what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-one •

Kiara

    It takes nothing but the sound of gravel crunching outside for me to leap to my feet and run down the rickety shop stairs. By the time I reach the parking lot, John B. is out of the car and helping Sarah steady herself on her feet. I run and practically launch myself at Sarah, smiling bigger than ever.
    "Happy birthday!" I beam at her, wrapping my arms around her neck in an excited, forceful hug.
    "Whoa," she giggles, staggering back. "Careful."
    "Sorry, I'm just too excited. It's my girl's birthday!"
    I ease my grip on her a little, but I don't let go all the way. I can't wipe the grin off my face as my hands slide down her arms and into her delicate, maybe slightly swollen fingers.
    "You look so good," I tell her, stepping back to take her in.
    She really does. Her cheeks are flushed from the ride here—windswept from open windows and middle-of-June heat. Her hair is pulled back in the same messy braid she always half-commits to. It's something simple and unimpressive, but somehow she looks prettiest like this—like she didn't have to try to look as good as she does.
    She's wearing an oversized linen button-up that I bought for her a year ago. She didn't want me to buy it in the first place—swore up and down that I was in no place to spend my money on her—but I did anyway. When I bought it, she said she'd only ever wear it as a bathing suit cover-up. That was a lie. She's worn it at least twelve times since, especially now that she's pregnant.
    She tugs the shirt over her belly, the hem almost covering her rolled-down linen shorts, and rolls her eyes like she already knows what I'm thinking. "Gotta show out," she huffs. "Last day before I'm locked up forever."
    John B.'s hand finds her back like it always seems to do. "It's not forever, Sar."
    "It's, like, basically forever. For what it's worth."
    I choose not to take sides so a fight doesn't ensue. Instead, I say, "However long it ends up being, I will take off work every day if it means keeping you company. I promise."
    John B. cups his hand around his mouth like he's going to tell me a secret, but it's the loudest whisper I've ever heard. "Be careful. She's bossy."
    Sarah swats him in the back of his head, then waddles ahead of us like she leads the pack. We giggle the whole way back inside.
    Back in the shop, JJ's shirtless, humming some worn-down tune, waxing boards. He looks hot. As hell. The way the sweat is glistening against his cheekbones and the sunlight shines perfectly on his abs. I know we said we're waiting to have kids, but if he looks at me the right way right now, I'd give him five right now.
    Sarah plops herself down on the sofa before anything else, but she pauses a little when she sees JJ.
    "Why so many boards, Maybank? Forget how to count?" she teases.
    "Insurance," he shrugs without missing a beat. "Never know when Kie might crash and snap a board."
    I blink at him, deadpan. "That would literally never happen."
    Sarah laughs, but only once. "Okay, but, really. We don't need that many boards."
    John B. grins, massaging her shoulders slightly. "Better safe than sorry," he says.
    Sarah's eyes dart around the room, but before she can piece anything together, the back door swings open.
    "Birthday girl in the flesh," Cleo announces as she enters the room, and it makes Sarah laugh in that easy, unfiltered way I wish she'd laugh all the time. Cleo has a towel hanging over her shoulder and a bathing suit dangling from her fingers. She tosses the bathing suit into Sarah's lap. "Chop chop, pretty girl. Time to change."
    Sarah frowns, glancing at the suit like it's radioactive. "Change into what?"
    "That," Cleo points. "It's cute. And I checked the size."
    "Okay, what's going on?" Sarah asks, finally. "I thought we were just hanging out."
    Pope comes in carrying an ice chest. "We are hanging out. Just... not here."
    "What—" I think this is when it clicks for her. "Oh no. No, no, no, no."
    JJ whistles low under his breath and pats John B. on the back. "Good luck, brother."
    John B. winces.
    "John Booker Routledge, I swear—"
    He's already trying to explain. "You said you needed one more day. So... ta-da! This is your one day!"
    "Right..." she drawls. Her mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, then shuts again like she has three different arguments and isn't sure which one to shoot first. "I kind of pictured my day having air conditioning."
    "Think about it," I start. "Think about how nice the water will feel. You'll forget all about gravity."
    "Until it's time to get out of the water."
    JJ kneels dramatically at her feet. "Then we'll carry you, Princess."
    She rolls her eyes, but her smile comes right in tow with it. She pushes his head away. "Go bother your wife, Maybank."
    John B. walks over to her and kisses her right smack on the lips, dramatic and flourished. "Go get changed, baby. I'm gonna help Pope finish packing up the car."
