what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred three •

Sofia

I can't stop thinking about the look on Wheezie's face. The utter shock and disgust and pain is burned into my mind. And it's my fault.
The way the color drained from my body entirely. The way her fingers tightened on her phone until her knuckles turned white. Rose's picture shone on the screen—LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN BOARDWALK SHOOTING—and Wheezie just stared.
She hardly talked to me the next day.
I stood in the doorway, coffee going cold in my hands, watching her curled up in bed, earbuds in, pretending not to see me. Her phone screen glowed dimly under her blanket. I knew she was probably reading comments or old news headlines again, even though I told her to stay off it.
    "Wheezie," I said softly.
    She didn't move at first. Then she pulled out one earbud. Progress. "What?"
    "Can we talk for a second?"
    She let out a long sigh, then sat up, eyes puffy and hair a mess. She looked more like a kid then than a teenager, like all the fight drained out of her overnight.
    "If this is about last night, I already said I was fine."
    I set the mug down on her desk. "You don't have to be fine."
    "I am. I already told Rafe that."
    "Wheezie," I pried.
    She rolled over in bed so her back was facing me. "She wasn't even my real mom anyway."
    These moments are the hardest. I'm not her mom either, or her older sister, or any position with real blood ties, so it is always excruciatingly difficult to navigate personal issues like this.
   
    I waited until the next day to talk again, until I thought she might listen to speak again. "Sarah said we could stop by tomorrow."
    Her body tweaked toward me, if only an inch. "Sure," she murmured. I think she was mad at Sarah too. At least part of her wanted to be.
    "She did," I said softly. "We can't stay for long, but she wants to see you."
    "Okay," she said, and then rolled over again. That was it.

