what now? | outerbanks

• one hundred twenty-one •

Sarah

We don't have to wait long. I don't know exactly how long because the next few minutes become a blur of whispered conversations, making sure Wheezie is still asleep—and actually in the house, at that—and trying to figure out what to do with a house that suddenly feels too small.
Willa stays asleep against me. Eventually, John B. eases her off my chest so I can get out of bed without waking her.
"Come on, you," he whispers, kissing her cheek lightly. "Gotta let Mama get up."
I slide out from beneath the blankets and stretch my already-aching back.
"I'll get her in the bassinet," he says.
I hesitate. "Be careful."
He smirks. "I'll be so careful."
I can't stop the snort that comes at me. "You are such a dork."
He just shrugs as he carries her across the room and lowers her into the bassinet with exaggerated caution. Willa doesn't move. Thank God.
I grab the baby monitor and kiss her once more before making my way downstairs, where I see headlights sweep across the curtains. John B. follows and tosses a sweatshirt at me, which I pull over my head after realizing I only had a nursing bra on.
He turns on the porch light, and I open the door before I can. Sofia is standing at the bottom of the steps. She looks... exhausted. Drained. Her arms are folded tightly against herself, and she's staring up at the house like she's trying to convince herself she made the right decision by coming here. The second she sees me, something in her face crumples.
"Hey," I say softly.
"Hi," she frowns.
I step down the porch. "Come here."
She doesn't hesitate. She walks straight into my arms. I wrap both arms around her and hold her tightly.
Sofia pulls back. "I'm sorry."
My eyebrows knit together. "For what?"
"For coming over this late."
"Sofia."
"And with Willa. I know you guys were probably sleeping, and I'm sure she has to eat soon, and—"
"Stop. You're not bothering us."
Her eyes drop. I reach for her hand. "Come inside. The mosquitoes are terrible."
We walk into the living room. The house is dim except for the lamp beside the couch.
Sofia looks toward the stairs. "Is Willa asleep?"
"For now," I chuckle. "Wheezie too. She fell asleep before the movie ended."
That gets the tiniest smile out of her.
John B. walks into the hall. "I'll get the other guest room ready."
Sofia immediately shakes her head. "No, it's okay. I can just sleep on the couch."
"You're not sleeping on the couch."
"John B., seriously, I don't want to make you guys do anything."
"You're not making us do anything."
"I can take the couch. It's fine."
I step closer to her. "Sofia. You're staying here tonight. You're getting a bed. You're getting blankets. You're going to let us take care of you."
Her lips press together. "But the baby—"
"Doesn't sleep anyway," I finish.
"I know, but it's late, and—"
"And?"
She doesn't answer. I know that look. She's calculating how much space she's allowed to take up. How much of an inconvenience she's allowed to cause. I know it because that used to be me. With the Pogues. Before I felt like I was actually part of what they were.
I squeeze her hand. "You are family."
Her eyes lift to mine.
"And family doesn't sleep on the couch because they're afraid they're being annoying."
Her mouth trembles. "Okay."
"Okay."
John B. appears again. "Guest room's ready."
"You really didn't have to."
"Well, I did."
She exhales. "Thank you."
He smiles. "Anytime."
She glances in the direction of the hallway. "Can I talk to you? In private?"
I nod immediately.
We sit together on the freshly made bed like two sisters in a movie. She looks terrified to say whatever she's thinking.
She starts shakily. "I'm going to tell you something, and I want to preface, I guess, that I would like you to not tell John B., um, because I'm worried that he might do something about it, and I know that he and Rafe have—well, they have their own history, and I don't want him to get angry at him, and I don't want anybody to—"
"Sofia."
She stops. I reach for her hand.
"Slow down."
She takes a breath, but it comes out uneven. "I just—I don't want this to become a whole thing."
"Okay."
"And I don't want you to do anything either."
"...Okay."
"And I know that sounds weird because I'm sitting here at eleven o'clock at night and I just showed up at your house, but I don't want you to think that you have to fix it or call somebody or—"
Again, "Sofia."