    "Won't get away that easily," Sarah yells after him, but it doesn't look like she actually cares.
    Soon, Cleo has Sarah by the hands and is tugging her off the sofa like she weighs nothing. "Come on, you. Let's get a move on."
    "I'm moving," Sarah groans, clearly exaggerating her effort as she lets herself get pulled to her feet.
    "You're waddling," JJ mumbles just loud enough to hear. Sarah flips him off over her shoulder without even turning around, and he sticks his tongue out at her in response.
    Cleo marches her toward the bathroom, then looks back at me with her eyebrows raised, waiting expectantly. "You're coming too," she demands like it's obvious. I fake a sigh but follow anyway. Cleo pushes Sarah and me into the bathroom, then steps out and shuts the door.
    The bathroom is cramped and humid, and it smells faintly of coconut from JJ's board wax and also something like seaweed. Sarah leans in against the sink, eyeing the bikini dreadfully. I just rest against the door, waiting for her to move first, wanting her to feel comfortable today.
    "You guys are crazy," she exhales.
    "The suit is cute," I say honestly. "I'll help you get it on. And, you don't even have to surf if you don't feel up for it. We just wanted to do something fun for you."
    She shakes her head. "You don't have to help."
    "Maybe not, but I am anyway. I'm your servant."
    "I already have a servant," she chuckles. "He's loading the car."
    "Well, lucky you," I tease with a dramatic curtsey. "You have two now."
    I slide the bathing suit from the countertop and hold it against her body, leaning back some and contorting my face like a seasoned art critic. "This color looks good on you," I compliment.
    She snatches the pieces from my hands with an eye roll but doesn't argue. That's how I know she likes it. Together, we ease the suit on. I stop periodically to let her catch her breath, but she swears she doesn't need it.
    "Excited?" I ask, sliding the straps over her shoulders.
    "Excited? Questionable. But definitely surprised, and maybe a little nervous."
    I crouch a little to tug the bottoms over her hips, being careful of how she shifts her weight. Her belly is round and tight, bigger than last time I saw it, but also a little lower than before. I wonder if that's from the baby being head down. She keeps one hand resting over it like she always does now, like it's second nature—her own little instinct to protect what's hers.
    "You're allowed to be nervous," I say. "But you look incredible."
    Sarah doesn't respond at first. She's facing the mirror now, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, studying herself the way she always does when she's trying to decide what she actually feels.
    "Here," I say, handing her the linen shirt. "You can put this on top until we get there. Wear it as a cover-up like you always said you would."
    She gets it on herself, and I leave her alone in the small room for a second so she can pee before we leave. When she gets out, Cleo is standing behind the shop counter with a sheepish grin. Sarah reads into it immediately.
    "What's that face for?"
    Cleo can't help it. From behind her back, she pulls a small box wrapped in an old, crinkled map and tied together with fraying twine. "There's more for later, but I just couldn't wait for this one. I've had it sitting in the safe for weeks, and today was too perfect not to wrap it up."
    "You didn't have to get me anything," Sarah gasps, hands already reaching for the box despite her words.
    "It's your birthday," I coo. "Of course, we had to get you something."
    Sarah unwraps it slowly, untaping corners and peeling back layers of paper until she reaches the base—a box. Inside is a necklace—dainty and gold and warm. There's a small compass pendant dangling from the chain, and next to that is a tiny S, engraved. It doesn't look shiny and new like other jewelry I've seen. It glows with the unmistakable polish of real gold.
    Sarah lifts it by the chain. "Whoa."
    "It's made from the gold we found," Cleo says before she can ask. "El Dorado. We had a tiny piece left that we didn't want to give to the trader. Pope knew a guy, of course."
    "So, you used the safekeeping for me?"
    "You deserve it."
    The blonde's eyes widen. "Cleo..."
    "There's more," Cleo adds, pulling out a small velvet pouch from the bag on her shoulder. "I wanted this to be your day, where you got gifts that were truly for you, since I know everything feels baby-related these days."
    Sarah opens the pouch and pulls out a matching charm bracelet—complete with the same tiny compass and a space for the baby's initial. It looks like a doll accessory in the palm of Sarah's hand, and we all go quiet for a moment as if that will help us see it better.
    "For the baby," Cleo says. "This way, the necklace is something special for you. Something you can remember our hard work by, and something that's for Sarah, not just for Mom. But, you also have something that can be a special "you and her" thing."
