what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred seven •

John B.

At first, I think it's the baby. A soft whimper and the rustle of fabric against fabric. I sit up, eyes still closed, getting out of bed on demand.
Then, I hear it. A mumbling. My head snaps toward Sarah. Her brows are furrowed, and her head shakes slightly against her pillow, her blonde hair a tangled mess.
I've seen this before.
"I didn't mean to," she murmurs, breath growing quicker as I walk around to her side of the bed.
"Sarah." I shake her shoulder. "Hey. Sarah. You're having a nightmare."
"I really didn't mean to," she cries harder this time, tears leaking from her eyes. "I swear—I—"
I shake her harder, hands rubbing her arms and cheeks, doing whatever I can to wake her.
    "I'm sorry," she chokes. "I tried! I swear I tried!"
    I don't try to be gentle anymore. My hands rattle against her skin, physically pulling her up to a sitting position now, propping her against the headboard, praying she'll finally wake up.
    "I need you to wake up, baby. I'm right here. I'm here."
    She gasps awake like I've pulled her from a raging sea. Her whole body jerks against me, chest heaving and hands flying to her face. I grab her shoulders before she can fold in on herself.
    "Hey," I say quickly, voice still shaking from the adrenaline. "Hey, you're okay. It was just a dream."
    Her eyes are wide, wild and unfocused. She's trembling like she's freezing, but her skin is flushed and warm to the touch. Sweat glistens along her forehead.
    "It's not my fault," she says, breathless. "I didn't mean to. It's not my fault."
    I reach for her hands, but she won't stop shaking her head. "It's not my fault."
    She's saying it as if she's speaking to someone, as if someone is on the other side of her, whispering cruel words into her ear.
    "Sarah," I whisper, pulling her body against me. "It's okay."
    She presses her face against me, still crying. "I tried to stop the bleeding," she sobs. "I tried to, but she kept—she wouldn't—"
    I close my eyes. I know what this is. I should've known from the start. She's back there, the night Rose was shot, her cold body in her arms, gasping and bleeding out. That night plays on loop in her head, and no matter how many times I tell her she did everything she could, she never believes me.
    "Hey," I say again, firm this time, rubbing slow circles down her back. "You did everything you could. You couldn't have saved her."
    She swallows hard and cries harder, still repeating the same phrase. She repeats it until it's barely a whisper. "It's not my fault. It's not my fault. It's not my fault."
    Her tears are soaking through my shirt, and my heart is breaking over what she has to carry. Finally, after what feels like forever, her breathing slows. She's still trembling, but it's more an aftershock of the storm. Her eyes flick up to Willa's bassinet. Still asleep.
    She pulls back, eyes red and just as wild as before. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
    "Don't apologize," I tell her. "I'm glad you woke me up."
    "It feels so real. Every time, it does."
    "I know." I cup her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear. "You've been through hell, Sarah. Sometimes it's too much for your mind to handle."
    She looks away, toward the window. The moonlight catches on the faint purple tint under her eyes.
    "I can handle it," she says finally. "I just need to try harder."
    I hesitate before saying it because I know exactly how she'll take it, but I say it anyway.
    "Maybe—maybe you shouldn't have to," I say slowly, trying to gauge what she's thinking. "Maybe it'd help to talk to someone."
    She looks back at me, sharp. "Like a therapist?"
    I almost shrink. I forget how intimidating she can be at times. "Yeah. I mean, just think—"
    "John B., no."
"Sarah—"
"No." Her voice cuts through the room, over the baby's sound machine. "I've been through enough to know how to cope. I don't need a therapist."
"I know you've been through enough," I say, trying to keep my tone calm. "That's exactly why you might need it."
She shakes her head, standing out of bed carefully to busy herself. She glances around the room looking for something. The pump, I guess.
"It could help," I push.
She turns around. "You think I don't know how much things have changed? You think I don't know that? I just—" She stops herself, breathing hard. "I can handle it, John B. I don't need to talk to a stranger about it."
    "I'm not saying you can't handle it," I say gently. "But you don't have to handle it alone." Then, quieter, "You're not okay."
    She snorts. "I'm fine."
    "No. You're not." I find the pump before she does. I grab it from the changing table and hand it to her. She snatches it from my hand. "You forget that I know you, Sarah. I can see you're not doing great, and that's not your fault, okay? I know you're holding a lot right now, but you're not fine."
