Chapter Text
It was probably a bad idea, agreeing to leave Kildare. Even if it's temporary.
JJ tries not to live with regret, he really does, but as he weaves through campus on a Friday night, he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s doing here. Streets littered with drunk college students, shifting and braking and trying not to think about Pope’s whole law school spiel about charges for involuntary manslaughter.
Accident or not, JJ, you should never ever–
He should never, ever – never, ever go on campus. He could’ve ignored the request when he saw the address; he’s done it before. But sometimes he remembers that John B has his cruise line gig, and Pope has school, and JJ…has a boat. A boat that doesn’t even run. That isn’t even his.
But it will be. If he makes extra money while he’s here helping Heyward out, if he keeps grinding back in Kildare, if he makes a commitment, a promise.
And he wants to make promises to himself, to keep them. After all, no one else is going to.
Icy January flurries on his windshield, slick under his tires. His poor excuse for heat in his beat up truck sputtering what feels like its dying breath. He wonders, briefly, how his rust-eaten truck looks on the outside, dotted in white.
Snow on the coast. Rare, spiraling in the dark. It quells his annoyance, momentarily, as he sits at a stoplight, peering through his windshield. Slowing down isn’t really JJ’s forte, but he’s had to over the last few years, a consequence of being alone.
There’s been times he’s craved quiet, cowered on the other side of a door, monstrous banging from the other side. Times he’s wanted to shout as loud as he could. Times he’d do anything to drown it all out.
And he had, in ways he’s not proud of. But he’s learning, now, how to sit with himself. How to be in the peace and really take time to–
“Hurry up!”
A voice snaps him back, head whipping to see the back door flung open, the charge of winter bursting through his truck along with a mass of windblown hair.
“Hey, what the fu–”
A shriek, a roll of laughter. “It’sfuckingfreezingscootover!”
He’s nearly knocked out from the thick smell of liquor, last call at the bar suddenly perched in his backseat, dolled up in knee-high boots and bare arms.
“Um, yeah, hi hello,” he barks over the chatter and laughter. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Yeah, um–” One of the two girls scoots up to the arm rest. The blonde one. “We’re just like, a few blocks from here. Would you mind giving us a lift?”
“This ain’t a damn’ Uber.”
“Yeah, I know, but–” Her cat eyes struggle to focus. “An Uber’s gonna be like an hour, and it’s just so fucking cold out there.” A punch-drunk, pleading smile. “Please.”
He blinks. Wonders who the hell wears tank tops at record-low temperatures, who the hell jumps in a complete stranger’s car. And when he doesn’t answer quick enough–
“Or don’t.” A quip over the blonde’s shoulder. “There’s other guys with trucks out there.”
JJ’s eyes dart behind Blonde Girl where the other girl is sitting, arms folded. She hasn’t said a word until now, unwilling to beg, apparently. Eyes glossy but alert as she stares him down, a sheen of snow dusting over her dark curls, across her cheeks, red lips pressed together. A girl who’s looking at him like he offended her, somehow.
A retort catches in his throat, his usual bite a step behind. Can’t quite seem to come up with anything under her laserbeam stare, but he can match her glare for glare.
And he does, charged moments passing before a honk intrudes, some asshole behind him. Trucker hat head out the window, an arm tossed up.
A green light, the car ahead of him already gone. One girl begging, the other scowling. Challenging. Time ticking in moving traffic, the strained warble of the radio pounding in his ears.
What JJ knows is that refusing feels like letting this fire-eyed girl win. What he knows is, he’s a dick, but he’s got some kind of southern decorum. What JJ knows to do is toss up a middle finger to the car behind. Sigh deeply, dramatically, and hit the gas.
“Ohmygodthankyouthankyouthankyou!” Blonde Girl screeches, tiny claps as she sinks back into her seat.
“Just gimme the address,” he grumbles.
While Blonde Girl rattles it off, his eyes land on the rearview mirror where the dark-haired girl is already there, staring. Lips curled, a grin or a smirk, he can’t tell.
And then, accusingly, “Can you turn your heat on?”
He frowns. “It is on.”
“Seriously?” her red lips snark. “It’s freezing in here.” She tugs at the purple scarf looped around her neck. What the point of a scarf is when you’re barely wearing a shirt, he has no idea.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he chuckles humorlessly, “wasn’t expecting guests.”
She snorts. “You need to get that checked out.”
“Great, thanks,” he clips. “Noted.”
The blonde chuckles nervously, leaning in between them to the front. “What she means is, it’s warmer in here than walking outside.” She swings her head to the other girl. “Right, Kiara?”
Kiara.
She sends him an overly sweet smile through the mirror. Swings a fist and chirps, “Right!”
JJ breaks out of their gaze first, dropping his eyes to the flurried road ahead. Blonde girl starts in about a guy at the bar, how he asked her to go with him to some fraternity shit. It’s all JJ can do to keep his eyes from rolling, and what the hell did he expect, he really should’ve known this campus delivery would cause some kind of fucked up domino effect.
“It’s like a semi-formal type of–”
“Oh sure,” Kiara laughs, “so formal they hire strippers and have IceHouse kegs.”
“It’s fun,” Blonde Girl protests.
“Ugh, god,” Kiara groans. “Just watch your drink, okay?”
“He would not–
“He would; they all would.”
JJ stifles a laugh from the driver’s seat, despite himself.
“What’s that?” Kiara surges to the front. “You got an opinion on frat bros?”
“None you wanna hear.”
“No, share with the class,” Kiara waves a hand to her friend, “‘cause Sarah here seems to always wind up with them.”
“First of all–” JJ clicks his signal on, snowflakes pelting the glass as he swings around the corner. “Every single Kook piece of shit from Figure Eight ends up in a fraternity. Buncha trust-fund assholes with coke problems.”
Kiara snickers while Sarah whines a “hey–”
“Second of all,” he carries over them, a stern brow. “You should always watch your drink.”
“See, Sarah, even he knows that–” She halts, bug-eyes landing on his Door Dash delivery piled in his front seat. “Damn, that smells good.”
“Oh, no ya don’t,” he warns before she can lunge. “Someone ordered that. Someone that’s getting it–” He glances at his phone propped up in the dash. “Six minutes later now ‘cause of you.”
“Oh, no,” she mocks with a gasp. “Six minutes? Alert the police.”
“Y’know, people give bad reviews over six minutes,” he gripes.
“Well, those people are assholes.”
He snorts. “We agree on one thing then.”
“Two, actually,” she pats him on the shoulder, “Frat bros and assholes.”
His eyes catch on her hand, delicate gold ringed fingers brushing over his sweatshirt. “That’s really the same thing though.”
“Guys,” Sarah calls from the back, “he really is nice.”
Kiara laughs, fading as she scans his dashboard. She holds out a palm to the vents, looks at him almost suspiciously. “You did something. To the heat.”
“Just…y’know.” He makes a punching gesture to the controls. “You gotta jiggle some things. She comes alive.”
She smiles, cheeks pink in the airy heat. “Thank you.” It’s a nice smile.
She leans back against the backseat, tells Sarah they’re putting in frozen pizza the second they walk in. Says the driver won’t share his food and if the driver would just share his food then they wouldn’t have to light the pilot in their ancient stove while drunk and–
Sarah cuts in, reminds JJ from the back that they’re oh so grateful and thankyouthankyouthankyou again.