    Sarah swallows hard. Her eyes are shimmering now. She holds both the necklace and the bracelet in her hands and doesn't speak for a moment.
    "I can't believe you did this."
    "I can," I say, smiling. "You deserve it. And she will, too."
    "It's perfect," Sarah whispers, voice thick. "Like... exactly perfect."
    Cleo shrugs, but she's glowing too. "You're welcome."
    Sarah turns around, and I help her clasp the necklace. The charm rests just above her collarbone, catching the light like it was made to be there. It was, I guess.
    John B. walks inside to see this, and although he seems confused at first, he's quick at reading the situation. "First gift for the birthday girl?"
    Sarah wipes her eyes with a giggle. "Mhm. John B., look!"
    She shows off the necklace and bracelet with an appreciative frown, and John B. does his best as a guy to show his appreciation.
    "They're beautiful, baby. Thank you, Cleo." He wraps the girl in a hug, thanking her. We all thank her, really, because this is what needed to happen. For now, our lives are about making Sarah feel loved and safe and seen. And it's not exhausting or aggravating—it's natural. She is the easiest person to celebrate.
    After some tears and a few more jokes, JJ is back inside, practically begging us to wrap up and get in the car. "If we don't leave right now, the tide's gonna change and the whole day's gonna be a bust."
    "Someone's dramatic," I mutter under my breath, grabbing Sarah and I's beach bag and motioning for her to follow me.
    "Do I need shoes?" she asks.
    "Nope. Barefoot only," JJ calls through the door.
    Sarah kicks off her sandals, which hardly fit anymore anyway. She walks carefully down the stairs and across the hot pavement, one hand on her back and the other still holding the velvet bag. It's warm now—so warm now that it feels like the heat is seeping into your lungs when you breathe—but I can feel that the ocean breeze isn't too far away.
    Outside, the guys are loading up the last of the gear. The boards are strapped down tight to the roof, and there are towels and snacks and supplies tucked into every crevice of the van.
    I squeeze into the back next to Sarah. John B. is on the other side of her, pointing a fan up at her face so she stays cool. There's a rolled-up towel behind her lower back for support, too.
    "You ready?" John B. asks once we're all settled in and giddy.
    Sarah exhales slowly, tilting her head back against the seat. "Yeah. I think I am."
    The drive to the beach is familiar and loud. JJ has his music blaring, drumming and offensive and wracking. He likes it, though, so we tolerate it.
    Pope yells at one point about forgetting sunscreen, but I quickly reassure him that I packed at least three bottles. I knew Sarah would freak out if we didn't have any.
    Sarah stays quiet for a while, fingers resting on her belly, woven between the buttons on her shirt, head leaning against John B.'s shoulder. At one point, he kisses the back of her other hand, and she can't help but look up and smile at him. It's a tiny moment just between them, but I manage to catch it before it slips away.
    We pull up to the stretch of beach we love the most—just past the dunes, where the sand is the softest and the surf is good, and hardly anyone else ever comes. It's not a secret spot or anything, but it feels like it on days like these. Something special that's just for us.
    JJ and Pope are the first to hop out and start unloading. Cleo grabs the towels, and I grab the umbrella. Sarah climbs out last, her braid messy again and her linen shirt already sticking to her back. Still, she doesn't complain. She just lifts the hem a little and starts the slow walk toward the dunes.
     The sun is hot but not unbearable, softened by the breeze rolling in off the water. Cleo massages sunscreen into Sarah's back while I handle her legs. She made it very clear not to slather too much on, claiming that she had to be as tan as possible before she was stuck inside for the majority of the coming weeks.
    "I need to burn," she explains. "I can't be bedridden and pale."
    "Oh, no. That would just be tragic," I agree jokingly, adopting a valley-girl accent.
    "I brought the tanning oil you like, too," Cleo says, wiggling a small bottle between her fingers. "That local kind we sell at the shop."
    "I'm gonna kill you," Sarah mutters, angry because we all three know the doctor isn't allowing her to use any tanning oils while pregnant. Still, she's laughing as she says it, lifting her arms so we can make sure her shoulders don't absolutely fry.
    "Please don't," Cleo answers. "Not on your birthday. I have plans."
    Once we're all stripped down to our bathing suits and lathered up, JJ jogs by, board under his arm, and calls out with a big grin, "Tide's perfect today. Clean and easy rolls. You picked a good day to be born, Baby Mama."
