what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-four •

Sarah

Bedrest makes you feel like you're locked forever in a waiting room—stuck between one hundred yesterdays and an appointment you'll inevitably forget. It's unbearable in every way, and by the third real day, I knew I needed to channel my focus into something specific or I'd go clinically insane.
So, I began planning.
The timing was perfect, honestly—just a few days away from Summer Solstice proper, the longest day of the year. Kook tradition is to have Midsummers around now, but I've declined the invitation the past few years. This, though, feels like my own version. Not a ball, not a showy gathering where everyone's competing to look the most polished, but a nice, home dinner with the people we love.
I made John B. set the table outside a day early so I could adjust and reposition until it was exactly how I needed it. Now it's perfect.
I've been awake since five this morning, working to make sure every detail is up to standard. This is what I live for—flowers in vases, table runners, hors d'oeuvres and sides in perfectly coordinated mismatched tableware.
    Nanny stopped by earlier to drop off my mom's old china. She must have noticed that I don't have a set of my own, and by Nanny's standards, that won't fly.
    Not a single edge is chipped. I run my fingers back and forth along the ivory rims, and it makes me feel like I'm right back in Tanneyhill, helping Nanny and Pops pack away my mom's things.
    For a second, I almost hear the rustle of tissue paper, the careful clink of porcelain against porcelain, my mom's faint perfume clinging to the fabric of an old cardigan folded in the same box. It's strange how something as simple as plates can feel like family; like memory.
    I set them down one by one, belly pressing against the edge of the table, making me lean awkwardly to reach. The glasses I choose are tall and clear, catching sunlight in their rims. Each one shines like it's holding a little piece of summer. I step back, surveying everything. It looks like something out of a magazine, except it's not. It's mine.
I move through the rest of the house, mentally checking off boxes and rearranging plans, stubbornly refusing to admit that I might be doing too much. The kitchen is a storm, and I'm at the center of it—pots simmering, oven timers ticking down, cutting boards still dusted with flour. I won't let John B. help cook, but I know he'll come back and clean behind me anyway.
The roast smells divine, garlic and rosemary seeping into the air each time I open the oven for a peek. I spoon the juices over the top, watching the surface glisten before I slam the door shut again to keep the warmth inside. On the stove, green beans hiss and sizzle as I toss them in lemon zest and butter, making sure they're tender but still crisp. A pot of potatoes bubbles on the back burner, skins splitting just slightly, perfect for mashing. The timing has to be exact—everything ready at once, everything hot.
There's a cake in the fridge. Three layers of simple vanilla sponge between the lightest homemade whipped cream and macerated strawberries. There's an extra bowl of berries on the shelf below, swimming and oozing into a syrupy topping.
    I move quickly, arranging little appetizer plates—olives in a blue bowl, slices of cheese fanned into a circle, spiced nuts piled high in one of the mismatched dishes I adore. I fuss over them longer than necessary, nudging a wedge of brie half an inch to the left, swapping bowls until the colors balance. By the time I carry them to the side table, I'm flushed, sweat prickling the back of my neck, but satisfied.
    Then it's candles. Dozens of them. On the mantle, on the steps leading outside, in jars I tied ribbons around last night. One by one, I light them, sulfur giving way to wax and wick, soft flames dancing. The porch glows like something out of a dream.
    Finally, I tie the last bow on the dining chairs, pulling the ribbon snug. I smooth it flat and tug the ends into neat tails. It's the sort of detail most people wouldn't notice, but it matters to me.
My back twinges, but I ignore it. John B. catches me halfway over the table, trying to light a candle I can't quite reach. He's leaning against the porch railing like he's been watching me for a while. His arms are crossed, and his hair is sticking up from where he's run his hand through it one too many times.
"All right," he says, steady but firm. "You're done."
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "Uh, no. I'm not."
"You are." He walks in, takes the matches from my hand, and blows out the one I just lit.
I gasp like he's committed a crime. "John B.!"
He grins but doesn't move, just leans over the other side of the table so we're eye-to-eye.
    His grin softens, and for a moment it isn't teasing—it's something gentler. His hand slides across the table until his fingers brush mine, and I feel that familiar pull in my chest, the one that always sneaks up on me when I least expect it.
    "You've been at this since, what, sunrise?" he asks, thumb tracing slow circles on my knuckles.