He grunts some kind of acknowledgement, knocks the dashboard again, the heat puffing with life.
And then Kiara’s jumping back in, talking about heat coolant and a blower motor and JJ pipes in that it could just be a clogged heater core.
“You say something?” Kiara lunges through the middle. “You think I don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“Whoa whoa,” he chuckles. “All I said was–”
“You think just ‘cause I’m a girl that–”
“What?” he scoffs. “I don’t think shit.”
“‘Cause if you did–”
“I don’t.”
She sizes him up, like she’s deciding if she believes him. Finally settles on, “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been doing this with my dad since I was a kid.”
His stomach does a little twist. Certain topics make it do that. “And what exactly would your dad think about you jumping into a stranger’s car?”
“He’d think that sounds about right.”
He meets her eyes in the mirror, her coy smile. Like she hadn’t just bit his head off. It’s whiplash, keeping up with this girl, and JJ isn’t usually the one having to do the catching up.
“Well, back home at the shop,” he gestures to the vents, “we fix a shit load of clogged heater cores – ‘s the only reason I said–”
“Back home?” Kiara loops her arm around the passenger’s headrest, eyeing him. “I knew you weren’t from here.”
He squints. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not an insult.”
“Okay, then you can tell me what it means.”
“Geez,” she chuckles, “are you always this prickly when you give people rides?”
“I don’t give people rides,” he quips. “I deliver food, and you jumped in my truck uninvited, remember?”
She laughs, too cool. “Oh, right.”
Spice Girls' Wannabe blasts from the back, Sarah letting out a squeal before she answers her phone. Her tone rises, bordering shrill, as she chatters away, obviously talking to the guy from the bar.
Kiara rolls her eyes, mutters a here we go under her breath.
JJ wrinkles his nose. “You’re not lettin’ fraternity Brad come over while she’s like this, right?”
Kiara gives him the most pointed stink eye he’s ever seen, like he’s committed the most criminal offense. “What do you think I am?”
“Hey, I dunno,” he chuckles, “y’all don’t seem to have the soundest judgment.”
“Oh yeah?” she comes back. “How do you know I didn’t get into this truck to get her away from ‘fraternity Brad’?”
“Did you?”
“Well, no,” she scoffs. “It’s fifteen degrees outside.” She flashes him a grin. “But it was a good idea, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He laughs, dizzy. Takes a beat before his eyes flit to hers and back to the road. “It was.”
Some kind of satisfied smile curves on her lips, and she stays, leaning into the front on the armrest, palms to the heat while her friend laughs and flirts on the phone.
Maybe they’re doing the same thing, him and Kiara. He really can’t tell, but he doesn’t hate it.
At some point, he had realized too late that ‘a few blocks’ was a stretch, that he was going quite a bit out of the way. But he’s too far into it now. Maybe he doesn’t even care anymore.
His GPS’s turn warning pulls him out of it like a voice of reason. He snaps alert, focuses on the road ahead. This probably needs to end now, whatever this whole weird, fucking thing is.
He was heading somewhere before she barged in. And he really doesn’t need this distraction.
But she can’t seem to stop….being distracting, that is. Chirping something about his hair, asking how he gets it to style like that (he doesn’t), and he can’t tell if it’s an insult or not. Leaning in, smelling nice, her hair dusting his shoulder, as she turns the radio dial, asking him what he knows about reggae (nothing). And even though he was thinking just moments ago that this ride should probably end, he’s disappointed when it does.
Slowing down at the curb, he puts the truck in neutral and stops in front of a small row of ground floor apartments. A scattering just on the edges of campus grounds he’s never been before, a little more quiet, shadowed outside the lights.
“OH, I gotta go,” Sarah chirps into the phone, “We just got–”
Kiara rips Sarah’s phone from her grasp, hits the end button with gusto, and JJ busts out a laugh.
The offenders from the back clamber out of the truck and spill onto the lawn, boisterous and loud. Sarah staggers towards the front door, profuse thankyous following behind her.
But Kiara, she stays. Leans in through his open window, something citrusy drifting inside. Not citrus…but peach.
“Hey.” She pauses, amber eyes lit in the moonlight. “Thanks for the ride.”
He nods, bites his lip through a smile.
Sarah is in the background fumbling with her keys. Drops them, picks them up, drops them again – looks back at them this time when she shoots back upright, a wide grin he can see even from this distance.
“Ask him to come inside, Kie!”
Kiara laughs, calls back, “He’s got a delivery!” She turns back to him with a smirk. “Can’t mess up the reviews.”
Beneath his glare, heat’s rushing through his veins. She stares back at him, the moment silent but so alive, until Sarah finally gets the door open in the background, squealing about Totino’s and Bagel Bites.
His brows pull together, eyes sliding to her apartment and back. “Are you…gonna be okay with the pilot?” He’s seen old stoves like that and a burst of flaming gas in their state doesn’t seem like the best idea.
“Why?” She raises an eyebrow, lips pretty and twisted. “You wanna come inside and light it for me?”
“I-uh,” he stumbles, pulse jumping. “That wasn’t a line.”
“Oh?” she challenges, “So you don’t wanna come inside?”
He presses his lips tight, buying himself a moment to buffer. He’s normally good at this, he swears. A girl. A look. Something funny or sarcastic or just plain obnoxious. All in rapid-fire motion.
But somehow he’s had to work this whole drive, steering into the ups and downs. Trying to dodge (catch?) everything she’s thrown at him. And the way she’s staring at him now, he realizes that’s exactly where she wants him to be – she wants him to get all flustered, she’s trying to throw him off, this is some game to her. And she’s not gonna win.
He finds his footing, stares back. “Do you want me to come inside?”
There’s a flicker in her eyes, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Surprised he dished it back, respect, maybe. Maybe something else.
He should say something, anything, before this moment passes. But he doesn’t know what that thing is, and before he can come up with it, it’s over.
She pats the car twice, breaking the spell. A sly grin. “You drive safe, now.”
It was a fifteen minute drive, nothing more, nothing less. He can know that and still feel this. “Take care.” He grins back, voice lowering with the name she never said. “Kiara.”
“Bye…” She cocks an eyebrow. “Not-from-around-here JJ.”
He never said his either, but it’s there, falling from her lips. Surely he’s pulling some kind of face, because she waves to his phone on the dash– his name in bold at the top of his app.
He nods, self-satisfied she cared to look. Not that it matters now. “Watch your drinks.”
She takes two steps towards her door, tosses him a smile over her shoulder. “Watch your backseat.”
*
JJ thinks Heyward probably senses it, the way he gets listless, restless. Maybe that’s why he sent him to Wilmington in the first place.
One week down, five to go. He works at the storefront. Trains a new kid whose eyes keep skittering to the ocean, an all too familiar look like he’d rather be surfing. And JJ wonders if Heyward has some sort of affinity for self-punishment.
JJ could just stay working at Heyward’s forever, he doesn’t have to save up, man up, get a life of his own. He could keep clinging to Pope and his dad just because his own fucked off years ago.
Took off on the only real thing of value the Maybanks had, disappearing on their boat into the ocean line. And for a long time, JJ didn’t know if he was a shit person to be relieved, or a shit person for missing him.