    "She didn't pick it," Pope argues as he follows behind him. "That's not how birth works."
    "Let me be poetic, man."
    Sarah chuckles for a second but soon pauses, watching the boys now, watching the waves, watching John B. paddle out without a second thought. She lingers at the shore, feet sinking into the sand, hair blowing in the breeze. Her fingers twitch at her sides like she's not quite sure what to do with them. I recognize that look. It's not nerves exactly—it's more like dissonance. She's caught in the space between who she was and who she's becoming.
    Sarah was never one for surfing, and I mean never. She was a kook. Kooks didn't surf. Well, the guys did, but the girls were only cut out to sit on shore, tan, and watch the hot guys hit the waves. She loved watching Topper. God, I remember being sixteen and hearing her talk about his "surfer shoulders" like it was the eighth wonder of the world. And it was hot. Surfer shoulders are still hot, but that was always the draw: them, not the water.
    Sarah, back then, was all curated effort—and I can say that because, for a little while, I was too. She'd spend forever getting ready for the beach just to sit on the towel and read a book or sip something with a lemon in it. She liked bikinis that didn't get wet and sunglasses that cost too much. She wore skirts and Tory Burch sandals and curled her hair every Sunday night so it'd be perfect for school the next morning. She had fun, but it was a different kind of fun.
    Surfing was messy. Uncontrollable. Pogue stuff.
    And yeah, she's changed—a lot—but you don't shake off every part of being a kook. Some things are stitched in. This is new territory for her. It's not like she hasn't been given the chance. We go surfing often, but we never pressure her to join us. Typically, she just watches from her towel, cheering us on or taking a beach nap or making herself busy with some new craft.
    I don't know if it was jitters or if she was just content in not partaking, but she never once asked to learn. But today, on her twentieth birthday and thirty-fifth week of pregnancy, we talk her into trying. There's no pressure, just encouragement—cheering, coaxing, nudging. She makes faces the whole time, groaning dramatically, but she's smiling. And when she finally steps into the water—tentatively, breath catching—Pope reaches for her elbow instinctively. JJ offers a steadying hand with a crooked grin, and John B. is right there at her side, his hand finding the small of her back or edge of her hip or, honestly, any part it can reach.
    It's like watching a baby deer try to stand for the first time. All limbs and hesitation and little frustrated grunts. She wobbles just getting the board situated. She falls once. Then twice. Each time we collectively flinch, ready to shout and run and pull her out, but all she does is laugh. Laugh hard. She spits out salt water and flops back on the board like she meant to do it, and after a few more times, she gets on stably. She's sitting on the board—which is more foamy and spacious than a typical board—legs spread and dangling on either side of it.
    "I'm basically a pro now," she says, hair plastered to her cheeks, bump rising like a little island on the board.
    Then they move out of the shallow patch, a tiny bit farther into the water, and start working on catching a wave, even if it's the smallest of rolls. They don't go far—just to where the water brushes the waist and the waves crest gently, curling like sleepy animals rolling over. John B. is behind her, guiding the board slowly, hands cradling the tail of the board like a parent watching out for their child.
    She looks nervous. Her fingers grip the board tightly, knuckles pale. It's different now that they're farther from shore. She's not just sitting on a floating foam board anymore. She's really out here.
    John B. treads water beside her, moving one hand so it rests lightly on her thigh. "You good?" he asks.
    She nods, biting her lip. "Yeah. Just... don't let go, okay?"
    He chuckles, low and warm, kissing her knee a few times in a row. "Wasn't planning on it."
    They wait for a wave—a small one. Pope scans the water like a lifeguard. Cleo stands back, keeping eyes on everyone like a hawk. I'm filming on her phone, lifting the camera when I know she isn't looking. She'd kill me for videoing this, but I know she'll want these memories further down the line. JJ comes out of the water and leans his chin on my shoulder, whispering, "God, she freaks me out." He's right.
    When a little swell begins to roll in, Pope points. "That's your one. Just lie down and let it take you."
    Sarah blinks. "Lie down?" She looks down at her stomach, like, really? and then back up at them with a face that says, Are you out of your mind?
    "I can't lie down. Physically impossible," she deadpans.
    "Oh—right, duh," Pope says, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, don't do that."
    John B. runs a hand down her back. "Okay, okay. Just kneel, babe. That'll work just fine."
