what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred eighteen •

John B.

The next morning starts on time for everyone but Sarah.
Kie put Willa down before they all left the house around five in the morning. That gave me a good three hour stretch of sleep before she woke up screaming to be fed. And for the first time since the baby was born, Sarah didn't even stir. She stayed there, mouth open, drool dried on the pillow, hair knotted in her face, fast, fast asleep.
So, daddy-duty began.
    Luckily, Pope texted me that between him, Cleo, Kiara, and JJ, they'd have enough hands to clean his dad's place. We'd probably make everything more chaotic than be useful anyway.
    Willa screams for all five minutes it takes me to make her bottle and continues fussing even minutes into her feeding as if she thinks I'd take it away. You'd think we don't feed her.
    "I know it's not as good as the fresh stuff," I joke, "but it all comes from the same place."
I sit on the sofa and rest her against my thighs, so her head is at my knees. She kicks lightly at my stomach, tiny feet moving uncoordinated as she eats.
I could watch her forever.
The way her eyelids flutter, the way her nose wiggles slightly every time she suckles on the bottle. Every time I took at her, I find something new to love. And it doesn't make it any easier that she looks like Sarah all over.
"Daddy thinks you're the most beautiful little princess there ever was."
She huffs from her nose.
"You look just like your Mama. And a little bit like your uncle Rafe, which is a little unsettling sometimes."
She just keeps eating, completely unimpressed by my observations.
"You know, before I dated your Mom, she was kind of wild. Actually, she's still kind of wild, but in a different way than before. Once, she and Auntie KieKie had to get escorted home by the cops because they went skinny dipping in the marsh."
This seems to be the one thing she actually listens to. One side of her mouth quirks up.
"Which is something you are absolutely never allowed to do. Ever."
She finishes the bottle with one loud, dramatic sigh. I wait a second to see if she'll cry for more. I pull the nipple carefully away from her mouth. Miraculously, she seems content.
    I walk around the back porch with her perched on my shoulder, patting her back lightly like I've watched Sarah do hundred of times at this point. She finally burps one tiny burp.
    "Very polite," I respond.
    Then, a warmth spills down my shoulder and back. I groan. Spit up.
    "I take that back."
    Admittedly, this is the part where'd I'd usually call in Sarah for reinforcement. But, if I know my wife as well as I think I do, I'm safest if I let her keep sleeping. She's probably dreaming of all the ways she's going to chew my head off later, yelling about the crash and texts to Topper. I'll stay in this sweet baby bubble as long as I can.
    A few minutes and one questionable baby hold later, I've ended up shirtless and used a burp cloth to cover the scene of the crime.
    "Mama's better at this than I am, huh?" I say, noticing another milky chunk stuck somehow to the back of her sleeper. "How did that even get there?"
    I figure since we're already outside, we may as well observe the damage.
The neighbor's beach plum tree has blown over and is splitting the fence, leaving a giant open gap between our backyards. Free plums, I guess. The boat is full of debris and what kind of looks like a dead fish. I decide not to get close enough to check for sure. On the porch, a few of Sarah's planters are on their sides, some even cracked into shards, with dirt spilling out onto the hardwood like crumbs from chocolate cake.
Thankfully, the few tomato plants Sarah begged to plant here are still in pretty good condition, thanks to the trellises I advised her to use. We'll have to make our way to the shop, though, to know anything about the garden there.
When I look back down at the baby in my arms, I find her asleep. Apparently evaluating hurricane damage isn't as exciting to her as it is to me. But there's no way I'm risking Sarah waking up by going back upstairs to put her in the bassinet.
So, I strap Willa against my chest, slip on some flip flops, and head out the front door.
"Goin' on a walk," I whisper down to her. "Gotta make sure everyone survived."
    The air smells different after storms like last night's. Smells better. It's almost as if the strong winds stripped the earth of rot, and left behind everything good—the salt, pine, and sweetness of flowers. There's nothing like the smell of rain on hot summer pavement that reminds me more of my childhood.
    The street is almost unrecognizable. Trash cans are dispersed haphazardly throughout lawns and driveways, and I count more than three mailboxes that are dangling lifelessly from their posts. The asphalt is a scene of palm fronds and shingles. After seeing the state of other houses in our neighborhood, I'm shocked at how well our's stood up. Sarah would say it's her Mom who protected us through it all.
    Mr. Jenkins is already in his front yard, raking leaves from one side of the driveway to the other. He's wearing the same ball cap and suspenders he's worn since I was in middle school.
"Y'all survived?" he shouts, even though this is the quietest the Outer Banks has been in a while.
"Yes sir," I say. "Haven't checked the shop out since last night, but the house is good."
He nods. "Good. She sleep through it all?"
I chuckle. "I'll let you guess on that one."
He just shakes his head, laughs under his breath, and says, "Those are the days." Then, he goes back to racing.
When we reach the end of the street and are standing at the edge of the marsh, Willa starts wriggling in the wrap. I hold my breath and pat her back a few firm times, and she's back to sleep. I bend down to pick up a flat rock and skip it against the water surface. She stays asleep. A boat starts at a nearby dock. She stays asleep. I blow on the top of her head to double check that she's still alive. She stays asleep. It's impressive.
