
    How I couldn't breathe after Barry slammed the van door open, waving his gun, screaming about the gold we'd just found. How I thought we were going to die, and how John B. somehow got us out of it. How we drove away, fast and reckless, all heart-pounding and no plan. How I'd never felt so alive.
    That week was the first time I'd ever realized how tightly I was wrapped in plastic. Perfect and pretty and suffocated. And that day was the first time I'd successfully broken out of it. I was free.
    John B. makes it up the ladder a few seconds after me and sits down right beside me, kissing once below my ear.
    "You good?" he asks, noticing I'm still panting a little.
    I wipe my brow. "Better than ever. Just a little compromised," I huff, pointing to my belly.
    He must notice that I'm sweating, because he says, "Sorry, I know it's a little hot. We don't have to stay for too long."
    "No, no," I say quickly, shaking my head. "It's summer; it's gonna be hot. It's okay."
"Just let me know if you're ready to leave." He pulls out two blankets from the corner of the room, and I shift to a lying position as he slides one of them under my head. He lies down next to me.
I look up above us at the old beams and cracked bell. "God, it's been forever."
One of his arms snakes beneath my neck and around my shoulders, pulling me in closer, and the other trails up my side and rests protectively over my bump.
I reach back into my memory, unlocking things I thought I'd never want to think about again. "I mean, last time we were here, you were running from the police. All the Peterkin chaos."
"Shit, that was, like, peak refugee era." John B. laughs softly beside me, the sound low and nostalgic, almost reverent. "God, we were such a mess."
"We are such a mess," I correct him, smiling even as my eyes sting a little.
He nods, thumb rubbing gentle circles over my belly through my shirt. "Yeah, but at least now we've got a plan."
I look at him crazy because if there's one thing we do not have, it's a plan. "Yeah, right," I snort, rolling my eyes.
I let out a stressed breath, letting the weight of his arm and the warmth of his body anchor me to this strange, sacred place. The wind whistles through a crack in the wall, and somewhere below us, a bird screeches in protest like we've disturbed something by being here again. Maybe we have. I don't think I mind.
"I never thought we'd end up here," I whisper.
"Back at the church?"
"No." I tilt my head so I can see him. "Here. You and me, married, baby on the way—all of it."
He's quiet for a second, eyes fixed on the burnt beam overhead like he's counting every splinter. "I did," he finally says.
"You did?"
John B. shrugs, sheepish. "I mean, not the exact details. Not the fire and the crazy treasure curses and the near-death experiences. But you? Us?" He pauses, turning to me, eyes locked with mine. "Yeah. I saw it. I hoped for it."
I blink back tears I wasn't expecting. "How'd you know?"
His voice is rougher now, more uncertain. "You were the one thing that made all of it feel worth it. The gold, the running, the risk—none of it would've mattered if you hadn't been there."
His words strike me somewhere deep and hidden, and I know he means it. Our lives were crazy back then in a different way, and, simultaneously, the chaos feels like it's lifetimes yet minutes away.
I remember coming to this bell tower after the mess with Barry, after JJ ransacked his house and we all got mad at him. I remember finally breathing when John B. walked me into the creaky floorboards and old altar.
I didn't know this place existed before then, but he did. It was like seeing a part of his life I would have never seen otherwise. It was the place his dad used to bring him. Where he felt safe. Where he dreamed.
I remember him smuggling candles from the altar in his pockets, hiding them stealthily, thinking I didn't see. I did. We got up to where we are now and talked. I told him things I didn't think I'd ever tell anyone—especially since I wasn't on speaking terms with Kiara.
I remember him lighting the candles and kissing me like it wasn't the end of the world, like it wasn't insane that we, Sarah Cameron and John Booker Routledge, were kissing. I remember being terrified—so scared, because it was my first time. It was real just like it had been with Topper, but it was deeper and emotional and loving, and for once, I actually wanted it to be real. I was ready.
Heart pounding and breath shaky, I wanted it. I remember it so vividly. I remember the adrenaline and how he looked at me and how his hands felt on my skin. I remember how I said no at first, but sitting there next to him, I just couldn't resist.
    He was so careful and warm—something I didn't expect. My only knowledge of the Pogues had been from Topper and his friends, so all I thought of them was how rough and unpolished they were. But John B. was so much more. Is so much more.