She stops again.
"You don't want me to say anything, I won't say anything."
Her shoulders drop slightly. "Okay. Really, you can tell him, just—make sure he doesn't do anything. He has to know that he can't do anything."
"Okay," I agree. "You don't have to explain everything all at once."
Her eyes drop to our hands. "I don't know how to say it."
"Just say it."
"It's just—I don't want you to think of him differently—"
"Sofia," I say, almost chuckle.
She swallows. "He relapsed."
My heart drops for a second. "Rafe?"
She nods. "He started drinking again. And he took something."
I stare at her in disbelief. "What?"
"Coke, I think. That's what he told me."
It sits between us uneasily.
"How long? How many times?"
"I'm not sure. Drinking, maybe a few weeks. He said the coke was only twice."
I shake my head. "God, he's so stupid."
"He told me tonight."
"Is he okay?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I mean—he wasn't high when he came home tonight. I don't think. He wasn't drunk either that I could tell. I don't know. He just..." She shakes her head like she's still trying to figure it out herself. "He told me he went to the bar. He said he was trying to forget things, so he took something."
I can see the shame written all over her face, even though none of this is hers to be ashamed of.
"Sarah, I know what you're thinking."
"I don't think you know what I'm thinking."
"I just don't want you to hate him."
My eyebrows pull together. "Sofia."
"I know he's done stupid things. I know he's messed up. I know you know that better than anyone. But he isn't that person anymore. He hasn't been in years."
I say, "I know," because I do. Truthfully.
"He didn't do anything. He didn't hurt me." Her eyes finally meet mine. "It was scary, though."
"What happened?"
She shakes her head quickly. "Nothing. I mean, not like that. He yelled at me. Really yelled, like, louder than he has before. It didn't even sound like him. But I got scared, and he stopped immediately. He knew it was wrong. He was just overwhelmed."
I sigh. "He doesn't know how to handle shit."
"He told me why he relapsed. He told me... things."
"What things?"
She hesitates. "I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you."
"He's my brother."
She takes another shaky breath. "I think he was trying to explain why he couldn't stop thinking about everything and about who he used to be."
My stomach sinks. Suddenly, I have the urge that I know exactly what she's about to say.
"He told me about you."
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Sofia, wait—"
"About shooting you and trying to drown you."
The memories flash into my head like a movie.
"And about Peterkin. He killed her."
I don't say anything. I don't know what I'd say anyway.
"He really did?" she finally asks.
I nod.
She looks down at her hands, where she's flipping her wedding ring back and forth. "I thought it was Ward."
"He took the blame."
"Why?"
"Because Rafe was his son. And he chose him over the rest of us."
"And you knew?"
"I was there when it happened."
She stiffens. "You saw it?"
I nod slowly as images flood my brain. "She was coming to arrest my dad, and right as she was getting ready to cuff him, Rafe came from behind the plane and shot her."
She can't hold back the sob that comes out of her. "Oh my God."
"I know it's something you should've known," I say, "but I thought maybe it was Rafe's place to tell you."
She scoffs. "Well, he didn't."
"Look, I know you love him, but whatever you're feeling is completely valid. I think I, above most people, can attest to that. I lived it for a lot of my life."
She pulls her knees up to her chest and does her best to hide behind them. "I feel sick," she cries.
I don't even think before I move closer to her and pull her into me. She just sits there, crying, shaking through her clothes. I rub her back slowly.
"I feel like my life is a lie."
My hand stills. I know that feeling. I know it so well that for a second, I can't breathe.
"I get it," I tell her honestly. "Like, really get it."
She stares at me.
"When I found out about my dad, I thought my entire life had been a lie." I swallow. "Everything I knew about my family, about him, about myself all changed overnight. I mean, I had been defending him for so long, and to think I was wrong the whole time..."
I think about the sixteen years we had before I knew anything. About the family dinners and parties and vacations. Admittedly, I don't know if I'd rather stay in those years forever or wish that they never would have happened in the first place.