The next morning, one full day since Sarah and John B. have been home with the baby, my body is sunken into the edge of the mattress, and I twist the ring on my finger until it pinches. Rafe's in the connected bathroom, halfway dressed, shirt open, hair still damp from our shower.
"Rafe, I just feel awful," I say quietly.
    He looks up from buttoning his sleeve. "It's not your fault that she saw."
    "You told me to turn it off," I murmur, walking to the bathroom and leaning back against the counter in front of him. "And I forgot. She sat there, and it just—The headline, the picture. I didn't even have a chance to grab the remote before she—" My throat tightens. "I should've stopped it."
    Rafe moves toward me, slow and steady, and sets his hands on my arms. His palms are warm against my skin, slowly tethering me back to sanity.
    "Sof," he whispers. "We can't protect her from everything. You tried. It's not on you."
    I shake my head, staring down at the floor tiles. "But it feels like it is. I should've known it would be on the TV. I should have used an ounce of fucking common sense."
    He lifts my chin gently, thumb brushing my jaw. "You care. That's what matters. She saw something awful, yeah, but you were there. You're still here. That's what she'll remember."
    I blink hard, trying not to cry. "She barely even looked at me after. Wouldn't even eat dinner."
    "She's sixteen," he reminds me. "You remember being sixteen?"
    "Unfortunately."
    A soft smile tugs at his lips. "She's not mad at you, baby. She's mad at the world, and she's hurting."
    I nod, even though it doesn't make me feel any different. "I just hate that she had to find out that way. Even if Rose was awful, she was still her stepmom. You know? She brought her to school and combed her hair. You can't just forget that."
    Rafe leans in closer, tucking my hair behind my ears. "Yeah. I get that."
    "She keeps saying that Rose wasn't her real mom anyway, but I know that's not what she feels. Rose is what she's known her whole life. She's just trying to talk herself out of it."
    "That's what we all do when we don't know how to deal. I spent years trying to convince myself that Sarah was someone she wasn't."
I glance up at him, heart tugging. "And now?"
"Now I just wish I'd learned to forgive her sooner. I wanted to hate her so bad for so long. She didn't deserve any of it."
It's hard to imagine—this boy I love, so cruel, so evil. I didn't know that version of him. The Rafe that people in town still whisper about. I look at his hands now, trying to picture them hurting the people he should've been taking care of. It doesn't scare me as much as others might think it should.
    I knew him at the end of his dangerous streak, I think. I didn't know it then, couldn't quite tell. We'd have sweet weekends at Tanneyhill, spending time with friends, and then disappear for days on end. He never told me where he was, and I never asked. Part of me thinks I could have changed him quicker if I had noticed something was off.
    Sometimes, late at night, he tells me about the person he used to be. About the Rafe who carried so much rage in his chest that it could have burned him alive. And yet here he is now, standing barefoot on cool tile, talking about forgiveness like he actually believes he deserves it.
    For a second, I just study him. My eyes follow the slope of his shoulders, the faint scar near his temple, the way his hands always look ready for something to jump out at him. I've seen pieces of that boy before—flashes of it when he's scared or cornered—but now, standing in front of me with his shirt half-buttoned and his eyes soft, I can't reconcile it.
It's like he's been slowly peeling himself open ever since the day we met, showing me all the bruised and broken parts underneath. And I think that's why it hurts so much when he talks about Sarah. He doesn't just feel guilt; he feels grief. For who he was, for who she was to him. For everything that can't be undone.
    I snake my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. His hand slides up to the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles against my skin.
"I don't think you were evil," I whisper against his skin. "You were hurt, and lost, and angry. It wasn't all your fault."
Rafe gives a tiny shrug, the kind he gives when he doesn't believe me but doesn't have it in him to argue. "Doesn't make it better."
"No," I admit. "But it makes it human."
His heartbeat is steady against my cheek, skin warm and soapy-smelling. I close my eyes against the harsh bathroom light. Just in this moment, everything is alright.
"She's going to be okay," he says after a while, chin resting on my head. "Wheezie. She's strong. They both are."
I nod against him. "I just wish I could fix it. Make it not have happened."
He kisses the top of my head. "I know, baby."
"I hope Sarah knows what to say."
"She usually does." Then, he adds with a laugh, "It's the worst."
I wait a moment, then pull back just enough to see his face. "Is it weird seeing her like this? Sarah?"
Rafe exhales slowly, shoulders dipping as he perches his hip against the vanity. "Yeah," he says. "It's weird."
He looks down at his feet, letting out a breath that's almost a laugh but isn't really. "I mean, I still remember the day she was born. I remember when she was little, she would follow behind me and break anything I made—ruin coloring sheets, smash Lego sets, scramble puzzles. I thought she was so annoying."
"And then she got a little older, and it was even worse. She was bratty. She'd come home drunk at fifteen, crying about her latest boyfriend, and she'd skip family events to go out with her friends. And still, she was always Daddy's little princess. I wasn't much better, but I couldn't seem to get their attention. As long as Sarah was in the running, I couldn't win."
"Sometimes I still half expect that version of her to walk through the doors, dressed like she's going to some guy's yacht party."
"Sounds like Sarah," I laugh.
"I mean, honestly, she was a real bitch. And then all the bad shit went down. Everything was fucked up, and the life drained from her eyes, and it was all because of me."
"Rafe—"
He shakes his head like he can't be swayed. "It was my fault from the beginning. Everything I did—"
I put my hands on his flushed cheeks. "I already told you, Rafe. You weren't evil."
"Yeah, but those things I did? That was evil."
I don't know what he did. I've never asked. But I know one day, when he's ready, he'll tell me.
When I look at him again, I swear there's a tear forming in the corner of his eye.
"But now," he sighs. "She's living in her own house on the marsh with her husband and their baby...and it doesn't even feel real."
I reach for his hand and squeeze.
"She changed," I say softly.
He nods, eyes distant. "Yeah. Guess we both did."
He blinks slowly and rubs the back of his neck, then straightens up, brushing a thumb across my cheek before stepping toward the bedroom doorway.
"I should head out soon," he says quietly. "You and Wheezie are going, right?"
I nod. "Yeah. Sarah texted this morning. Said she's feeling a little better."
Rafe leans down and kisses me once, slow and steady, before murmuring, "You're good for her, Sof. For both of them."
"I'm just trying," I whisper.
He smiles faintly, hands slipping into his pockets as he heads for the door. "That's all anyone can do."