I want to argue, to remind him that this is important, that I need it perfect, but the look he gives me—equal parts stubborn and tender—unravels my resolve. I sigh, leaning against the edge of the chair I'd just tied the ribbon on.
    "Come on, baby. Come sit inside," he says, guiding me up the porch and through to the living room.
    "But the roast—"
    "I'll handle it. I've been watching your technique; don't worry."
The cushions dip under me, soft and cool compared to the humid air outside. I watch him disappear into the kitchen, sleeves shoved up, hair even messier now as he leans over the oven door. He moves with this careless sort of confidence, like he's pretending he hasn't been studying me all day, memorizing every stir and sprinkle and timer beep.
"I still have to get myself ready," I groan. My hand rests instinctively against the side of my belly, like I'm making my case more solid. "Hair, makeup. My dress is upstairs."
John B. gives me this look that's halfway between amusement and exasperation. "Yeah, no. You're not going upstairs."
"John B.—" I start, but he cuts me off with a raised brow.
"Sarah. You can barely reach a candle without wincing. You're not climbing a flight of stairs."
I bite the inside of my cheek because he's not wrong, but still. "But that's where our room is. I kind of have to."
"Nope." He's already moving toward the staircase, tossing the words over his shoulder like it's non-negotiable. "What you have to do is sit there and let me handle it. You want your dress? I'll bring your dress."
    A few minutes later, John B. comes back down with the dress folded neatly over his arm, careful like it's fragile. He crouches in front of me, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"See? Easy," he says, shaking it out so it doesn't wrinkle. There's some maneuvering of clothing between us, then he says, "Arms up."
    I laugh a little at the absurdity of it—me, half-folding napkins on the coffee table while he slips the dress carefully over my head. He's patient, guiding my arms through the straps, smoothing the fabric down around my belly like he's done this a hundred times. By the time I'm tugging at the hem to settle it, he's already leaning back, pleased with himself.
    I flatten the skirt over my thighs, suddenly self-conscious. "You missed your calling, you know. Could've been a stylist."
    John B. chuckles, dropping onto the edge of the couch beside me. "Pretty sure I like my current job better." His eyes drag down and then back up, slow and deliberate, and heat creeps into my cheeks.
    "Don't look at me like that," I mutter, fiddling with the seam at my side.
    "Like what?" he asks, all innocent, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrays him.
    I shove his shoulder lightly, but my lips curve despite myself. It's ridiculous—after all the sweat and chaos, after fussing over every inch of the table and every garnish on every plate, I feel more put together just because he's looking at me like I'm already perfect.
    He doesn't push it, though. Instead, he taps the pile of napkins I'd half-finished earlier. "Here. Fold. Sitting down."
    "Napkins?" I echo, brows raised.
    "Yeah." He plops them into my lap, smug. "You still get to do your thing, just without overworking yourself in the process."
    I make a face at him, but my hands start working anyway, muscle memory from years of Nanny drilling perfect triangles into me. "This is pity work."
    "This is strategy," he corrects, already turning toward the kitchen like he knows I'll keep at it. "Queen of Midsummers can't be seen crawling around the porch trying to light candles. Doesn't fit the vibe."
    I roll my eyes but can't fight the warmth blooming in my chest. He makes it sound easy—like it's no big deal to redirect me, no big deal to carry the weight when I can't.
    I'm halfway through the pile when movement outside the window catches my attention. Two figures heading up the driveway.
    My stomach drops. "Shit," I hiss, napkin crumpling in my lap. "John B.—why are they already here? Nothing's ready. I'm not ready. They're not supposed to be here for another ten minutes. I know it's only ten minutes, but that's, like, a crucial chunk of time!"
    He doesn't even flinch, just slides the oven door shut with one hand and shrugs. "Oh. No. I told them to come."
    I blink at him, stunned. "What?"
    "Yeah." He wipes his palms on a dish towel, casual as ever. "Thought maybe Sofia could help with makeup. You've been working really hard. Thought you could use the help."
    For a second, I just stare. He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world—like it was obvious all along. And it hits me, the way he thought of me before I thought to ask for help. It took him no effort to put me before himself. My throat goes tight, and all I can do is blink rapidly and look away before I give myself away.
    The front door opens, Sofia's laugh spilling inside first, warm and easy. Rafe's heavier footsteps follow, steady.
Sofia perches on the coffee table in front of me, already pulling a little bag out of her tote.
