what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-eight •

Sarah

    When I wake, the room is dim and heavy with that late-summer heat. For a second I don't know where I am. Then I shift, and the pillow smells like old memories, faintly like John B., and it clicks—I'm still in the spare room at Poguelandia.
    I turn toward the window. The blinds are crooked, and streaks of orange light slash through a few spots that are missing, setting the walls on fire.
    I push myself up slowly, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. Almost eight. Eight at night.
    "Oh my god," I whisper, rubbing my face with both hands. I slept through the whole day. I was supposed to stay awake with them and keep vigil, not just collapse like a dead weight, but after everything—the boardwalk, Rose—I guess my body didn't give me a choice.
    Still, I feel funny. Not sick exactly—just off, like I'm swaying even when I'm standing still.
    I find one of John B.'s old sweatshirts in the dresser and tug it over my head, fabric soft against my skin, and pad barefoot down the hall.
    The murmur of voices drifts from the main room. I step out and find Pope and Cleo at the table with a deck of cards spread between them, though it looks like neither of them is really playing. John B.'s on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fiddling with his phone.
    He looks up the second I appear. His face softens, relief and exhaustion carved into every line. "Hey, babe. You're up."
    I smile faintly, trying to make it normal, like I didn't just sleep a whole day away. "Guess I needed it."
    Cleo tilts her chin at me, a small grin tugging her mouth. "Girl, after last night? No one's judging you."
    I nod, but the weight in the room says otherwise. It's quiet here, and for a moment, I realize I don't think I've ever heard it this quiet at Poguelandia. Even at night when we'd all go to bed, the bugs and critters still sang outside. But tonight, it feels like even nature was hushed by everything that's gone down.
    I cross to the couch and sink down beside John B., sliding close enough that our shoulders touch. He squeezes my knee without looking away from his phone.
    I want to ask about everything but don't know where to start, so I settle on the simplest thing. "Did...anything else happen?"
    The silence stretches a second too long. Pope sets his cards down, eyes meeting mine. "JJ and Kie went home for the night."
    John B. clears his throat. "Luke didn't make it."
    The words thud between us, heavier than they should be.
    I nod slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that.
Relieved? Ashamed? Sad? Luke was a monster, but he was also JJ's dad. And he died right there, not even twenty feet away. My stomach flips, and I press my palm against it.
    No one says anything for a long moment. The only sound is the ceiling fan whirring, stirring hot air that doesn't cool a damn thing.
    Finally, Cleo leans back, arms crossed. "Look, you two should go home. You need rest. Real rest. A shower, your own bed."
    John B. starts to argue—of course he does—but Pope cuts in, voice steady. "She's right. You've been running on fumes for days, man."
    Three pairs of eyes land on me, and I straighten, tugging my sweatshirt sleeves over my hands. I don't want to admit how drained I still feel, how weird my body feels sitting here at all. So I just nod and force a little smile. "Yeah. Home sounds good."
    John B. pushes up from the couch, offering me his hand. I take it, letting him pull me up even though I could've managed fine on my own. I keep my face smooth as we gather our stuff. No point in saying anything about how off I feel. Everyone's got enough to carry already.
    When we step out into the warm night, the cicadas scream from the trees, and the last streaks of orange bleed into the horizon.
    The house is dark when we get in, the kind of quiet that settles too deeply after a long day. I don't even bother with the lights—I just step into the kitchen and turn straight into John B.'s arms.
    He holds me without question, one hand at the back of my head, the other curled low on my back.
    For a moment it's the only thing that feels real—the steady weight of him, his chest rising against mine, the faint thump of his heart under my cheek.
    I don't know how long we stay there. Maybe a minute, maybe more. Just enough for my body to remember it's safe.
    When I finally pull back, I wrinkle my nose. "You smell."
    John B. raises his brows, mock-offended. "Excuse me?"
    "You do." I try to laugh, but it comes out thin. "Three days' worth of sweat. Go take a shower before I die in your arms."
    He shakes his head at me, but he presses a kiss to my hair and goes.
    I'm halfway to the couch when my phone buzzes. Kie.