    "Kneel?" she echoes skeptically, but she shifts anyway, getting into a lopsided kneel on the board with a little effort. It takes a second—some grunts, some scooting, some "wait, no, that leg first"—but she gets there, kneeling upright, legs wide for balance, her bump sitting front and center like a royal decree.
    She's wobbly, arms out a little like wings. "If I fall, I'm blaming all of you."
    John B. steadies the back of the board again, murmuring, "You've got this. Just let it take you."
    The little wave lifts behind her, rolling in soft and harmless. John B. gives the board the smallest nudge and she glides forward—kneeling, hunched a little, bracing herself. She lets out a half-squeal, half-laugh that bursts into a full, joyous sound as the wave carries her a few feet before fading under her.
    The sound is music to my ears, and I'm sure I speak for the rest of us when I say that. With everything that's happening right now, the one thing we could wish for is for her to remain happy.
    "Oh my god!" she gasps, hands gripping the sides of the board. "Did you see that?"
    "We saw!" I yell.
    "That's our girl!" Cleo shouts.
    JJ and Pope whoop like they just watched her win a medal.
    John B. swims up beside her, eyes shining. "You okay?"
    "I'm amazing," she says, breathless and stunned. Then she adds, "I think I can stand."
    We all freeze.
    "Whoa," Pope says slowly, a warning already thick in his voice. "Uh... Dr. Patel would definitely not be cool with that."
    John B.'s hand is already moving protectively toward her hip, ready to stop her from doing anything reckless. JJ mutters a quiet, "Oh hell no," but even he's half smiling. It's so Sarah—just when we think she's tapped out, she throws something unexpected at us.
    "Come on," she whines dramatically, already adjusting her knees. "Just once, I swear. Please? She won't know. And after this, I'm stuck in bed until the baby's born. You're all gonna feel like monsters for denying me one last thrill."
    She gives us that look—the one that could sell sand to a beach. Her eyes are wide and pleading, but there's steel underneath. Determined. Stubborn. Classic Sarah Cameron. Growing up, no one ever told her no, so now, no one can. It's an impossible task.
    John B. sighs, rubbing his forehead. "One time. One."
    "And if you fall—"
    "I won't fall."
    Pope scoffs. "You're literally standing on a moving piece of foam in the ocean, Sarah."
    "Which makes it more impressive if I don't."
    We give her space. Pope stays in the water just in case, hands hovering, ready. John B. is behind her, steady as always. She kneels first, adjusting her weight carefully, testing the give of the board, the shape of the water. Her breathing slows. She's focused.
    Cleo comes up beside me. "We're letting her do this?"
    I shrug. "She wouldn't listen if we tried to stop her."
    Feeling left out and wanting first-row seats to the show, Cleo and I grab a board to share, wading out into the water. We stay seated on the board together, sand washing from our toes and anklets reflecting in the sun.
    John B. steadies Sarah's hips from behind. His hands are strong and grounding, the only reason she doesn't tip as she shifts one foot under her. Then the other. Her hands go out to her sides for balance. She's crouched, a little shaky, but she's doing it. She's standing.
    I feel my heart leap into my throat.
    "Oh my God," I whisper.
    "She's up," Pope says, voice full of disbelief.
    JJ lets out a whoop, loud and sharp. "No way. No freaking way!"
    Sarah doesn't say anything. She's too focused. Her breathing is slow. Her brows are furrowed like she's concentrating on a tightrope. The water rises gently beneath her, then dips, and just like that, the smallest swell lifts the board. It's not big, but it's enough. It glides her.
    And she goes with it.
    She rides that little ripple, legs wobbling, hands still out, John B. hovering behind her but not touching now. Her feet are planted. Her bump sways with the movement.
    Sarah Cameron, the girl who once cried because Topper got salt water in her hair, the girl who ditched our beach day because her Daddy was taking her shopping, is surfing. Sure, it's careful and easy and slow, but it's surfing nonetheless. And she's doing it.
    When the wave flattens out, John B. catches the board to slow it, gently helping her ease back to her knees. She's breathless, windblown, her face alight with disbelief.
    "Did I do it?" she asks.
    "You did it," I say, louder than I mean to, grinning so wide my face hurts. "You fucking did it."
    Sarah laughs—loud and full and salty. Her necklace glints in the sun and her arms fall into the water, completely spent.
    I feel something twist in my chest. This isn't just some dare or a stunt. This is her last moment before weeks of stillness. Her last breath of motion, of freedom, of flying before the weight of everything catches up to her.