what now? | outerbanks

• eighty-three •

Sarah

I wake up with a jolt—not one of pain or sickness, but one of fear. My hands roam the spot Wheezie was sleeping in last night, and it's empty. I sit up immediately, pain flaring in my back and wounded thigh.
    My breath catches. The adrenaline floods before I can reason through it. Not again. My eyes dart around the room—pillows rumpled, the blanket she dragged over herself crumpled at the edge of the mattress, but she's gone.
    "Wheezie?" I croak. My voice is thick with sleep and panic. Nothing.
    I stand too fast. My vision swims, and the baby shifts low in my belly in protest. I press a hand to my side, steadying myself, and limp toward the door. My thigh's still sore from being slammed into the corner of that god-awful keg last night when we were getting her out. The memory flashes fast and sick—her slumped against the wall, pupils blown, breath slow and wrong. Kie yelling. Pope driving like a madman.
    I crack open the door and shuffle toward the stairs, calling out again. "Wheeze?"
    And then—voices. Below me. Not yelling, but talking.
    I make my way slowly down the stairs, gripping the railing tight until I hear her voice. Soft. Groggy. Wheezie.
    I round the corner and stop dead in the doorway. She's sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of John B.'s crewneck sweatshirts, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her hair's tangled and sticking out in a dozen directions. Her face is pale, but her hands aren't shaking. That's something.
    John B. is across from her, crouched low, elbows on his knees. He's not saying much, just listening. His brows are furrowed, and his whole body is still. It's a quiet kind of attention I've only ever seen him give to me, and only when the world is ending.
John B. sees me before I speak. His head lifts like he already knew I was coming—like he could feel the shift in the room, or maybe in me. He sets his mug down and walks toward me without a word, brushing my hair behind my ear as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Hi, baby," he whispers, pulling my body into his.
"Hi," I mumble into his chest.
"You okay?" he asks. His voice is still soft, but the question is heavy and tough and drowning.
"Yeah," I say with a nod. "I mean... no, but I've been worse."
"She came downstairs pretty early," he murmurs. "I didn't want to wake you up. Neither did she. I made her some tea and a slice of toast, but she won't eat anything."
"Thank you," I whisper, reaching up to press my palm to his jaw. "For helping."
His eyes search mine. "You really scared me last night."
"Me too."
I glance over his shoulder at Wheezie, who's curled up tighter in the chair now, her eyes locked on the steam rising from the untouched tea. She's not shaking anymore, but the stillness is its own kind of worry. Like she's holding her breath and doesn't know when it's okay to exhale.
    "I need to talk to her," I say.
    John B. nods. "I'll clean up. I'll be right here."
    I press a kiss to the side of his face—quick, but full of something I can't quite put into words yet—and slide into the chair next to Wheezie. She won't look at me. Her arms are still wrapped tight around her knees, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.
    "Wheeze," I say gently.
    Nothing.
    I try again. "Wheezie, please."
    Her eyes finally flicker up to meet mine. They're red-rimmed and glassy, but she's trying to hold herself together.
"I'm not mad," I say first, because I know that's what she's waiting for. "But I'm not going to lie either. You scared the shit out of me."
She nods slowly. "I know." Her voice is hollow—rough like it's been scraping around in her chest all night. She doesn't say anything else right away, but her body curls in tighter, like if she could fold herself small enough, she might disappear into the fabric of the chair.
    I reach out and gently wrap my fingers around her wrist, grounding her. "Do you remember anything else?"
She shakes her head at first, but it's slow and unsure. "I don't know," she whispers. "I just—I don't know."
    "That's okay," I say.
    Her lips part, trembling just a little. "I didn't think I was that drunk. It wasn't like—I wasn't trying to be reckless or—"
    "You don't have to explain," I cut in gently. "Nothing you did means you deserved what happened."
    Wheezie looks down, her fingers tightening on the cuff of the sweatshirt. "I feel like nothing even really happened." Her voice drops. "Like we're making this big deal over something small."
I inhale slowly, careful not to let the frustration show on my face. I'm not frustrated at her. Not even close. I'm frustrated at the world for teaching girls like us to believe that our pain has to meet some threshold to matter. That violation only counts if it checks every box. That anything less than catastrophic is just an overreaction.
"No," I say firmly, but my voice is still soft. "It wasn't small."
She flinches like I hit her, and I rush to explain. "Wheeze, you don't need bruises on your face or broken bones or a police report for what happened to be real. He drugged you. He ripped your shirt. He looked at you like you weren't human. That's not nothing."
Her breath stutters. "But he didn't—"
"I know. I know he didn't finish what he was doing, but that doesn't mean he didn't start," I say, and my chest tightens with the weight of saying it out loud. "And that start? That's enough to be big."
She blinks, and one tear slips down her cheek. "I don't want it to be real."
"I know," I whisper. "I wish it wasn't. I would give anything to take it away."
Silence wraps around us like fog. Like the slimiest, sun-blocking fog I've known. Her eyes flick back to the tea in front of her. It's cold now, but she reaches for the mug anyway, just to hold it.
"I keep thinking maybe I made it up," she says. "Maybe I got confused or had a nightmare. I do have those sometimes."
"No, baby," I say, and I scoot my chair closer, slow and careful. "You didn't make it up. You told me what you remembered, and I believe you. I saw you. I saw what you looked like when we found you. You didn't imagine that."
She nods, barely.
"And even if your brain did get scrambled a little," I add, "that's what trauma does. It doesn't always let things line up clean. That doesn't mean it didn't happen. It means your brain was trying to protect you the best way it knew how."