He doesn’t miss the endless beer bottles and pills strewn about the house, though, the taste of coppery blood in his mouth, the practiced lies all those mornings before school, pulling on a baseball cap to shadow a black eye.
It isn’t charity, him working for the Heywards, he knows. It never would be with family. But it’s not his either.
And it's been fine, really. Maybe fine is okay, fine is better than he used to be. He worked hard to get to fine.
So he scatters through town with deliveries for Heyward’s, for Door Dash. Sits at stoplights and tries to keep his mind from wandering, his eyes from drifting to the silent backseat.
He’s already forgotten about it. Or, he will. Soon. Right.
JJ’s had a lot of encounters with a lot of women, and a hell of a lot more happened with them than it did in a fifteen minute drive filled with arguing or flirting or whatever the fuck that was.
She’s a college girl with expensive boots and pretty lips that talks mechanics but obviously doesn’t talk to mechanics. Not in the light of day, anyway.
Still. There was something mismatched about her in the middle of it all, about the disdain she had for campus-life and everybody in it, her place on the outskirts. Something about her…
It’s a couple days before he finally pays a visit to the scene of the crime. Taking a particularly large delivery for Heyward, he arranges the boxes in his backseat, peach still clinging all over him, when his eyes catch a tassel on the ground. Snaking from beneath the passenger seat, he tugs on it, and the fabric keeps going in wavy shades of purple.
And he remembers, her fingers toying with the silk, her curls spilling over her bare shoulders.
He should bring the scarf back, right? Or, is that weird? Would it be weirder if he kept it? He’s not a fucking weirdo. But he’s not a thief, either – well, actually, he is. But not about this.
Would that be against Door Dash protocol? When has he ever followed protocol in his whole fuckin’ life?
He’s overthinking it. He’ll just drop off this delivery, then he’ll swing by Kiara’s and simply leave it by the doorstep, and that’ll be the end of it.
He doesn’t even have to see her, talk to her. Once has done enough damage.
He reaches the familiar twists and turns, the spot of the stoplight intrusion. Cracks the window instead of the heat, what with the temperature uptick. It doesn’t save him from the rosy-cheeked smile burned in his brain.
When he pulls up to the curb this time, he gets out, walks the same sidewalk they’d stumbled down, full of overgrown daisies. Tells himself he’s not nervous because JJ doesn’t get nervous, he can talk his way through anything, and hey, what is there to be nervous about when all he’s doing is being a good samaritan and dropping off this scarf that would probably make him a pretty penny at the local resale shop.
He’s just gonna leave it and dip. No problem.
“Hey.”
Shit.
When he whirls around, he tries his best smile, hopes he doesn’t look like a fucking stalker. Hopes that it’s the blonde one – Sarah – and of course it isn’t. The universe doesn’t like him that much.
“Hey, uh…” He holds up the scarf, tight smile. “You left this in my truck.”
The answering silence is deafening.
Kiara’s standing there with a large to-go bag, steam-fogged containers poking from the top. Looks like she’s recently had a shower, all dewy and fresh-faced. Loose hair damp on the shoulders of her UNC-W sweatshirt hanging over barely visible silk shorts. The temperature swing and the sight of her sends him into that familiar whiplash, every bit as bright-eyed as she was under the blanket of snow, more shiny than she was with glittery makeup.
But she’s blank. A heated tendril creeps through his neck as she stands there, a half-smile like she’s trying to be polite, and he’s realizing that all the while he’s been trying to forget her, she’s forgotten him completely.
He’s stuttering then, stumbling over his words, saying god knows what about record breaking snow in Wilmington and gee, wow, isn’t is warm now and–
“I’m fucking with you, JJ.” Kiara breaks into a wide smile, reaches for the scarf as her eyes flit over him. “You ever get your heat fixed?”
He sighs through a relieved chuckle, tugs a hand through his hair. “Nah. Winter will be over soon.”
“Yeah, but then how else am I gonna prove to you I’m right about the motor?”
He smirks, waves a hand towards his truck. “Maybe you’ll just have to look under there yourself.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
He laughs, and then she laughs, and everything stills. Silence petering on, long enough that it should be awkward. But somehow, it’s not. And he should probably be heading back to his truck, but somehow, he can’t.
She shifts, holds the bag to her hip, eyes drawing to his truck and back. “You got another delivery?”
“Uh, no, but, uh–” That’s his cue. He tosses a salute, takes a backwards step, his boot catching on the uneven sidewalk. “Hey. Glad you got your scarf back.”
“Well, hang on,” she comes back, “I picked up all this food for me and Sarah, but she had to go meet for a group project last minute.” She shrugs. “You could come in if you want.”
He raises an eyebrow, bites back a smile. Finds even ground beneath him, feeling cocky and shaky all at once. “Inviting the driver in? Don’tcha know that’s how people get murdered?”
She scoffs. “If you wanted to murder me, you would’ve done it when I got in your car.” She pauses, eyebrow cocked. “Unless that was why you brought up lighting the pilot.”
He snorts. “I brought it up ‘cause you two were drunk as shit and I didn’t feel like hearin’ about ya on the news the next day.”
She barks out a laugh. “Well, you’ll be happy to know we made it out with our Totino’s unscathed.”
He grins. Thinks that scarf did him a solid. He nods to the bag. “I’m payin’ though.”
“Nah–” She shoots him a wink. “Consider it my ride fare.”
Before she turns to walk towards the door, he snags the oversized bag from her grasp. She stops and studies him, but she doesn’t say anything. He carries it the rest of the way, following her through the threshold before he sets it down on her kitchen counter.
She tosses her keys in a dish and starts swanning around the kitchen as he surveys her apartment. JJ’s been in a few campus dwellings since he’s gotten here (against his will), and something about this one is a little different. Where there’s usually shelves lined with shot glasses and empty fifths, there’s incense and vintage CDs. Sure, there’s an open bookbag slung over an ottoman, a text book on the coffee table, an open notebook with scribbles – college dotted throughout. But something isn’t connecting.
It’s what she said that night ‘I knew you weren’t from here.’ He felt something akin to that, too, feels it now, though he can’t fully place it.
One of the bedroom doors is wide open, a floral printed bed half made, a bookshelf with textbooks and a glowing salt lamp, soft headbands hanging from a hook. But it’s the bulletin board his eyes catch on. Overlapping pictures, tacked on at all angles, some of people, some of places.
“You checkin’ out my bedroom?”
“No.” He snaps his head quick to look at her. Sighs in defeat, then, “Well, yes.”
She snorts as she fills a couple of cherry embossed glasses with tap water. “Smooth.”
He chuckles, motions through the open door to the board. “Those places you been?”
He feels a little small suddenly. Like coming to Wilmington was big time for him, and here she is with pictures of camels in sand dunes, beaches with water too blue to be the Atlantic, sunsets over faraway castles.
She offers a half-smile, a slight shake of her head. “Places I wanna go.”
She motions to the table and sets down the water, whisks back to the kitchen and returns with plates and forks. She pulls out the containers from the bag, sits down and stares at him, some sort of reality rolling in.
Like she’s gauging what to make of this, them being here like this. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense at all – the way they met, the way they’re meeting now.
But then she starts opening the containers and forking food onto her plate like some kind of conclusion, and he follows. Making sense is overrated.