"How's Wheezie?" I ask as she starts unpacking.
"She's great," Sofia says, her smile automatic and fond. "We got all her stuff unpacked back into her room. Nanny and Pops picked her up for the night."
"Yeah," Rafe adds as he passes into the kitchen. "They're probably spoiling her rotten."
"Good," I murmur, feeling a wash of relief I didn't know I was waiting for.
    Sofia leans in with a brush, tilting my chin just so. Her hands are steady and practiced. She doesn't overdo it—just evens me out, a little concealer under my eyes, a sweep of blush, mascara light enough to make me look like I didn't spend the day sweating in a kitchen. She hums while she works, like a little bird flitting around its masterpiece.
    From where I'm sitting, I can see straight through the archway into the kitchen. John B. is moving everything onto their respective plates, and I can practically see his mind trying to do things the way I'd do them. A few feet away is Rafe, forearms wet, head bent over the sink, washing all of the dishes I made cooking.
    It occurs to me that I don't think I've ever seen Rafe wash the dishes. I'm not surprised that he's helping out, but it is strange to see him so homely and husband-like.
Sofia finishes brushing a little color onto my cheeks, leaning back to admire her work. "There. You look beautiful."
    I huff, embarrassed but warmed too. "You don't know how much I needed this. Thank you for coming."
    "Are you kidding?" Sofia says immediately, smile bright. "Thank you for inviting us. This is really special, Sarah."
    From the kitchen, Rafe glances over his shoulder, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Yeah. Thanks."
The doorbell rings again, and I swear my pulse leaps into my throat. Before I can even get up, Pope's voice carries from the porch, loud and familiar. John B. jogs over to open it, and suddenly the living room fills with more footsteps, more laughter, more warmth.
Pope comes in first, tall and grinning, with Cleo right behind him. She hugs me carefully, mindful of the belly between us. Pope's parents trail in after them, their smiles gentle, a little reverent, like they're walking into something bigger than this actually is.
Mrs. Heyward immediately presses a bag into my hands. There are two more at her side. The tissue paper crinkles, and I freeze. "Oh—no," I stammer, shaking my head. "This isn't a baby shower. You didn't have to—"
"Nonsense," she cuts me off kindly, patting my hand. "You don't need a shower to be celebrated."
I almost roll my eyes, but some compliments are truly meant to be taken. "Thank you."
They settle in—Cleo's already teasing Pope about how he tried to bake a loaf of bread for tonight, but it ended up inedible, which earns her a shove and Pope's muttered, "At least I tried."
Not long after, the door swings open again, and Kie bursts in with JJ right on her heels. They're chattering before they've even crossed the threshold, her parents following with more measured steps. Kie's already apologizing for them being late, JJ's blaming traffic, and Mrs. Carrera is trying to smooth it over with a hug.
The room hums now—little pockets of conversation, laughter bouncing between walls. I let myself sink into it for a moment, the way it feels to have them all here, all these people I love in one place.
"Dinner's ready," John B. calls, and just like that the chatter shifts, everyone moving toward the backyard to the long table I fussed over all day.
He gestures for me to sit first, pulling out my chair like we're something out of an old movie, and I can't stop the small smile that sneaks across my face. Then he starts serving—careful with the roast, ladling potatoes, sliding bowls down the table so they reach every hand.
    The plates clink as everyone settles, passing bowls, murmurs of "thank you" weaving through the air. It takes a few minutes for the noise to even out, for forks to start moving, for the warmth to spread.
    "So," Pope starts, glancing at Cleo before turning to the table. His grin is sheepish, but there's pride under it. "We've been looking at the house down the street."
    Kie gasps, dropping her fork. "No way. The one with the big tree in the front?"
    "Yeah." Pope nods, shoulders squaring a little. "Thinking of buying it. Renting out Poguelandia."
    My squeal joins Kie's before I can stop it, a laugh bubbling up too. "Oh my God, Pope! That's—are you serious?"
    "Dead serious." Cleo's smirk is sharp and proud. "It's time."
    The boys clap Pope on the back, JJ hollering something about finally upgrading from the shack, and John B. grinning wide enough to split his face. The table feels brighter, excitement skipping from one end to the other.
    Conversation spills into Rafe and Sofía next. Someone—Anna, I think—asks about how they're doing.
