what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred five •

John B.

    The cries startle me every time. My body expects them to come, waiting for the first crack of a wail, like I can sense them before she even opens her mouth. Still, I'm never quite ready when they do.
    I don't know how early or how late it is when Willa wakes up next, but Sarah is already shifting up by the time my eyes force open.
    "I'm gonna try to get her," she mumbles, voice hoarse.
    The past two nights since we've been home, I've put myself in charge of getting the baby. Of course, Sarah wakes up every time, sleepily feeding or soothing Willa back to sleep, but I haven't let her get up without me. She's not healed yet, as much as she would like to be.
    "No, baby, I got her. Stay in bed."
    She shakes her head, switching on the lamp. "I can do it. I should—"
    "Sarah," I press. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."
    "I'm okay."
    She pushes the blanket back, slow but determined, like I haven't said a word. Then she swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands, if you can even call it standing. The moment her feet hit the floor, I see the pain claw through her. She folds forward, a small, strangled sound slipping out before she catches herself against the mattress. My heart jumps straight to my throat.
    "Hey. Hey, no," I say, halfway out of bed before I realize it. I catch her under the arms, easing her back down. "Stop. Stop, babe. You can't—"
    "I'm fine," she lies, voice breathy and thin.
    "Love." I look her right in the eyes until she meets mine. "You're not fine."
    Her voice cracks. "She needs me."
    "And I will bring her to you," I assure her. "But you can't help her if you hurt yourself again."
    Her shoulders sink, stubborn determination melting into exhaustion. Her eyes fill with tears.
    "I hate that I can't do more," she whispers. We both know that if she speaks any louder she's sure to cry.
    I cradle her head to my chest, swaying back and forth at the rhythm I've learned Willa likes best. "You are doing everything, Sarah. And you just went through some major procedures. You aren't going to be one hundred percent, and that's okay."
    She finally nods and wipes her eyes on her pajama sleeve. I ease her back into the pillows and pull the blanket up over her waist. She starts to undo her top. She knows what's coming.
    Willa's cry sharpens by the time I reach into the bassinet. I scoop her up carefully, supporting her head the way the nurses drilled into me a dozen times before we left the hospital. Her whole body fits into the curve of my arm. It's almost too perfect. Too glorious. We were always meant to end up here.
    "Hey, bug," I whisper, rocking her against my chest. "I know, I know. It's okay, baby girl."
    I can feel Sarah watching from the bed. "You're hungry, huh? Bring her over here, babe."
    I do as she says, careful as I cross the room, like one wrong step might shatter the force field we've built around ourselves. I hand Willa over, tucking a pillow under Sarah's arm to help her feed, and then I sit close enough that my knee touches her leg through the blanket.
    Sarah breathes the second Willa is against her. Willa sighs too. It amazes me every time, the circumstance of it all. How, in this crazy world, with all its crazy people, Sarah and I managed to find each other and create something so perfect.
    Willa latches, something soft and lazy, but any latch is a good one, as one of our nurses said. "There you go, baby," Sarah coos, patting her back. "You're doing so well."
    I just sit there and watch them, because what else can I do? She says it to the baby, but all I can think is, "No, you're the one doing so well."
    This girl—I've seen her through every version of herself. I've seen her wild and messy, laughing too hard at things that didn't matter, crying over things that did. I've seen her run, and I've seen her stay. We've fought. We've broken. We've tried to put the pieces back together again.
    And now, she's sitting here with our daughter in her arms, the same girl who once told me she didn't know if she could do this. I remember her shaking me awake one night, crying because she thought she'd never be enough.
    But she's more than enough for me. She's enough and she's doing this and I've never felt more in love.
    Both Sarah and Willa fall asleep in less than ten minutes. Sarah is slumped against the headboard, one hand still on Willa's back, patting on demand. Willa's mouth is squished open against Sarah's bare chest, milk tracing along the corners of her lips. I pull the covers up enough to cover Sarah up, then take a picture. This is something I want to remember forever.
    I get Willa back in her crib, trying not to wake Sarah up, but she does anyway.
    "Did she eat enough?" she asks, eyes still closed.
    "Mhm," I say. "Fast asleep."
    "I should pump," she whispers, hand searching the nightstand for the machine.
"Babe, you can take a break," I tell her. "You don't have to do it every time."
She shakes her head, already hooking the flanges in place. "If I skip too much, my supply will drop."
"You're allowed to rest," I remind her gently.
"I know," she murmurs, but her voice trails off like she doesn't really believe it.
I sit there beside her while she finishes, the low hum of the pump filling the room. It's strange how quickly these new sounds have become normal—the tiny clicks, the sighs, the shuffle of her hands on plastic tubing. When she's done, I clean things up quietly while she leans her head back and closes her eyes.
We try to go back to sleep, but neither of us can. The sky outside the window is starting to lighten, streaks of gray-blue creeping across the marsh. Willa stirs once, lets out a soft grunt, and settles again.
Sarah looks over at me. "I want to go downstairs."
I glance at the clock. It's barely six. "You sure?"
"I can't stay in bed forever," she says, quiet but firm. "I feel useless up here."
I don't argue this time. I've learned there's no point. I just nod and get up with her.