He’s dunking a shrimp in cocktail sauce when she finally says, “So are you ever gonna tell me where you're from, then?”
He laughs through his nose, swallows down a bite. “Kildare. It’s in–”
“The Banks.” She hums. “My parents have a home in Nag’s Head.”
“Oh, okay,” he scrutinizes, snagging a hush puppy. “So you’re rich.”
She points her slivered eyes at him. “Could you be a little more condescending?”
“Yeah, I could.” He shrugs, devilish grin as he chews. “But I won’t.”
She glares at him, eyes never leaving his as she peels a shrimp. “Why are you in Wilmington, then?”
“Why are you?” he tosses back.
She cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t believe I’m a student?”
“Not really.” He leans in with a smirk, backpedaling to her words that snowy night. “It’s not an insult.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips are pressed in a smile, and he’s self-satisfied, honestly, that she caught it, that she seems to remember the night as well as him.
“Well, for your information I was one,” she quips. “Just not anymore.”
“And why’s that?”
“I withdrew.” She sighs, something solemn settling in. “I was only here ‘cause my parents wanted me to be.” She shakes out of it, cocks her head with a smile. “Now, your turn.”
He takes a beat. Thinks there’s more to it, and he’d bite if she was offering. “I’m here helpin’ open a store down at Market – Heyward’s. I work at the original location in Kildare.”
“Right, okay.” She chews as she contemplates. “I’ve seen that. Lotta people talking about it already.”
“Well, Heyward’s the man, what can I say?”
“Friend of yours?”
He pauses. “More like family.”
Her lips purse in a smile. “So Door Dash and Heyward’s and the auto shop?”
He shrugs. “Guy’s gotta make a living.”
He doesn’t add that there’s a piece of shit boat with his name on it, something forgotten and neglected in a junkyard. He doubts she would care anyway. Or maybe it’s him that he doubts.
“Still, that’s a lot.”
“Well,” he waves a hand, “Don’t got a trust fund like those frat bros y’all hang out with.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I do not hang out with them.”
“Strippers and IceHouse not your thing?”
“Hey, I got nothing against the profession or the beer,” she counters. “I just don’t need a bunch of douche bags there measuring their dicks.”
Laughter roars from his chest. “Like I said before, Figure Eight kind of assholes.”
She pins him with her gaze, same way she did in that truck. “So what part are you from?”
“Place called the Cut. Only place any respectable Kildare native would live.”
“So you and your friends?” she teases.
“Me and my friends,” he confirms.
“So what are your friends back home like?”
They aren’t really ‘back home,’ is the thing. A few years ago, he could tell her all about them without feeling a pinch in his chest, he could regale her with stories about how the Pogues formed, the Chateau shenanigans. But that was a few years ago.
He clears his throat. “Well, uh. There’s John B. He got a gig on a cruise ship. And, um…Pope. His family owns Heyward’s. He’s in law school in DC.”
“Damn. Law school?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I dunno how we became friends, to be honest. Think it had something to do with cheating my way through science, but I can’t be sure.”
She squints, dark eyes assessing. “I’m sure there was more to do with it than that.”
It had more to do with where they’re from, the roots that run through generations. It doesn’t matter how different he and Pope are, they’re the same.
“How ‘bout you? You grow up with Totino’s girl?”
“Sarah,” she clarifies through a laugh, “and yeah. She’s the only reason I survived that fuckin’ private school.”
He hums. “No school for you, then.” Private school, college, a bulletin board of faraway places. He’s done none of those things, but he feels a way about it all the same. “So what are you gonna do now?”
She chuckles humorlessly. “Million dollar question. One Anna and Mike Carrera would certainly like answered.”
He grins. “Kiara Carrera, huh?”
“Yup.” She raises an eyebrow. “JJ Maybank.”
He shoots an accusatory look. “Now I know my last name ain’t on the app.”
She stutters a laugh. “You had a receipt sitting in the backseat.”
“Well jesus, have ya found my social security number, too?”
“If you leave it lying around for the world to see, then yes.” She grins, finger tracing the wood grain on the table before her eyes flit back to his. “There’s some conservation jobs I’m looking into. Lots of travel.”
He hums, nods to her bedroom. “You tryna to get to all those places?”
She laughs. “Well, someday. Probably along the East coast first.”
“Mainland’s the only place I’ve been besides the Banks.” He has no idea why he said it; screamed it, basically, that he’s the anti-bulletin board.
She smiles, doesn’t skip a beat. “The Banks is a beautiful place.”
He nods. “Paradise on earth – ‘swhat John B used to say.” Yeah, such a paradise that he left. JJ doesn’t feel mad about it, not anymore. Maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel next. “Never been to Nag’s Head, though. Hear the swells are insane.”
She chuckles arily, scratches the back of her neck. Says slowly, “I wouldn’t…really know.”
“Don’t surf?” He wipes grease from his hands on a napkin, pushes his crumb-spotted plate to the side.
“I do.” She pauses. “Just not there.”
He frowns. “I thought your parents–”
“Yeah, but…” She trails off, finding the words. “I spent my summers in Kitty Hawk.”
“Another house?” he shakes his head. “Damn.”
“No,” she laughs lightly. “It was…camp.” A wry smile. “They thought it’d keep me out of trouble when I wasn’t in school.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “And did it?
She lowers her gaze. “What do you think?”
It feels a little like trouble now, whatever he’s getting himself into, diving deeper. “I think that summer camp sounds like a load of shit.”
Her laugh rings. “It was. Super militaristic, conformist, whatever, but…some of it was good.”
“Yeah?”
The thought of summer camp baffles him, honestly. Summers were for roaming free, bonfires at midnight and waves at dawn. Camp sounds like a rich person thing, places Kooks from Nag’s Head send their kids. But this one sounds like something else, too, something that causes her shoulders to tense.
Her eyes grow distant, a weak smile. “The days we’d go to the beach, away from the campgrounds…I’ve never seen a beach that quiet or empty.” She shrugs. “I dunno, that was the only time it felt like there was something else out there, y’know?”
He knows. It’s how he feels on the water, it’s why he wants to make his living out there. And somewhere in the darkest corners, where he doesn’t let in any light, he’s thought it too. What’s beyond Kildare, where the waves could carry you if you kept on riding. He wonders if either of them will get the chance to know. If he was a betting man, he’d put his money on Kiara.
“I have places like that.”
Another place, next to the ocean, one that doesn’t quite feel the same anymore. Not since cruise ships and law school.
Quiet these days, burning one down in the hammock under the sprawling willow tree, swallowed in the still of night and the stars. No one yelling up from the dock, flipping into the water. No one rattling off monotonously about dead bodies.
But there’s hope there still, always would be. Maybe that’s why JJ never got his own place, stayed at the Chateau, stuck in the past, like everyone would come back there someday.
She nods, solemn. “Everyone should have a place like that.” She chuckles humorlessly, absently tossing the trash back in the paper bag. “And that place, for me, is not here.”
He clicks his tongue. “Too many frat bros?”
She rolls her eyes. “Way too many. One is too many.” She waves a hand. “The whole college scene just really isn’t my thing at all.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “So if you don’t go to school, and you don’t like to hang out on campus, what do you like to do?”
She rests her chin in her hand, locks into his eyes. Slides his phone sitting on the table towards him. “Call me and find out.”