    "Yeah, well, who else is supposed to hold it all?" she snaps. "You think I can just stop now? I can't, John B. We have a baby."
    "I know," I say softly. "That's why I want you to be okay."
She turns away from me, shoulders tightening like a spring wound too tight. "I am okay."
"Sarah," I start, pressing the heel of my hand into my forehead, "I'm not saying—"
"Just stop." She cuts me off, standing there in the dark, hair tangled, eyes wet, clutching the pump like she needs it for balance.
    I can't remember when she fed Willa last. I was supposed to keep track.
    "Please, just stop trying to fix me. I don't need to be fixed. I just need to keep going."
I exhale, the air in my chest tight. "I'm not trying to fix you, babe. I'm trying to help you breathe for a second."
She shakes her head again, brushing her hair out of her face, trying to regain control. "I said I can handle it."
Her voice cracks on handle.
Then we're both silent. We're staring into each other's eyes, but neither of us speaks. It's an unspoken conversation of who will cave in first. Who's weaker?
I can't take it.
"I just don't want you to overwork yourself."
"I don't have a choice," she says, voice thin and brittle. "I can't fall apart right now. I have a baby who needs me every second of the day, and if I fall apart, who's gonna feed her? Who's gonna take care of her? You?"
The words are cruel. I don't even mind the sting of them, like salt on a wound. It's the fact that she believes them that hurts the most.
I swallow hard. "I'm doing everything I can."
"Well, it's not enough!" she yells before she can stop herself.
It's like a crack of thunder through the house.
And then a tiny, piercing cry fills the air.
Sarah freezes, the sound pulling her straight out of whatever storm she was in. Her expression shifts instantly, anger dissolving into panic, then guilt.
"Damn it!" she whispers, rushing to the bassinet.
Willa's face is scrunched up, wailing so loud it rattles the house like a steam engine. Sarah scoops her up, voice shaking as she whispers, "I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you..."
I rub a hand over my face, guilt sinking in heavy. I shouldn't have let it spiral this far.
"I'll get a bottle," I say quietly, already walking toward the door. I'll do anything to help.
"No," she says quickly, already unbuttoning the top of her pajama shirt. "I've got it."
She sinks into the chair by the window, body too heavy against the cushions. Everything about her seems so different from the day we built the chair.
I watch her hum quietly. Her voice breaks halfway through the tune, but still, somehow, Willa calms.
After a few minutes Sarah replaces Willa with a pump and burps her before flipping her to the other side. I can see it in her that she's replaying everything the doctor told us at the last appointment, praying it will finally work.
    She glances up at me, eyes red. "I didn't mean to yell."
    "I know." I move closer, sitting on the floor beside her knees. "You're tired."
"Yeah, but you are too."
I shake my head. "You don't need to worry about me."
She shrugs. "I always worry about you."
I rest my chin on her knee. "I just want to make sure you're okay first. That's all I want. I'd never make you do anything you don't want. You know that, right?"
"Mhm," she hums, wincing when the pump tightens again. Her eyes are closed now, head leaning back against the chair cushion. "I just don't want to talk about it. Please."
"Okay," I say. I mean it. "We won't."
I reach behind her and pull the thin blanket off the back of the chair, draping it carefully over her torso and legs. She tenses for a second, then melts back into the cushions. Willa's suckling follows a perfect pattern. I never thought a sound could put me at such peace.
The room is dim and quiet except for the pump's soft mechanical rhythm and the ocean hum of Willa's sound machine.
    "I'm sorry," she whispers again, voice drifting.
    "You don't need to be."
    All's still until the pump clicks off and I help her remove it, setting it aside for later. I take Willa gently from her arms before she can stir, settling the baby into her bassinet.
    "I need to burp her," Sarah mumbles.
    "I know," I say, helping her slowly out of the chair. "Let me get you to bed first."
    I get her tucked in quickly yet carefully before returning to Willa to hold her upright against my chest. Within a few minutes, she lets out a few quiet bursts of air, but I hold her there a few minutes longer for safe measures.
    When I finally put her down for good, hand resting over her small abdomen for a long moment, my arms feel too empty. If I could hold her forever, aching limbs and all, I would.
    "Is she asleep?" Sarah asks from the bed. I didn't realize she was still awake.
    I walk closer and tuck into my side of the bed, shifting until I'm pressed right against her. Her legs instinctively tangle with mine.
    "Fast asleep," I hum. "Like an angel."