"Definitely your mother's kid."
Even in her sleep, her itty-bitty fingers find my hand and wrap around my thumb. It's something small that happens everyday without question, but it will never stop amazing me.
    I stand there longer than I mean to. There's no rush to get home. And although last night lighted the flame for potential new mystery, right now, I forget about it all. It's funny how becoming a parent changes what's most important. I'd be lying if I said I didn't still get a high from the chase, but nothing compares to the look on my baby girl's face when I get home from work in the evening.
    I rub the back of her hand with my thumb.
    "I hope you're a better kid than I was," I say. "And I hope I'm a much better dad."
    The walk back home is just as quiet, and I make sure to walk even slower to milk this nap as long as possible.
    "You know," I whisper, almost as if I'm telling some national secret, "I'm pretty sure Mommy's mad at me. And I'm pretty sure she's gonna be hungover when she wakes up."
    Willa's eyes open slightly and literally roll in her sleep. She already has the signature Kook attitude.
    "Oh, you're gonna be trouble."
    I can already picture her, grown up and opinionated, thinking I'm the lamest person on the island. I already know she's going to talk back and break the rules like we all did, but I also know I'm never going to stop loving her anyway. After all, what did we think was going to happen mixing Kook and Pogue blood?
    Every few houses I stop and check on things. Mrs. Alvarez is trying to untangle a string of lights from a palm tree. Mr. Holloway's dock has a few boards missing. Someone's kayak has somehow ended up in the middle of the road. How? I have no idea. That's the Outer Banks for you.
    Halfway home, I get an idea. "Hey, Willa," I coo. Of course, she doesn't respond. I keep going anyway. "I think I'm gonna make Mama coffee before she wakes up. Maybe she'll like me and forget she was even mad in the first place."
    I finally make it back to the driveway and stand there, looking up at the house. It's no Tanneyhill, but, hell, is it nicer than any house I would have imagined living in a year or two ago. And the best part? It's ours.
    There's something about that thought that still sneaks up on me. It's been drilled into my head since I was a kid: Pogues marry Pogues, move into a house on the Cut, and have more Pogue kids who grow up to do the same thing. It's a cycle of broken porch boards and microwave dinners that never ends. But I got out. And to think I married the Sarah Cameron. No doubt I'm the luckiest man in the world.
    Inside, the house is still peaceful. There are still lanterns scattered around, most still lit even though the power came back on at some point while we were asleep. Empty beer cans crowd the coffee table, and there's a deck of cards abandoned halfway through a game I never saw anyone actually play.
    I unclip the carrier and maneuver Willa so she's lying with her head resting in my elbow, body against my chest. I can tell by the little twitches of her nose and fingers that she's going to wake up soon. Secretly, every nap, I wait for her to wake up just so I can watch her little face and learn more about her. Sometimes, it takes honest strength not to to be impatient and wake her up.
    We get to the kitchen. "Operation: Make Mama Coffee."
    No one talks about how much harder it is to make coffee one-handed. Half the grounds in my scoop miss the coffee maker and land on the counter. I quickly wipe them into the sink.
    "Don't let Mama know we made a mess, okay?"
    Eventually, the machine actually starts brewing with a quiet hiss of victory. The smell alone adds extra years to my life expectancy.
    Willa smiles up at me, and although it's probably just from gas, I can't help but giggle back.
    "That's right," I coo. "Gonna win Mama over with a cup—"
    Someone clears their throat behind me.
    "Of coffee," I finish timidly.
    Slowly, I turn around.
    Sarah is standing in the kitchen doorway. Her hair looks like she went out into the hurricane and fought it personally. One side is flattened against her face, and the other side is practically defying gravity. She's wearing one of my old high school t-shirts and one sock. Lord knows where the other one ended up. Her eyes are half open. She looks exhausted.
    She doesn't even acknowledge me. She walks straight for Willa.
    "I was wondering where my baby was." I surrender Willa without hesitation. "Mine."
    The second Willa is against her chest, she melts. "Did you feed her?"
    "Yep. Burped her too. And she had an hour nap."
    "Okay," she draws out, as if she's actively looking for a reason to fight me.
    "And I made you coffee." I slide the mug across the island to her. She catches it like a professional. I lean over. "Good morning, beautiful."
    She eyes me. I can see the debate happening in her head.
    Aggravated.
    Still loves me.
    Still mad.
    She sighs, then gives me the quickest peck imaginable.
    "There."
    One sip into her coffee, she stiffens. "Oh my gosh," she groans. "We're supposed to be at Heyward's! What time is it?"
    "Nope," I say quickly. "Already handled. Pretty sure they finished an hour or so ago."
    She widens her eyes. "John B.! We were supposed to help!"
    "Sarah," I reason, "You would've been miserable. And we have a baby."
    She rolls her eyes, and it reminds me infinitely of the way Willa did earlier. "Whatever. Tell him we can still help later if he needs anything."