*
When JJ was in fourth grade, he sat in the principal’s office, listening to his teacher go off about him. They tried, he remembers, to call his parents multiple times, but no one was there. They were never there.
He was in trouble, yet again, and he doesn’t even remember particularly what he did that day or most of what the teacher said, but he remembers the word she used – impulsivity. The way his hands and mouth were never quiet, how he’d wander his restless legs around the classroom, consistently fall two steps behind everyone else.
Maybe he let it define him a little too hard. Maybe getting in trouble was the only thing he knew to do. Maybe he’d done too many things for the sake of impulsivity.
So why then, does he ignore every single impulse in his body telling him to call Kiara?
This kind of trouble seems too dangerous. The risk too high. All this coming from a man who’s stolen guns and ransacked drug dealers’ homes.
Temporary’s a good thing, JJ’s no good at permanent. But something about his and Kiara’s whole thing made him feel weird about it. And temporary is all it was going to be considering he’s leaving soon. Considering she has conservation and travel and more important things to think about than slumming it for a few weeks with him. If she even gave him a few weeks.
It doesn’t even matter, it’s been days now, long enough at this point that a girl like Kiara has moved on. He tells himself it’s better this way. They barely know each other, clean break. If he really needs to feel something, he can find someone else.
Anyone else. Just not her.
He hadn’t considered the fact, though, that they’ve collided into each other twice now, somewhat by chance, that he should probably have his guard up buzzing around Wilmington. Then he wouldn’t have been entirely defenseless when he showed up at that apartment.
The blasting music is just par for the course in this spot, a red brick building with piled up dirt and leaves in the gutters, spray painted Greek letters on the utility box. Hardly a step up from whatever fraternity houses these guys were born and bred in.
It’s been an exercise in patience, delivering in these parts, one he never learned delivering to Figure Eight back home. But Heyward trusts him to be here, even when no one else would. Maybe JJ’s just more stubborn than anything, wanting to prove Heyward right.
He hasn’t gotten in a fight yet (not one involving fists). No bloodshed his whole time here (save for surfing cuts and work bruises). It’s only been a couple weeks, but still. Progress.
He follows the rapping of Next Episode, weaving up the flight of metal stairs, the steel vibrating from the bass. Ducks through a beer pong brawl in the hallway, neck ties half-knotted and uniform slick hair as they cheer and chant. He whistles loudly when he gets to the wide open door, trying to get someone’s, anyone’s, attention in the mosh pit of blazers and rumpled button downs, way too drunk girls under their arms as they robotically jump up and down.
“Hey, boss.” The worst of them with Sperrys and a large initial pinky ring finally materializes, motioning to the ground. “Just leave it there.”
“Yeah, no–” JJ ducks as another bro flies past him, careening into the beer pong game. “Not leavin’ it here to get all stomped on ‘n shit then get a complaint.”
The guy sighs, exasperated. “Jesus, man, okay.” He scans the room, perplexed at the most minor inconvenience. “Sarah? Babe? Can you help me out here?”
JJ doesn't think much of it, the head of blonde starting to weave through the mass. Not until a window slivers between the flailing limbs and he realizes just exactly which Sarah this is. Which friend of hers is sitting on a couch against the wall, a crown of dark curls peeking through, the hem of a silver dress and crossed bronzed legs.
His heart jumps to his throat, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s been caught ghosting a girl more times than he can remember, but this isn’t about that. It’d be a lot easier if it was.
It’s here, this, her. It’s bad enough, having to wade through this bullshit, old fucked up memories of Kildare rushing back, what him, Pope, JB, had to put up with from the other side of their island. But something about seeing her there makes it so much worse.
He knew better, didn’t he? He knew she was one of them. And whatever she was that day in her apartment…well, it doesn’t matter now.
He ignored one impulse. He can ignore this now.
He gathers his wits about him, shoves the bags at the guy despite his protests as he rushes through the beer pong match, Solo cup contents sloshing on his back in the process. And when he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he thinks he’s home free when the metal staircase starts creaking and clicking behind him.
“JJ? What the hell?”
He squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a deep exhale. Wishes he didn’t recognize that voice already. Thinks about pretending he didn’t notice her and keep on walking to his car.
But he did notice her. Too much. So much that he’s running away for the second time.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for when he whips around, but Kiara is trying to walk down the stairs, meticulously placing her heels on the solid parts of the metal grates.
Instantly, he rushes back to the steps, raises his palms. “Jesus, wouldja just– wait there.” He two-step skips to the top, holding out his hand.
She cuts him a look, cautious. But she slides her hand in his, holds on tight. He leads them, fingers intertwined, down the steps, but the truce ends the moment they hit the parking lot.
She drops his hand, throws up an arm. “Were you just gonna dip without saying anything?”
“Uh, well.” His throat dries; he forces out a chuckle. “That was the plan, yeah.”
She shoots daggers, laughs bitterly. “Yeah, you’re good at that, huh?”
Part of him thought she wouldn’t even care if he called, that whatever they had in his truck, in her apartment was no big deal to her. That she might even come over here just to say hello and they’d part ways. No harm, no foul.
But the other shitty, prideful part of him feels satisfied that she’s mad, that she feels anything at all.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “You looked busy.”
She frowns, dark eyeliner eyes slivering. Something sparkly is brushed on her cheeks, tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead, fighting against her slick bun. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he dismisses.
She stares at him, deciding. A stony, “okay, then” before she’s turning on her heel back towards the stairs. “Have a good night.”
“Yeah, you too,” he calls after her. “Enjoy mosh pitting with the ‘fraternity Brads.’”
There it is, the crack in his armor, the knife he can’t help twisting. It’s personal, and he wonders how it’s possible they even got to personal already. It’s completely unfair, he knows, especially after his silence, when she tried, told him things. She probably shouldn't have.
It’s just that she’d said it with so much conviction… I do not hang out with them. That this wasn’t her scene, quit school, even, to prove it. And why does he care?
She doesn’t need to prove herself to anyone, least of all him. He barely knows her, clearly.
She spins back around with venom. “You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve.”
“Just sayin’.” He surveys the gem studded necklace hanging over the hollow of her neck, the way the silver fabric drapes over her curves. Hates that he’s jealous and petty and wanting. “You look pretty comfortable for this ‘not being your scene’ and all.”
By comfortable he means beautiful, but he’s an asshole and she’s not in a place to hear that right now. And here he is, a ripped edge Heyward’s t-shirt smelling like grease. He had enough of this back home, years of shit from Figure Eight. He thought he was better than this now, that he was over it.
“What do you care?” she spits back.
He chuckles, folds his arms over his chest. “Heyward’s delivery, huh? What, were you trying to shove this shit in my face or something?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snaps, “I didn’t even know they were ordering Heyward’s.” She scowls. “I don’t owe you shit, JJ.”
He lets out a sharp exhale, drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, ya know what?” Tries to shake out of it, but it’s still more bitter than intended. “Ya don’t. So–”
“But if I did,” she carries over him, “I’d tell you I’m on a group thing for Sarah.”
“Sounds like the double date from hell,” he scoffs.
She shrugs coolly. “Well at least someone has the balls to ask me.”
“I don’t date.” It’s quick, cutting. He hadn’t meant it to be – it’s just true.
