the perfect girl → outer banks ₁

[ 042 ] topper the annoying.

THE PERFECT GIRL.

chapter forty-two, topper the annoying.
[ season two, episode six ]

THE AFTERNOON SUN HANGS OVER THE OUTER BANKS, OPPRESSIVE AND GOLDEN IN THE CLOUDLESS SKY. The air feels thick with salt and humidity, almost tangible as it clings to skin and clothes. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas drone their relentless summer song, punctuated occasionally by the mournful cry of a gull wheeling overhead. The scent of sea and marsh mingles with the sharper notes of motor oil, sun-warmed grass, and the faint sweet tang of the overripe mangoes piled in a wooden crate nearby.

Rory sits cross-legged on a patch of sun-bleached grass, her tanned shoulders already developing a faint pink hue from hours beneath the unforgiving Carolina sun. Strands of her sun-kissed hair, lighter now after weeks of saltwater and sunshine, escape from her messy braid, dancing around her face with each subtle movement. Her nimble fingers work methodically through a length of weathered twine, frayed at the edges and softened by salt and time. The twine might once have secured a fisherman's net or tethered a small boat to the dock, the the Cut, everything gets repurposed eventually.

The shells scattered around her form a haphazard collection, miniature treasures mapped across the grass in no particular order except perhaps by their beauty. Each one was plucked from the shore that morning, where yesterday's unexpected squall had churned up the seafloor and delivered a bounty of perfect specimens along the tideline. Among them, she's selected her prize, a small, spiral conch barely larger than her thumbnail, its delicate ridges shifting from alabaster to the palest pink, like dawn breaking over the water.

JJ stands barely three feet away, he hovers protectively over his prized possession, a surfboard that's seen better days but has been lovingly maintained despite the dings and patches that tell stories of countless waves. His blond hair falls across his forehead in salt-stiffened strands as he hunches forward, applying another thick layer of wax in broad, circular strokes with an almost hypnotic precision.

Beneath the dubious shelter of what barely qualifies as a garage, really just a weather-beaten structure of warped plywood and corrugated metal sheeting held together by stubbornness and the occasional nail, Kie perches on an camping chair. Her legs are folded elegantly beneath her despite the ungainly seat, and her fingers move with practiced ease across the strings of her ukulele.

The gentle melody drifts through the humid air, mingling with the ambient sounds of the Cut. The instrument itself is a work of art, decorated with intricate designs in metallic pens that gleam and shift as she plays, each symbol and pattern holding meaning known only to Kie.

Pope, ever practical, has commandeered a rusted toolbox and stands with a tool in his hands. His dark brow is furrowed in concentration as he applies meticulous focus to the task at hand, a worn wrench gripped in one hand while the other rotates some mysterious component.

"Yo, Rory," JJ calls over, his voice pitched low enough that it doesn't carry to the others. He pauses his waxing, squinting against the sunlight as he studies her face. "You ever wonder about octopuses?"

Rory looks up, momentarily bewildered, her fingers stilling on the half-finished necklace. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, eyebrows arching in question. "Octopuses? Random much?"

"No, for real," JJ insists, shifting to face her more directly, abandoning his waxing ritual with characteristic impulsiveness. His eyes, impossibly blue against his sun-kissed skin, are alight with genuine curiosity. "I was watching this thing on Discovery last night when I couldn't sleep. These dudes have, like, nine brains. Nine! And get this— they can literally change the color and texture of their skin in milliseconds. Like, instant camouflage."