    "We're good," Sofía says, voice warm, chin tilted toward Rafe as though she can't help it. "Rafe's been busy. Haven't you, babe?"
    "Yeah, yeah," he agrees. "Lots of movement right now on the island. Properties and stuff."
    "Busy is good," John B. adds, and Rafe gives the smallest of nods, like he's letting the compliment in without making a big show of it.
    "And Miss Sofia," Heyward adds, "do you work?"
    Her eyes light up. "I do, actually. I, um—for the past year or so, I've been working at the daycare on East End."
    "That suits you," Kie says, nodding like it's the most natural fit. "I bet those kids adore you."
"They do," Sofía admits, a little shy but glowing. "And I adore them right back. I didn't think I'd love it this much, but—" she shrugs, laughing softly—"I can't imagine not having it now."
Rafe watches her with this small, unguarded look. He's proud.
The talk shifts again, softer this time. Mrs. Heyward turns to me, her eyes kind but pointed. "And how are you, Sarah? Really. How's the pregnancy treating you?"
I take a sip of water before answering, trying to be honest without dragging the mood down. "It's... a lot. Some days are harder than others. But she's healthy, so I'm trying to stay positive."
Her smile deepens, eyes shining. "That's a blessing."
"We're really excited," John B. beams, hand creeping onto my thigh. "Things haven't gone how we planned, but we're lucky nonetheless."
I think everyone can tell it's a little difficult for me to talk about all things baby right now, so the focus naturally tilts to JJ and Kie.
Heyward clears his throat. "And how's married life, you two?"
JJ straightens like he's about to crack a joke, but Kie beats him to it, glowing. "It's amazing. The new house is just beautiful, and our honeymoon was perfect."
Mike raises a brow, cutting his meat. "You don't feel like you're moving too fast?"
The question hangs a second too long. Kie laughs, quick and light. "No. Not at all."
JJ nods right along with her, firm. "Feels exactly right."
Conversation drifts—stories about moving, about little renovations to the shop, about fake events we've been using to cover up for the Miller case. It's good and easy, albeit not totally true, but I'll lie for a night if it means bringing everyone together.
Then Mike's voice cuts through again, rougher this time. "A bunch of children acting like they have any idea how to grow up."
The table stills. Mrs. Heyward shoots him a sharp look. "Mike, please."
Heyward sits up straighter. "They're very responsible kids."
He doesn't stop. "Responsible?! No one responsible drops out of school and searches for made-up treasure instead, or—or gets married before they're legally able to drink. No one responsible—" his eyes flick to me, then back to the mass of the table "—no one responsible has kids at nineteen."
    The silence after Mike's words is sharp and jagged. My fork feels too heavy in my hand.
    Kie's chair scrapes against the dirt as she sits forward, eyes blazing. "You and Mom had me at nineteen!"
    Mike doesn't even flinch. "We were twenty."
    Kie throws up her hands. "Shit. Sorry. One year different! Like that changes anything."
    "It does," he snaps back. "Because we were ready. We had stability."
    "They have stability!" she fires back, jabbing a finger toward me and John B.
    Mike lets out a scoff that makes my stomach twist. "Yeah, a surf shop. Is that what you call stable?"
    JJ slams his palm down, silverware rattling. "It's a hell of a lot more stable than chasing nine-to-fives you hate your whole life."
    "JJ," Anna warns, voice tight.
    "That's not responsibility," Mike pushes, voice rising. "That's recklessness dressed up as independence."
    Pope leans forward now, calm but edged. "That's unfair. You've seen what they've been through. What we've all been through. We're not kids anymore."
    "You are," Mike snaps, the word sharp like a slap. "And pretending otherwise doesn't make it true."
    "Pretending?" Rafe's voice cuts in, low, dangerous. "What part of working day and night, paying bills, and keeping things running is pretending?"
    Mike's gaze flicks to him, dismissive. "You wouldn't know real work if it hit you in the face, Cameron."
    Sofía bristles at his tone, but Anna's quick to interject, palms up. "Okay. Enough. Everyone's different. We don't need to—"
    But Mike barrels right over her. "Dropping out, getting married, having babies—this is irresponsibility. It's selfish. And it's going to fall apart, just like it always does when kids try to play house."
    Kie's practically shaking. "You don't know a damn thing about us!"
    "Yes, I do," Mike shoots back. "I know what happens when people think they can skip the hard part of growing up. It catches up with them. And guess who pays? Everyone around them."