Thing is, she doesn’t realize he doesn’t do what he did in her apartment either, what they’re even doing now, having some kind of argument or whatever the fuck like they’re more than perfect strangers. It’s already gone further than he’s ever let anything go, and he only just touched her hand.
But no, she doesn’t know any of that.
She shakes her head, a dismissive laugh. “You’re a dick.”
He can’t argue with that. And he definitely can’t explain to her why he dipped when he can barely explain it to himself. He’s making things worse, and it’s hopeless, but JJ’s good at hopeless. He doesn’t deserve another chance but somehow he’s here now, taking one anyway.
She turns to go. He panics. He has an impulse.
“I do hot dog stands though,” he blurts out after her. “At the pier. If you’re interested.”
She stills, shoulders tense in that excruciatingly backless dress she’s wearing. Turns around slowly, blinking. Her mouth parts, in surprise maybe, quickly snapped shut. Opens again, more resolve in her eyes, like she’s about to tell him to fuck off.
And he’d deserve it, but he cuts in with one more try. Says sincerely, honestly, “I’m sorry.”
It’s barely perceptible, but it’s there, her boarded up honey eyes peeking through, raking over him. She probably shouldn’t even give him those moments of consideration, but somehow, against all odds, she gives him more.
She takes a step backwards, one foot out the door. “Text me the time and place.” A last look before she reverses to the party. “Don’t fuck this up.”
*
JJ meant it when he said he doesn’t do dates. And Kiara deserves a hell of a lot better than this one, likely had a lot better than this.
Why did he even say it; why does he say a lot of things? Him and his motor mouth; his dad knew it, his fourth grade teacher knew it.
It’s cold, overcast at the pier. He surveys the spot, waiting for her – the hot dog stand looks a lot shabbier than he remembered, the bored worker off to the side, trying and failing to light his cigarette in the wind.
Jesus christ. This is exactly why he doesn’t date, there’s too much expectation, too much room for disappointment. A lot cleaner, easier, when it's just a one time thing.
He’s full of shit ideas, a whole life strung together with his mistakes. He can’t tell if this is one or not.
Honestly, he wants to ditch. Really drive that nail into this second chance coffin. But he remembers Kiara, racing to the stairs from that party like it was an escape route, stalling in the parking lot with him, eyes flashing with hurt when she could be numb upstairs like everyone else.
Maybe she really is who he saw in that apartment, a bulletin board of dreams, ditching college for a life on her own terms. Maybe she doesn’t actually want semi-formals and double dates with trust funds. Maybe that makes it worse.
The minutes tick by, the gale picking up as the clouds tousle through the sky. All darkness, empty space…no Kiara. He should’ve seen this coming. But she’s good at knocking him off his game, good at being everything he couldn’t and shouldn’t have. It’s all gone on long enough now. Enough.
He walks back towards the parking lot, keeps his head down against the wind until he hits the grainy end of the dock where the wood blends into sand.
“Don’t tell me you’re dipping again.”
His eyes snap up, recognizing the voice a half second before he’s peering into challenging dark eyes, her restrained curls from the party now whipping free in the wind.
He bites down a smile, the clouds dissipating. “Thought you were standin’ me up.”
She shrugs. “I thought about it.”
A beat passes, Kiara aglow in the gray. He gestures to the sky. “Sorry, like the weather’s shit and…I dunno, we can just go like–”
“No,” Kiara clips, taking two steps on to the dock. A quick look over her shoulder to follow. “I like it here.”
She’s back dressed like the way she was in her apartment, an oversized sweater with a sun and color block rays, black jeans, Converse. Glittery cheeks and eyeliner gone, rosy windburn and wide-eyed instead.
He won’t even lie, the silver dress did something to him. But this does more, finding the comfort he did between her apartment walls. And it’s not fair, she isn’t just one thing, he knows. She’s allowed to be a lot of things, anything, but maybe it’s him that isn’t allowed to have it.
He buys them two hot dogs, the works. Kiara wants everything on it, even the celery salt and the relish. He asks if she wants to sit, her answer a nod down the pier instead. They stroll to the very end, snagging bites and talking around chewing, watching the white caps curl into themselves over and over.
And JJ can be a motor mouth, sure. But he never actually says anything. Today, he does. With her, he can’t seem to help it.
They lean against the railing, her arm pressed into his. It’s cold, and he’s not entirely sure it’s on purpose.
The pier is mostly a ghost town, save for the real saltlifers, though the fishermen casting lines just a few feet away are giving themselves away.
“Damn, they’re hopeless,” JJ surveys from his side-view. “That type of bait don’t work in saltwater.”
Kiara hums, swallows the last bite of her hot dog. “Maybe you should go down there and take pity on them.”
“Maybe I will.” He pauses, the words crashing in against his will. “It’s what I wanna do, actually.”
She swipes her mouth with a napkin, brows knit together. “Fishing?”
“Kinda.” He hasn’t said it out loud to anyone. Remembers that she told him about school and summer camps and conservation. “I wanna run charters.”
She pauses, eyes scanning over him. “You’d be good at that,” she declares. Says with a smirk, “Kinda know it all-y about the water, the Banks.”
He grins, self-assured and proud. “I’m a saltlifer, Kiara; it’s what Maybanks do.”
She purses a smile, studies him. “So what’s stoppin’ ya?”
“Bobby at the junkyard.” At her puzzled look, he says, “There’s a boat there with my name on it. Unofficially. Just gotta save up enough.”
“That gonna be a family thing, then?”
His chest squeezes, confidence wavering. He shouldn’t have mentioned it – the Maybanks…as if that means anything. “Uh, nah. Just mine.”
She nods slowly. “So that explains the multiple jobs.”
He shrugs. Doesn’t mention that the time he used to spend surfing and smoking and stomping through the Cut is now scattered to law school and the open sea.
But she seems to pick up, anyway. “Do you like it? Being in Kildare?”
Alone; maybe that’s what she means. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He’ll always defend Kildare, need it, even if it’s for fucked up reasons. Finally settles on, “It’s home.”
She nods, eyes distant on the foggy ocean line. “Not sure I’ve ever felt that.”
He presses in a little closer. “You from Wilmington?”
“Yeah…” she contemplates. “I wanted to go to school further, but my parents did not think that was a good idea.”
“And what did you think?”
She laughs humorlessly. ”I wasn’t. But once I make some money of my own…I can do things my way.” She pauses, eyes settling on him. “Like you.”
He doesn’t quite know what to do with that, the way she’s looking at him like he did something right, after years of doing everything all wrong.
It was suffocation for her. Different than neglect, stifling all the same.
He judged. Compared. Shied away with his shitty self-worth. Maybe he still is, but he can do better, he is doing better. For her, he will.
An icy gust of wind blasts through the quiet, and she curses and he chuckles and then she’s surging closer, head hooked under his jaw.
She sighs into him, breath warm against his neck, her windblown curls dusting along his chin. On purpose this time…yeah. Maybe.
He drapes a shielding arm around her, brushes back her hair. “There’s a cove just a little ways down. We could, y’know–” He pulls her in a little tighter. “Hunker down.”
She nods and smiles and his heart beats straight through his skin.
He motions to the snow cone stand about halfway down the pier. “Bring dessert?”
A smile pulls at the side of her mouth, tugging him towards the stand in answer. It’s too cold, but today isn’t for the rules.