"I found out my dad was capable of things I never thought he could do. I found out he'd lied to me about almost everything. I found out he'd hurt people."
I grab her hands.
"And then there was Rafe. He'd been different for years. To me, it mostly just felt like a mean older brother, but I think I knew deep down that there was something broken about him. The parties were normal—I was there too—but then he got into the drug circle and everything bad about him got worse. And then he killed Peterkin, and shot me, and tried to drown me. At that point, I didn't know what parts of my life were real anymore."
She wipes her cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.
"So, what did you do?"
"I fell apart." I don't sugarcoat it. It seems to surprise her. "I mean it. I left. I lost my family.. I lost my house and my childhood and everything I thought I was going to have for the rest of my life." I give a small laugh. "I ended up living in a fishing camp, sometimes a boat, with four people who were basically strangers to me at the time."
She smiles. "Future's looking bright for me then," she jokes.
"It was insane, but eventually, I had to start figuring out what was actually mine."
"What do you mean?"
"I couldn't take away what my dad had done. I couldn't change what Rafe did. I couldn't make any of it unhappen. But I could decide what I wanted my life to look like after I knew the truth."
She looks down at her wedding ring again. "You're a lot stronger than me."
I shake my head. "It took me a long time to forgive Rafe. Years. There were times I thought I'd never forgive him. I couldn't be in the same room as him without screaming at him or breaking down in tears or having a panic attack. There are still moments sometimes where something reminds me of what happened and..." I pause. "It doesn't disappear just because we're okay now."
"You seem okay now," she adds.
"With him?"
She nods.
I think about Rafe as he is now. Wheezing with laughter when Wheezie makes a stupid joke. Showing up when any of us need her. Calling me just to ask if I'm okay. Being gentler than I ever thought my brother could even try to be.
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
"How?"
"I think because he actually changed. He became different. That doesn't mean I forgot, and it certainly doesn't mean I don't have boundaries with him."
"What kind of boundaries?"
""Some things I don't let myself ignore." I hesitate. "I know what he's capable of. I know what he used to be capable of. I'm never going to pretend I don't. But I'm also confident that he's not that person anymore. He got help and knows right and wrong now."
Another tear slips down her cheek. "I don't know how I married someone who could do those things. He's so gentle with me, it's just—"
"That's something you're going to have to work through on your own, I think. You don't owe him any kind of forgiveness, you know? It's his history, so now it's part of yours too."
She leans back against the wall, staring at nothing. "I feel like I'm mourning something."
"You are. Your marriage is different now. It's not what you thought it was."
"Do you think I have to leave him? I don't want to."
"I don't think I can tell you what to do with your marriage, but I can tell you love him. And I know he loves you too. You can love him and still need space from him."
"You really think that's okay?"
"Yes." A small silence passes. Then, I add, "And for what it's worth, I'm going to be furious with him tomorrow."
She opens one eye. "For the cocaine?"
"For the cocaine."
A tiny laugh escapes her. "Sarah."
"No. Absolutely not." I shake my head. "He spent years getting clean. Years. And he knows better."
"He said he only did it twice."
"That's not making it better."
"I know."
"Does he still have any?"
"I don't know."
"Then I'll find out. He can have all the emotional trauma in the world. He can have his breakdown. He can cry in the shower. He can call me at three in the morning and tell me he's losing his mind." I shake my head. "But he does not get to start doing coke again and pretend that's an acceptable coping mechanism."
I scoot back so I can lean her into me and wrap my arms around her shoulders. Her tears have finally slowed, and her breathing is coming back to a healthy rhythm.
She whispers, "This changes everything, huh?"
I nod. "Probably. But I'm sure you'll come out of it."
"Thank you, Sarah."
I rest my chin on her head. "This is what sisters are for." I sigh. "Now, I really do need to go feed my baby."
We both fall into light laughter, and I squeeze her one last time before exiting the room and tip-toeing up the stairs.