    JJ pushes up from his chair, face hard. "You got something bigger to say, just say it. Don't sit there taking shots and acting like you're better than everyone."
    "I am better," Mike says without hesitation. "Because I did it right. And none of you—" his eyes cut across the table, landing on me, sharp as glass "—none of you have."
    The words stick in the air like poison.
    For a second, no one breathes.
    Then John B. speaks. He's furious. I can tell. "That's enough."
    Mike smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, here we go. The one who started it all."
    "No." John B. pushes his chair back, standing now. His hands are braced on the table, shoulders squared. "You don't get to sit at this table and tear everyone down like that. Not my wife. Not my family."
    "Family," Mike echoes, almost laughing. "Is that what you think this is?"
    "It is," John B. says firmly, louder now. "It's mine. And if you can't respect that—if you can't respect her—you can leave."
    The air is thick with it, the clash of voices still buzzing in my head.
    My hands tremble in my lap. I can't do this. Not here, not in front of everyone.
    Before anyone notices, I push my chair back as quietly as I can and slip inside. My vision blurs, tears hot and unwelcome. The laughter, the warmth, all of it feels so far away now, like it was never real.
I break down in the kitchen. I can still hear everyone shouting. John B.'s voice sticks out to me, loud and booming, but I'm not sure if it's actually the loudest or if I'm just listening for it. It makes me proud that he would stand up for me like that, but I just can't do this tonight.
Mrs. Heyward doesn't let me stay alone. She eases the back door shut behind her and steps into the kitchen quietly.
I swipe at my eyes uselessly. "I'm fine."
She tilts her head, looking at me like she knows I'm lying through my teeth. Her hand rests lightly over mine, not forcing, just steady. "Sweetheart, you don't have to be fine every second."
My throat tightens again. "I just... I didn't want this. Not tonight. I wanted everyone to be happy, you know? One nice dinner. Just once."
"You did," she says gently. "We were happy. Don't let one voice undo all that."
The lump in my throat breaks, and I let out this shaky laugh that's halfway to a sob. "Feels like it undid everything."
Mrs. Heyward shakes her head firmly. "No. That man may be loud, but he doesn't get the final say on your life. Or your baby's." She squeezes my hand. "You're stronger than you think. And you are loved. You remember that."
I press my palms into my eyes, trying to keep the tears from running down my cheeks, but she doesn't make me feel weak for it. She just sits there, solid and unshaken, like she's holding the floor up under me.
She's the kind of mom I'll spend my whole life trying to be.
The back door creaks again. I turn, half-expecting John B., but it's Kie instead. Pope's mom gets up and excuses herself when she sees her walk in.
Kie hesitates in the doorway, chewing her lip, before blurting, "I'm sorry. About my dad."
I open my mouth to tell her she doesn't have to apologize, but she barrels on.
"He's... God, he's impossible. He doesn't know when to shut up, and he acts like he's the only one who ever got it right." Her eyes are wet, voice cracking. "He doesn't speak for me. Or Mom. Or anyone, honestly. He doesn't know you like I do."
I stand, wiping my hands on my dress, and cross the space between us. Kie meets me halfway, arms wrapping around me tight. "You don't have to carry him," I whisper.
She huffs a laugh against my shoulder. "Feels like I do sometimes."
Kie pulls back, eyes flashing with leftover anger. "You know what, screw him. You're doing amazing. The dinner? Perfect. The decorations? Perfect. You? Perfect. Don't let him twist it."
I almost laugh, because "perfect" isn't exactly how I'd describe myself lately, but hearing it from her, fierce and unwavering, settles something in me.
"Thanks, Kie," I whisper.
"Always," she says, tugging me into another hug.
    I hear Anna's voice from outside, tight but soft when she stands from the table. "We're heading out. Thank you, John B. Dinner was lovely."
    She walks through the backcourt and to the house, face pale with embarrassment. Mike, on the other hand, doesn't bother hiding the smug look on his face as he pushes through. He's not sorry for anything he said. Not the comment about responsibility, not the part where he basically implied John B. and I were ruining our lives. He walks out with zero shame, muttering something under his breath, and Anna follows with an apologetic glance in my direction.
    "I'll talk to him," she whispers as she hugs me quickly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
    Rafe and Sofia are right behind them. She pulls me into a hug first, whispering, "Don't listen to him, okay? You're doing amazing."