Tumbling ice leaves a trail behind them as they tread down the shore to the cove. They drop to the sand, the air finally still as they chip away at their snowy mountains.
She picked cherry, and it stains her lips, blood-red and shiny as the night he met her. He picked iced raspberry, sticks out his tongue and tries fruitlessly to see how blue it is. And she laughs, stares at him from beneath her lashes, and he thinks no, this date was not a mistake. It’s cold and windy and chaotic and perfect.
When he’s done, he shoves the paper cone half in the sand to keep it anchored in the wind.
She glances at it, wrinkling her nose. “You better not be littering.”
“Oh that’s right,” he grins, “conservation police.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just common decency.”
He scoffs, offers his best smile, hand waving over him. “Kiara look at me, would I litter?”
She laughs, eyes searching his face. It hits him right in the chest when her words find her, low and breathy, “I’m still figuring you out, JJ.”
And what does it mean that she’s starting to already, that he’s letting her? Like they hadn’t just met at a traffic stop a week ago. What does it mean that she’d invited him in her apartment, shared her dreams with a bulletin board – and his, with her, a buried boat he hadn’t uncovered for anyone?
What does it mean that they stood in a parking lot arguing about self-worth and self-loathing and things you don’t talk about – fight about – with a stranger? That her eyes are locked with his now like she’s trying to understand this, same as him. How being in the right place at the right time doesn’t feel so accidental, not when it feels like this.
It was rare, that snowy coastal night. More rare what he has in this cave with Kiara.
The moment lingers on edge before the wind rolls in and draws them together. So close, her eyelashes feathered with wide-eyes, his, dropping to her lips parted like she might say something, do something.
He can’t not do something – when she looks like she does, when she tests him, scowls at him, shifts in that whiplash way, soft and sincere.
When he feels like he’s someone when he’s with her.
It’s magnetic, inevitable, the way they both lean in. But it’s her who rests her hand to the side of his face, thumb softly brushing his cheek like cradling this moment matters.
And he’s not used to it, truthfully. Being touched like this, like he’s something breakable. He’s fought so hard not to be breakable. Partly because he wanted it that way, but mostly because there wasn’t a choice.
He knows what it is…hands that hurt. Maybe it’s what makes it hard to accept the ones that don’t…and part of him wants to run from this, but another part–
Another part wants to be gentle, too. Soft, like her – it feels like a privilege to see that side. He hasn’t ever really had the chance to try.
His fingers skitter down the bronzed smooth skin of her neck, graze over her racing pulse point, slip gently in her hair. And then he’s kissing her, his heart thudding in his ears, heat rushing when she opens her mouth to him with a sigh.
The winter wind whips through the cove, but everything’s burning. And when his hands are sinking into the flushed skin under her sweater, her fingers tugging tight through his hair, when they’re falling back into the sand, it’s not so gentle anymore. And it’s obvious there’s only one way this is going to end.
They settle on his place. Even though JJ’s temporary apartment isn’t really his, it still feels exposing somehow, loneliness clinging to the barren walls. He’d rather be with her incense and flowers and that overcrowded bulletin board.
But they can be alone at his place, no campus life bleeding in, no interruptions, no roommates.
He makes her laugh, when he’s discarding her sweater and it catches on his ring, when he hobbles around trying to yank off his boot. Makes her gasp, when he tosses her on the bed all strength and heat, when his fingers slip inside her. Makes her come once like this. Twice with his tongue. Revels in the way she says his name, the way she bites her lip, fists the sheet. And then she’s pushing him back against the bed, sinking down on him.
And he thinks he made up for it, not being so brave. Because he’s brave now, eyes locked with hers, never breaking away. This time, when she comes, he’s right behind her, holding tight to her hips and this feeling all the same.
She falls off of him with a sigh, her tangled hair sprawled across the pillow as she flops down on the bed next to him. She rolls her head to look at him, salted, smiling, beautiful.
Impulsivity…it’s usually what leads him to this kind of situation in the first place, to start getting dressed, to leave. But the impulse now, it’s different.
This impulse is to smile back. To snag her hand where it rests in between them, tugging her towards him. A cradling arm around her shoulders as she settles against his chest. An impulse, for the first time, to stay.
*
JJ isn’t well versed on the morning after. Other than sneaking out, offering some piss poor excuse to rush out or push them out, he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Lying here, stone sober with the sunlight trickling through the shades, still holding on from the night before.
He does know what to do though, when Kiara’s eyes lazily blink open, lit with morning and something else. What to do when her mouth finds his neck, his lips, when he hovers over her and brackets her between his arms. What to do when she hooks her legs around his hips and pulls him deep inside her.
It’s the after that’s tricky. When she’s slinking out of bed and tugging her clothes back on fast-talking about errands and he’s just lying there staring at her, still dizzy from it all.
But then she pulls her wild hair out from under her sweater and crawls back on to the bed, cupping his face in her hand. “Breakfast first?”
He smiles. Maybe it’s not so tricky after all. “Yeah. Okay.”
Then it’s tortilla wrapped sausage and egg sandwiches and coffee under a tent, hers with spice and oat milk, his black (as god and nature intended), a farmer’s market downtown he’s never been to. It’s Kiara, talking about the turtle hatchlings at Wrightsville, dabbing a napkin to a spilled coffee spot on her sweater, laughing and snarking and looking unfairly beautiful against the sunlit ocean.
And he understands now, exactly why he was too chicken shit to call her.
When he gets to her apartment, he turns off the truck and jogs to her side. Opens her door and walks her to her apartment, hoping against hope there isn’t a blow off coming.
None of this felt like a blow off, and he would know. None of this felt temporary, even though it is. But he’s been wrong before, too many times about too many things.
“Come in real quick.” A mischievous smile, lip drawn between her teeth. “Got somethin’ for ya.”
He lets out stuttered relief, squints suspiciously. “Well, gee, Kiara, didn’t realize we were giving gifts on the first date.”
Or maybe it's the second. Third, even.
“Don’t worry,” she tosses him a smirk as they walk the last few steps. “You gave me plenty of gifts.”
He grins something devilish, a wildfire spreading through his skin. “And there's plenty more, don’t gotta work ‘til tonight.”
“Easy,” she laughs, a light shove to his chest, “Sarah’s home.”
“You’re really overestimating how much I care.”
Kiara’s laughter cuts short when she swings the door open and said roommate is there, perched on the couch like a waiting tiger, ready to pounce.
“Kie, oh my god,” Sarah rushes, “I’ve been waiting for–” Her eyes land on JJ, coming in behind Kiara. “Oh,” she says with a smirk. “Hi, JJ.”
He nods, a quick wave, but Sarah just stands there with a goofy ass grin, her eyes sliding between them.
“I see the date’s still going then.”
Kiara rolls her eyes, tossing her patch tote bag and keys on the kitchen counter. “I’m just giving something to JJ.”
“Oh, I’m sure you are.” Sarah’s nodding, far too satisfied, as JJ chokes on a laugh. “I knew there was a vibe that night.”
“Sarah, you had like ten margaritas,” Kiara laughs, “everything was a vibe.”
Sarah scoffs, “Kie, I can sense these things.”
Kiara snorts. “Okay, then can you please sense that Brad’s an asshole?”