    I take a sharper breath than usual when my skin twists the wrong way and catches at the bandages. Of course, Sarah notices immediately.
    "Still hurts?" she asks.
"It's not too bad," I brush off.
I already know I'm done for by the sigh she takes in and lets out.
"I just still can't believe you guys went out there in that storm! The storm you lied to me about, by the way!"
I drop my head in my hands. "I thought we went over this."
Her face lights up as if she's excited to get into it. She claps her hands along with her words like a kindergarten teacher. "We did, John B.! Good job noticing that!"
My cheeks blush against my willpower because, let's face it, she's hot even, especially, when she's angry. I try to wish the blush away so she doesn't think I'm close to giving in.
She keeps going. "But my bad if I can't get over the fact that you drove into a literal hurricane! I swear the two of you share half a brain cell. And crashing JJ's truck?! Leave it up to you guys to end up in a car chase in the middle of the night. It's impressive, honestly."
I wince. "Okay, technically, the crash isn't our fault. How were we supposed to know some random guy would want us dead!?"
"Well, technically, none of it would have happened in the first place if you idiots would have just stayed home!"
"We had to check on the shop," I argue.
"And do what? Stop the storm with your bare hands? John B., the storm was gonna happen whether you were there or not."
Willa squirms and whines against Sarah's shoulder. Sarah gently lays her flat on the kitchen counter and litters kisses all over her face. Her voice changes instantly.
"Hi, angel," she mumbles against her cheek. "Mommy wasn't yelling at you. Mommy was yelling at Daddy because Daddy makes stupid decisions."
She looks up at me, completely serious and flat-faced, and then looks back down at Willa with the biggest, sweetest smile. No chance I'm surviving this.
"You have a daughter now," she says without looking up at me. "One that does not need to be dragged into chases and mysteries. We're done with that stuff."
I steal her coffee mug and take a big sip out of it. I can feel myself becoming more human. I sigh. "I'm sorry."
Her head perks up. "What was that? I think I misheard you."
"I said, I'm sorry. About the crash and the texts and—"
"Oh, the texts! Thank you, baby, I almost forgot about the texts!"
I groan.
"You thought it was a great idea to text my ex boyfriend—how long ago?"
"A week ago," I say embarrassed.
"A week ago! And not say anything about it."
"He texted me."
"And you gave into it! You know how his brain works. All he wants is a reaction out of you."
I put my hands up. "He was talking about my wife!"
Sarah sits Willa in her lap so she's facing me. Willa is smilier than she's been all morning. It's like our fighting is the funniest thing she's ever seen.
Sarah's face softens. "I know you were just trying to defend me, and I'm very grateful for you doing so, but you don't have to do that."
"How am I supposed—"
She sighs. "It's Topper, John B. He's going to keep egging you on as long as it keeps affecting you. So, please just let me know next time, okay?"
I nod. "Okay."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
She picks Willa back up and gets off her barstool to check the fridge for salvageable food. I'm surprised at how quickly she changes the subject.
"Kind of reminds me of living at the Chateau before we had any money," she chuckles. "Trying to figure out if anything in the fridge is actually edible."
I don't really listen to what she says. I'm still thinking about Topper.
"So, you really don't care about what Topper said?" I ask.
She laughs but avoids my eyes. "What? No. I stopped caring what he thinks a long time ago. Not caring was the only way I actually stayed in a relationship with him."
I want to believe her, but I don't. "Because it's okay if your feelings are hurt," I add. "I mean, he said some pretty nasty things."
She shakes her head. "Don't care," she repeats.
"I just hate that somebody gets to say things like that about you."
"John B."
"I mean it."
"I know." She reaches across the counter and hooks two fingers through my belt loop, tugging me closer until I'm standing between her knees.
"You know what I see?"
"What?"
She looks me up and down dramatically.
"A man who got up with our baby so I could sleep for a few extra hours."
"My job."
"A crooked bandage because he got himself run off the road but still managed to make it home to his wife and baby."
"...Accurate."
"And a husband that sticks up for me no matter how many times I yell at him."
She smiles.
"I really don't care what Topper sees." She bumps my hip with her knee. "Come here."
I step forward. She kisses me, slower this time. My stomach flips.
    When she pulls away, she smiles against my lips. "But I swear on my father's grave if you do something stupid like that again, I'm kicking you out of the house!"
    "Heard," I chuckle.
    She pats me on the back. "Now if you wouldn't mind, this Mama's hungry, and nothing here looks appetizing!"
    I smirk. "Wanna make it a date?"
    "Looking like this?"
    I ease the baby out of her arms and into mine. "Ten minutes."
    "For what?"
    "To get ready to leave."
    "I don't even know if anything will be open," she backtracks. "Because of the storm."
    I make a face. "Go get dressed. We'll find something." I kiss her again. "It's a date."
    She kisses me back, giggling. "A date with our baby?"
    "Mhm. The best kind."
    She kisses me one more time before turning around reluctantly and heading for the stairs.
    "Ten minutes!"
    "Yeah, I know."
    As she walks away and up the stairs, I can't help but smile after her.
    Oh, Sarah Cameron. I'll never get over you.