    I'll never forget the way his hand brushed my cheek first, asking for permission, and then slid down my back and waist. How my straps fell but he kept his eyes locked on mine until he was sure he was allowed to look.
    The way he kissed me—not like he wanted something out of it, but like he was actually offering me a piece of himself. I had a piece of myself to give too, but I was so nervous and clutching it so hard that it was close to breaking. Finally, though, when things deepened and it was more than just a kiss, I let that piece go and gave it to him forever.
    He was soft but certain, pausing every few seconds to check in because he could feel how scared I was. He waited. He didn't fumble or push. Just waited like every movement was a question waiting for my answer. I remember when it was all over and I was feeling things I had never felt before and I didn't know what I was supposed to be feeling. I was so unsure, but he comforted me and validated me. I realized then that he was nothing like Topper.
    I stayed there on his chest, sweaty in the suffocating heat of summer love, listening to his heartbeat, and I almost cried. I almost cried because everything was new and overwhelming and terribly against these rules I had put up for myself. But also because it felt good. It felt good and I knew—right there I knew—that I'd never go back to the plastic. This was it.
    John B. shifts beside me, reminding me that we're both here and breaking me from my memories. "Do you know when I realized I loved you? Like really, really loved you?"
    I shake my head, partially because I don't know the answer, and partially because I don't know if I can speak without getting emotional.
    "It was the first time we came here. After Barry threatened us."
    "Yeah?"
    "And I took you here, and you looked right up at me with those eyes and told me you had fun." He says the words like he might cry, voice cracking at the end.
"That's when you knew?"
He sits up a little, back against the window frame. "Life was scary and chaotic and you—Sarah, you were this new, terrifying thing that I didn't know how to handle. We had just barely made it out alive and there you were, high on life, giggling like it was nothing. Right then, I knew you were it for me."
I smile wide. "That day changed it for me too." I turn myself around so that my head is lying in his lap, our bodies perpendicular. "I had never felt that kind of thrill before. My whole life was planned and set, but you got me out."
"Do you ever think about what could've been?"
"What?"
He scratches his nails lightly up and down my scalp, fingers weaving in and out of my hair. "What you would've been like if you hadn't come to Chapel Hill with me? Hadn't got wrapped up in all of our treasure shit?"
I picture it. A different timeline. No treasure. No shipwrecks or betrayals or gold or ghosts. No baby girl pressing up against my ribs from the inside.
Just me, Sarah Cameron, still perfectly plastic and untouched by all the chaos. Maybe even still with Topper. Still playing house in Figure Eight. Flitting around yachts and galas and rooms full of pricks. Still pretending I liked it.
"I think about it sometimes," I whisper.
John B. stills, just for a breath, but then keeps stroking my hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not like... because I regret this," I add quickly, resting one hand on my belly. "But just to picture it. What life would've been like if I hadn't chosen you. If I'd stayed the girl everyone wanted me to be."
He doesn't say anything right away, and I know it's not because he's mad. It's because he's listening. Feeling it with me.
"I would've had the same friends. The same house. The same last name, for a while, probably." I crack a half-smile, eyes still closed. "But I wouldn't have been free."
His hand moves from my hair to the side of my face, warm and grounding. "You sure? Free doesn't always look like running from murder charges and raising a kid at nineteen."
I open my eyes then, and he's looking down at me like I'm the only thing that exists. That gaze never fails to melt me. "No, but it feels like you. It feels like us, and I wouldn't trade that. Not even for a thousand quiet, safe lives."
A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, slow and soft. "Good. Because I wouldn't want any of this if it wasn't with you."
Just then, he pulls out his pocketknife—the one his dad gave him on his fourteenth birthday. He flips it back and forth between his fingers, gazing into my eyes.
"That's your plan? Get the pregnant lady tired and complacent so you can get rid of her?"
"You guessed it," he quips back with a mischievous smile. "Nah, I just thought, you know, since my name's already in here," he points to the carved John B. in the windowsill, "yours should be too."
Slowly, he twists his body so he has a good angle and etches S + J into the softened wood. There are initials and messages carved all over, but this one is the only one that matters to me.