“Brad?” Sarah crinkles her nose. “His name’s not Brad.”
Kiara cuts JJ a look, biting down a smile, his shoulders shaking through stifled laughter.
Sarah crosses her arms, studies them, but she’s more satisfied than annoyed. Kiara breaks out of it first, face scrunching as she sniffs the air.
“Are you cooking?
“Cinnamon rolls,” Sarah says proudly. “And I didn’t even set off the alarm.” She chuckles, turning to JJ. “God, did Kie tell you about us trying to cook pizza that night you drove us home?” She shakes her head through laughter. “Shit, those flames were big.”
“No,” JJ draws out slowly, eyes narrowed as he swings his head to Kiara. “In fact, she said y’all were fine with the pilot.”
“Sure, fine,” Sarah snorts, “if that means the building evacuating.”
“We were fine,” Kiara cuts in, a dismissive flick of her hand. “Place is still standing, isn’t it?” She waves him towards her bedroom. “Now c’mon before Sarah rats me out about something else.”
Sarah’s still calling out to them, but Kiara’s already ushered JJ in her room, shutting the door behind him.
She shoots him a tight smile, motions to her bed while she crosses over to her closet. JJ sits down on her floral embroidered comforter, eyes tracing the infamous bulletin board, feeling like their time’s already ticking. And it’s silly, because he knew it was ticking the minute they met, nothing’s changed.
Except it has. Because he decided to return her scarf, because of everything that came after.
Kiara is half-buried in her closet, emerges victorious with a shoebox covered in magazine clippings. She flops down next to him on the bed and blows a bedhead curl out of her face.
“Okay, so, when you mentioned buying your boat…” She shrugs, eyes fixed on the box like she’s debating this idea. “I dunno, it made me think of this.”
He stares at the box, wondering if it’s a good idea, too. He’s never been very good at accepting anything from anyone, and whatever this is feels too personal. But it’s all been too personal, and despite his DNA’s best effort, he still wants to stay. He doesn’t want to ignore this impulse he has with Kiara.
“Okay.” It’s not even cautious like he thought it would sound.
And she smiles, sighs a relieved, tripping thing. Opens the box, brings up that summer camp again, the one in Kitty Hawk her parents sent her to. Tells him about art time at the quiet beach.
She uncovers a small canvas underneath a stack of pictures, strokes of blue and green in a thrashing ocean, a row boat sitting on the tumultuous waters.
He accepts the painting from her, draws a finger over the boat. “You made this?”
“I mean, I was like sixteen.” Blush creeps on her cheeks, a tuck of her hair behind her ear. “And I’m not an artist or anything but–”
“Thank you.” He nods, smiles, says “It’s perfect” and means it more than he’s meant anything because it means something, her giving this to him.
That was the only time it felt like there was something else out there.
Maybe they’re both in that boat now, maybe she’d invited him there. Maybe they’re searching…for what, he doesn’t know yet.
He holds up an L, squints like he’s hanging a frame. “First thing for the boat’s cabin.”
She chuckles lightly, says with more confidence than he deserves, “You’ll get her up and running soon.”
He nods, grips her picture tight in his hand. “You’ll be the first to know when she is.”
*
As empty and as barren as JJ’s temporary apartment has been, life is barely contained within those four walls now. Because there’s a UNC-W sweatshirt slung over his chair, because there’s a knee high boot under his bed, because there’s peach all over everything, because after the first night Kiara stayed there, she hasn’t quite left.
He has absolutely no idea what they’re doing, but it feels good. Over the next few weeks, she comes on routes with him, helping him double his money on late night runs without losing out on time with her. He tries to help her apply for jobs and internships. He doesn’t know shit about how to make a cover letter or resume, but he knows how to do searches, make copies, send emails.
There’s more hot dog dinners on the pier, there’s pho (a new one for him), there’s Heyward’s after he finishes up closing.
He goes over to her place, watches movies with her and Sarah. Lets her settle in between his legs, wraps his hand in her hair. Stays there when they’re too tired or lazy or crossfaded to go back to his place.
He kisses her hello, goodbye.
There’s some surfing, some arguing. Smoking, drinking. A time for seriousness, a time for laughing. A lot of time for fucking.
He can do this, drum his fingers over her stomach, draw soft lips over her collarbone, in that gentle, breakable way. He can break down, unrestrained all teeth and curses and filth.
It’s like something known, something familiar, like something new. He didn’t know those feelings were possible to have at the same time. That feelings like this can stay, that they don’t fade away.
And on his last week in Wilmington, they’re at the beach until the sun sinks to shadows, and then they’re in the backseat of his truck, and they’re touching everywhere and laughing as they remember because they’re here, in the place that they met. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it’s been too short all the same…far too short.
He trails kisses along the moonlight painted down the line of her neck. Slips his fingers under the strap of her bra, mouth to her shoulder.
“Been crunchin’ numbers,” he murmurs against her skin. “Gettin’ closer.”
She hums, whispers something about being so proud into his hair, and he soars and aches, and wonders if he can truly go home in a few days.
And he will, but that doesn’t mean he has to let go.
“I’ll be back to check on the location, y’know,” he says to the hollow of her neck, hand sliding from her stomach to the dip in her waist. “Few weeks maybe.”
It sounds an awful lot like a plan, a promise. Things he unequivocally does not do. But then, he’s done a lot of things these past few weeks he doesn’t do, and he’s trying to be better with promises to himself, isn’t he?
JJ’s good at avoiding the future, made a whole life of it, learned it from the best. But he doesn't want to avoid this.
But then it's quiet. Long enough that when the breeze flutters through the cracked open window, he tries to breathe out some of the stifled air, some of his confidence escaping along with it.
Finally, she sighs, cradles his face in her hands and angles him to look at her. Something in her gaze makes his pulse uptick. “You remember the last place I applied to? The one with the new build?”
He blinks, catching up. “The turtle sanctuary?”
She nods. “They just called today.” She pauses, slides her hand to the back of his neck, in his hair. Stalls to find the words. “So–”
“So you won’t be here,” he finishes plainly, simply. Predictably, really.
She nods again.
It’s everything she deserves, and he’s happy, proud of her, too, whatever that means coming from him. Predictable doesn’t help the split through his chest, though, it doesn’t help that Florida is so, so far away.
But the way she’s looking at him now, she doesn’t feel far away. What he wants feels closer than ever, Kiara warm and real under his hands, a boat just some hundred dollars short from his.
There was a time when JJ’d endured too much for the sake of others, lost himself in the name of loyalty. Wanting wasn’t something he could afford, something he thought he deserved.
But enduring for yourself isn’t enduring, he thinks – it’s living. He gets to be selfish now, to live, to want, to hold on to this feeling, no matter what happens now.
He smiles, real and true, digs deep for that better part of him, the confidence he’d let crumble. He snags the ends of her curls between his fingers, memorizing peach and silk. “So I’m gonna buy a boat, and you’re gonna go save the world.”
She shoots him a look, smiles back. “I think you’re overselling mine a bit.”
He shakes his head slightly, leans in. “And then?”
“And then,” she echoes, brushing her lips over his, “we’ll see.”
He hums, believes it, feels it – they’re in that rowboat together, despite whatever rough waters lie ahead. Kissing her with everything he’s got, he says like a promise, “We’ll see.”