    Rafe's hug is tighter than I expect. He holds on an extra second, his voice low. "I hate that he made you feel like that. I love you." He doesn't look at me after, just squeezes my shoulder before leading Sofia out. They're off to pick up Wheezie, leaving the six of us and Pope's parents alone in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a nice dinner.
    Outside, the silence hangs heavy until JJ dramatically taps the rim of his glass with a fork. "Screw this. Let's take the boat out. Night's too good to waste sitting here stewing about Mike fucking Carrera."
    I glance at the dirty dishes stacked on the table, glasses still half full, crumbs everywhere. "We can't just leave this mess—"
    "Yes, you can," Pope's mom interrupts from the head of the table, hands already reaching for plates. His dad is behind her, rolling his sleeves. "Go have fun. We'll clean up."
    "But—"
    "No buts," she insists, smiling at me in that gentle way that makes it hard to argue. "Go. You kids deserve it."
     JJ smirks, tossing his arm around Kie's shoulder. "See? Adult-approved bad decisions. Let's move."
So, we trail through the backyard, off the dock, and onto the boat. The night is already warm and salty with the smell of the water. John B. takes the wheel, leaning back with that effortless grin that always puts me at ease. The boat hums beneath us, lights from the house shrinking behind us as we push off.
JJ immediately cracks open a beer, handing one to Kie, then Pope, then to Cleo. John B. accepts his and winks at me. I shake my head, my water bottle in hand, pretending not to care that I'm the only sober one.
    Cleo flicks a lighter, a thin trail of smoke curling up into the night. She takes a long drag before handing it off to Kie. "Don't say I never share."
    Kie coughs on her first inhale, doubling over.
    "Lightweight!" JJ cackles, reaching for it next. He pulls, holds it, then exhales in a huge cloud right into Pope's face.
    "Dude!" Pope waves frantically, coughing. "What the hell?"
    JJ wheezes laughing. "You sound like a dad, Pope."
    "Maybe because I'm the only responsible one here?" Pope mutters, but his lips twitch anyway.
Typically, I'd make a big deal over the smoke, but I let it slide for the night. Pope leans back with a blissed-out grin, trying to explain some cosmic connection he still thinks was at the root of the Siren's Tear, while JJ sloshes his beer as he gesticulates wildly.
"You're gonna fall in," Kie warns, half laughing, half panicked, as JJ leans way too far over the edge, pointing at some constellation like he's discovered it himself.
"Nah, I've got sea legs, baby!" JJ announces, wobbling.
"You do not," Kie shouts, lunging toward him, but it's too late.
With a loud splash, JJ tips backward over the side, arms flailing, beer flying like a fountain.
"Holy shit!" Kie screams, grabbing the railing.
"JJ!" Pope laughs so hard he's doubled over, glasses slipping down his nose. "I can't believe you just—"
"I meant to do that!" JJ shouts from the water, sputtering and kicking, trying to stay afloat.
Cleo snorts, pointing at him. "You're lucky it's warm, dipshit. Could've been a whole emergency!"
Kie's laughing, leaning over to help him climb back in. I groan when he gets in the boat and shakes out his hair, spraying water all over me.
John B. shakes his head, hands on the wheel, muttering, "Only him... Only JJ."
I can't stop laughing either, clutching my stomach and resting my free hand over the baby. Every tiny thing makes me giggle. This—this chaos—is exactly what I needed. My friends, my family, drunk and high and stupid, and somehow still surviving.
"Next time, sober up, JJ," Pope says, grinning, as he passes the joint back to Kie.
"Nah," JJ says, hugging Kie to purposefully get her clothes all wet. "Makes the night way more exciting!"
    Pope settles comfortably onto the bench, bottle of beer in his hand, and shakes his head. "Can't take y'all anywhere."
    "You're on a boat, Pope. Lighten up." JJ flops dramatically beside him, then plucks the bottle straight from his hand.
    "Hey!" Pope tries to grab it back, but JJ's already tipped it up. Foam dribbles down his chin.
    "See?" JJ wipes his mouth, grinning wide. "Refreshing."
John B. reaches over and wraps an arm around my shoulder. "You okay?"
"I'm perfect," I say, watching the waves glitter in the moonlight, my friends yelling and laughing around me. "This is exactly perfect."

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debating if i should share a snippet of my new book 👀👀👀 thoughts?