She sets the mug down. "I want to forget all of it."
I nod slowly, watching her fingers twitch against the side of the mug. "I know. There are some things I wish I could forget too," I say, my voice gentle but firm. "But it's the remembering that makes sure we don't repeat the same mistakes."
    Wheezie nods again, barely. I can tell she's still lost in it, her fingers now nervously picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.
    "We gave you rules for a reason," I say gently. "Not to control you. Not to ruin your fun."
    She doesn't say anything.
    "They're there to keep you safe. Because people like him exist. Because I've been through things, Wheeze. We both have." My voice cracks a little, but I push through.
    John B. comes over then, quiet but certain, resting a hand on the back of my chair. "You're not in trouble," he tells her, voice low and even. "But we made those rules because we care and because this world doesn't always give second chances."
    Wheezie's lip wobbles, and she nods, eyes shining again.
    "You're a good kid," John B. says. "And you did everything right last night. But next time, you need to be more careful. We can't do this again."
    "We're not mad," I repeat, softer now. "We just want you to be okay." There's a long pause, and then I shift the mood. "You think maybe you can try and eat something now?"
    She shrugs. "Maybe."
    "That's good enough." I glance at John B. "Can you toast another bagel, babe? Maybe cut up a banana?"
    He nods, already moving.
    I help her straighten up in the chair while John B. preps breakfast. It's a quiet choreography—the kind only people who've lived together for a long time develop. He puts the plate in front of her and pours a fresh glass of orange juice.
    Wheezie stares at the food for a second like maybe it's drugged too, but then she takes a slow bite. Then another. Her jaw moves cautiously, but she doesn't gag. It's small, but it feels like a victory.
    She gets down half the bagel and a few banana slices before pushing the plate away. "Sorry."
    "Don't be," I say, and I mean it. "That's plenty."
    "I think I want to go lay down again," she mumbles.
    My first instinct is to say yes, to tuck her into bed and let her disappear for a while, but I know better. I know that if she spends too much time curled in bed, she'll start thinking she can hide from the world forever.
    "How about the pool instead?" I offer. "We don't have to swim. Just sit out there and feel the sun on our faces. It might help."
    She hesitates.
    "I'll be out there with you," I add. "And we don't have to talk about anything if you don't want to."
    Eventually, she nods. Ten minutes later, we're both in lounge chairs by the pool. Wheezie is wrapped in a big towel even though it's pretty hot out, and her hair is still a wild mess, but she's calmer now. Her face tilts toward the sun, and her eyes are closed.
    I lower myself slowly into the other chair, wincing as my back protests. The baby shifts again—her favorite move lately is a jab under my ribs—and I groan.
    "You okay?" Wheezie asks without opening her eyes.
    "Yeah," I say, breathily, rubbing the spot she just kicked. "Just...my body isn't my own anymore."
    Wheezie's silent for a while, but then she speaks, voice soft. "Are you, like, ready for her? The baby, I mean."
    I blink slowly, the question settling over me like an unexpected wind. I glance down at my belly, hand resting protectively across the curve. Her tiny foot presses up again, and I can't help but laugh—she's already nosey, prying to be part of the conversation.
"Some days," I admit. "Some days I feel like I've already met her somehow, like she already knows me, and I know her. That makes it a lot easier to breathe."
Wheezie cracks one eye open and turns her head toward me.
"But then other days..." I trail off, letting the breeze fill in the pause. "Other days I wake up and I wonder how I'm supposed to be someone's mother when I still feel like I'm figuring everything out. Every day I wake up expecting to feel older and wiser, but I just feel like someone's daughter that was never given the motherhood rule book."
She hums softly, not judging, just listening.
"And I think about all the things that could happen to her," I continue, softer now, "and I already feel sick over the idea of her ever being hurt or scared or powerless. And after what happened to you, I realized I can't avoid those things even if I try."
Wheezie swallows hard, and I can see the way those words hit her in the chest.
"I think that's what being a mom is," I add gently. "It's not knowing everything. It's being scared sometimes but still choosing to show up every day. Still choosing to be her safety."
Silence again, but it's warmer this time. Wheezie lifts her legs and hugs her knees to her chest. She looks so small again, like the little sister I used to chase through the backyard with a hose. "I wonder what I'd be like if I had Mom instead of Rose."
The mention of Rose spikes my heart, and for a second, I consider telling her what I know I need to. But something inside of me screams—it's not time yet.
I clear my thoughts and shrug. "I think you'd still be you."
"Really?"
"Let's be honest, Wheezie. You hardly listened to Rose. I don't think she influenced you much."
"John B. seems ready," she says after a beat.
I laugh softly. "He's definitely more ready than I thought he'd be."
"Why?" she asks, genuinely curious.
"Because I didn't expect him to love all the little things so much. The way he folds the tiny onesies. The way he talks to her when he thinks I'm asleep." My voice thickens with something I can't quite name. "He loves her already. He loves her like it's the most natural thing in the world, and that really helps me."
Wheezie leans her head against the back of the chair. "I think you're going to be really good at it."
"Thanks," I say, voice almost breaking. "I'm gonna try really hard."
We sit like that for a while, side by side, her towel slipping slightly off her shoulder, my belly rising and falling with every deep breath. It's quiet, but it's safe. There are no questions at this moment. No pretending, no pushing. Just two sisters and the sunlight and the sound of water lapping gently against the pool edge.
Eventually, Wheezie whispers, "Can we stay out here a little longer?"
I nod, rubbing slow circles over my belly. "Yeah, baby. As long as you want."