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Act One, VII: this dream isn't feeling sweet
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Moe knows her friends too well. Like, way too well.
If she didn't she might've been able to slip off the end of the wobbling dock into the HMS Pogue and not immediately recognise the tension stewing between them. She might've been able to languish in her good mood for a bit longer, temporarily forgetting the stress of yesterday. Even, god forbid, relax a little after her shift without having to think about everything that could've occurred in her short absence.
In all, it had only been about six hours since Pope picked JJ up from her house this morning and already there was new drama.
The four of them are sitting on complete opposite sides of the skiff and avoiding eye contact like something insurmountably terrible has happened. Moe only gets so much as a nod of acknowledgment from John B when she's finished adjusting in her seat. He's at the helm of the boat with a massive bruise purpling around his eye. Kie is biting down on her thumb anxiously behind him, Pope's fiddling with a pile of scuba gear in the other corner, and JJ is taking lungfuls of vape with his eyes fixed firmly on the ocean below them. Usually, Moe is the one with a chip on her shoulder, silently brooding in frustration.
"Who died?" She asks bluntly.
She doesn't get an answer. They all stay silent and fidget some more, now avoiding eye contact with her as well as each other. Moe narrows her eyes and fixes them quickly onto John B. He's been on the receiving end of her glares enough times in the eight years they've been friends that she knows it'll work. He's also the one who folds under pressure the easiest, also he's never been very good at keeping his mouth shut about his feelings. Unlike her.
She can see the way her insistence bothers him. He tries to look everywhere but at her, shifting in his seat, trying to crane his neck over her to look out at the marsh.