Well, that's until I have an even better idea. "Give me the knife," I say eagerly.
John B. chuckles like that's the craziest thing he's heard. "Right, because you didn't accidentally stab JJ last time we let you cut something."
"He got in my way!" I defend. "Now, just trust me, okay?"
He's reluctant, but he listens, carefully handing me his knife. I scoot closer to the windowsill and start carving. I'm moving slowly, etching out each letter with precise care, knowing this is the most important decision of my life. Of our lives.
It takes me a few minutes to get it right, but once I'm done, I lean away from it, and it looks perfect. My baby girl's name, carved perfectly into this most special place.
"We chose right, huh?"
"I think so," I hum.
He shifts a little, easing me up with him, so we're both sitting again, facing each other with our legs tangled loosely. The summer air wraps around us like a blanket—sticky, golden, familiar. He leans in, presses his forehead to mine, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
"I miss touching you," he whispers, low and rough like he doesn't mean for it to come out that way.
I shiver even in the heat, giggling because I'm not sure how else to respond. "You're always touching me."
"Not like before."
He's careful as he says it, hands resting lightly at my hips, his thumbs brushing bare skin beneath the hem of my shirt. He doesn't move any further. Just waits.
I tip my head back, looking up at him. "We can still be close," I murmur. "Just a different kind of close."
"Can I kiss you?"
"You can always kiss me."
He kisses me then, slow and deep and patient, like we've got all the time in the world. Like nothing's rushed or expected, just wanted. His hands move up my sides, cradling me, steadying me. One finds the small of my back, the other cups my jaw. I feel the pressure of him against me, but it's gentle. It's almost like we're back to the first time—gently as possible so that nothing will break.
I shift into him, wrapping my arms around his neck, letting my body mold to his as best it can. His lips trace down my jaw, then my collarbone, slow and reverent. He sighs against my skin, like touching me still feels sacred.
He murmurs something into my neck—I think it's I love you, but it's hard to tell with how fast my heart's beating. We don't take it further. We don't need to. The closeness is enough. The warmth. The weight of his hands and the way our breaths sync like waves.
Eventually, we just stay like that, tangled and quiet, until the baby kicks deep and hard and wakes us both back up.
"She's bored," I whisper.
He sighs. "I'm not. I could stay like this forever and never get tired of it."
After a few more seconds, I murmur, "We need to finish the nursery."
"I know. I just keep putting it off because I know it's going to make it feel real."
"It is real. John B., I'm already thirty-three weeks. And you know what Dr. Patel keeps saying—about how I'm at risk for early labor. At this rate, if we don't get this done, she's going to be sleeping in a laundry basket."
    He laughs like he knows he's about to say something that'll aggravate me. "I slept in a drawer for my full first year, and I think—"
    I raise a brow at him.
    "Okay. Fine. We'll do it this week. Invite everyone over and call it a team effort. Deal?"
    "Deal," I echo.
    We lie for a few more minutes before I decide that I actually am getting too hot now and would like to get inside the air-conditioned car.
    We leave the tower slowly, hand in hand, limbs heavy with the tenderness of it all. He helps me down the ladder with more care than he did going up—one hand guiding my foot, the other never letting go.
    Back on solid ground, he grins at me like I just conquered Everest.
    "You wanna go to the shop?" he asks, brushing a thumb under my eye where tears had dried. "Set up a bonfire."
    "Yeah." I nod. "I think I'm up for that. As long as you have something cold for me to drink."
    He winks. "Cleo's got a fresh pitcher of lemonade chilling."
    We start walking back to the van, but my hand finds his again as we go. "Hey," I say quietly.
    "Yeah?"
    "Can you... not mention Rose tonight? Or any of it, really?"
    He looks at me confused, but agrees anyway. "Yeah, yeah. No problem."
    I sigh. "It's just—I haven't told Rafe about Rose yet, and—"
    "You didn't tell him?"
    "Well, I can't tell him yet because it would ruin their honeymoon, but I also really don't want anyone else to tell him. If he hears about it from anyone else but me, he's going to freak out."
    He nods like he understands, but I'm not totally sure that he does.
    "And I could, like, really use just one night where I'm not stressing over... everything."
    He kisses my forehead and starts us back walking to the van. "You deserve it, baby."