Helping her out of bed takes longer than it should. She moves carefully, hands braced against my shoulders. Every shift of her weight makes her wince. "Take it slow," I whisper, even though she already is.
    "I am."
    Once she's standing, I guide her toward the bathroom. "Go pee," I tell her softly. She gives me this half-smile, half-glare that's still pure Sarah, even like this.
    When she opens the door again, she looks pale but more awake. "Do you think I should shower?"
    "Only if you want to," I say. "I'll help."
    She hesitates, chewing on her lip. I know that look. It's her signature mix of self-consciousness and pride that she hates me seeing. Her body's still healing, still bruised and leaking and stitched in places I wish I could take the pain from. She's only a week postpartum, and I can tell she's trying to find herself inside all the change.
I keep my movements steady, respectful, gentle. I help her undress, help her step into the shower, hands never leaving her skin unless she asks. The water runs over her shoulders, steam fogging the mirror. She's quiet the whole time—maybe out of embarrassment, maybe just too tired for words. When she's done, I wrap her in a towel and help her into fresh clothes.
By the time I've gone downstairs with Willa, she's already dozing in the bassinet again, mouth twitching like she's dreaming. The morning light's warmer now, slipping across the kitchen floor.
When I go back upstairs, Sarah's waiting by the banister, one hand gripping it for balance.
"Ready?" I ask.
She nods, and I step closer, turning around so I'm facing her as we move.
"Just keep your hands on my shoulders," I say.
She does, her fingers pressing lightly against my shirt, and we start down together—one step at a time, me walking backward, her breathing slow and steady. The house is so quiet that I can hear every creak of the stairs, every soft exhale that leaves her chest.
When we reach the bottom, I turn around and help her down the last couple steps until she's steady on her feet again. She's breathing hard, not out of shape, just worn down. Every move takes more from her than she'll ever admit.
I lead her to the couch, easing her down as carefully as she'll let me. The bassinet's close enough that she can reach Willa if she needs to, but far enough that she can breathe for a minute.
"Stay there," I tell her, tugging a blanket off the back of the sofa and tucking it around her legs.
"I'm not an invalid," she murmurs, but her voice is soft, teasing, the edge dulled by exhaustion.
"I know," I say, kissing her temple. "But you're still my patient."
She rolls her eyes, but it's the good kind. The kind that means she doesn't actually mind.
I head into the kitchen, start pulling things from the fridge without really thinking about it. Eggs. Bread. A few strawberries I rinsed last night and forgot about. The smell of coffee starts filling the space before long, warm and grounding.
When I bring her a plate, she's sitting cross-legged on the couch, Willa sleeping next to her. The light from the marsh window hits them both, soft and golden. I can't believe this is real.
I set the plate and mug down on the table. "You should eat," I tell her.
"I'm not really hungry," she says, already making a face.
"I know, but you should try anyway."
She looks at the food like it's a challenge, but she takes a bite. "You're turning into my dad," she mumbles, mouth full of toast.
"God, don't say that," I laugh. "I'm just making sure you don't pass out on me."
Her lips twitch into something small but real. "You're sweet."
I sit beside her, wrapping an arm around the back of the couch. For a while, it's quiet. There's just the hum of the coffee machine cooling down and Willa's little sleep noises. It feels almost normal, like the kind of morning other people have. I didn't think we'd get something that simple again, not after everything that's happened.
"She looks like you right now," I say, nodding toward the bassinet.
Sarah tilts her head, smiling softly. "She kind of looks like a worm."
"Yeah, but like, Sarah as a worm."
She squints, laughing. "Not me. You. You as a worm." She nods. "You know what? That's definitely it. The more I look—"
    I reach over and nudge her leg. "Alright, you're done. No more comparing her to a worm."
    "Too late," she says, still smiling, cheeks full beneath her eyes. "It's already in my head forever."
    I can't even be mad. Seeing her laugh again is like medicine for the soul.
    Willa stirs in the bassinet, stretching one tiny hand up before settling again. Sarah watches her, her smile fading into something quieter. "She's so little," she whispers.
    "She won't be for long," I say. "She'll be bigger next week."
    "I don't want her to." Her voice cracks a little. "Not yet. I feel like I missed enough already."
    I look at her, pale skin, tired eyes, hands cupped around her coffee for warmth. "You didn't miss anything," I tell her. "You made her. You kept her alive when everything went to hell. That's not missing it, Sarah. That's the hardest part."
    She nods, blinking fast like she's trying not to cry. "I just... I want to remember this. Even when it's hard."
    "You will," I promise, brushing my thumb over her knee. "You're not gonna forget."
Sarah's phone lights up on the coffee table. A text. I can see the name without even trying—Rafe.
    She notices too, her body tensing slightly.
    "You should probably call him," I say softly. "He's been checking in. Texted me the other day to see how you were doing."
    "Yeah." She sighs. "It's probably about everything with Rose. Rentals, wills, all that stuff. I'm sure the lawyers will need some kind of signature from me about the estate stuff."
    I nod. "You can do it later. No rush."
    She hesitates, eyes fixed on the phone. "I should do it now. He probably needs to talk anyway. He doesn't know how to cope with this stuff."