𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄.

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. Golden waves from the sea rushed up on its docks out front, pushing on the white boat and streaking lines on the wooden posts. There was a house on the cut, where the curtains swayed dancing in the open windows. There was a house on the cut, where the paint chipped on it's exterior walls and the window sills cracked to close. Where the wood was lined with shimmering flower pots. There was a house on the cut, in the middle crest of Kingsley street that had a red bicycle leaning against its porch screen.

The house on the cut had not seen a prospect of movement for two weeks. Fourteen days spiraled into a long time of nothingness. The only thing that had moved in rarity, often at the same intervals, was the tattered screen door and the Toyota pickup truck for when the stillness became overbearingly suffocating. It was always the same pair of shoes that creaked the porch floorboards, always the same loafers or New Balance sneakers, never the ever-wanting white stained shoes— that hadn't seen the light of day in a long time.

The white sneakers remained at the side of the screen door for two weeks. Sitting there on the carpet beside the round table. Everything around them remained the same— the newspapers were still scattered in one place on the table, the handmade vases and pots were still on the antique cabinet, the paintings of the landscapes still attached to the walls. It was the same house that welcomed a city girl at one point in time, hugged her, and embraced her in a way she'd never felt before. The only thing that varied in the stillness of time was the coffee cups and dishes in the sink, and the occasional enlightenment of a light bulb. They kept the lights off most of the time.

It had been a full fourteen days since the shutters of the yellow-walled bedroom had last been opened. It'd been fourteen full days since the dirt-stained white sneakers took their final spot at the screen door. It had been a full fourteen days since the usual chair by the window held its usual person. It had been a full fourteen days since the red bicycle moved last— it rested there on the post every day and every night. It had been a full fourteen days since the night John Booker Routledge got lost at sea.

Precisely on the fourteenth day, it was a particularly bright Saturday morning. It was present time when Caroline Collins had her chin resting in the crevice of her palm, with an elbow perched on top of the stack of newspapers. She was staring outside at the water, as the waves crashed in on the sides of the white boat— the boat, another thing that hadn't moved in a fortnight.

"Carol, hon, these need to get packed into the car." Daryl Collins was trotting down the hallway. He had slowed his steps when passing the closed door of the yellow room, and didn't speak until he was in the kitchen. He spoke with a lowered voice.

Caroline let out a long sigh. "Just," she breathed, only glancing to her husband for a tiny second. "One more minute."

Maybe it was the realness, or the sheer frailty in the words shared that caused the omnipresent weak mood to shift deeper. Both grandparents hadn't really spoken as much since the night it happened, only to share small words that filled the silence when it became all too consuming.

Caroline and Daryl were subconsciously more affected then they thought they were. Daryl at his side constantly blamed himself, vehemently expressing from time to time— often before bed when the house was at it's most quiet moments— that everything was his fault. He was the man of the house, he'd say, and it was supposed to be his duty to protect his only granddaughter, even though he knew she didn't need to be hovered on. But Caroline told him every single time that he couldn't possibly know, nor prepare, for something like the event.

But Caroline had her own fragilities. She was the grandmother, and knowingly, the only relative that the girl had. But for some unidentifiable reason, she had no idea how to comfort her in the slightest bit. At the beginning of those fourteen days, the elderly woman, at different interludes, would knock on the wooden door and hand contemporaries like a book, a snack, even the radio. But gained nothing more than a hum as a reaction. She hugged her granddaughter every morning and every night, but that was all she knew how to do. It wasn't a break-up, or a friendship crisis like the woman had once experienced herself. This was a loss, and Caroline didn't know how to lighten that even with the hardest she tried.

Life had shifted for the three of them. The teenage girl only came out to eat. One time, halfway through the second week, and it was a shocking sight, she had finished her pancakes— in which Caroline made every morning for her— and stood up. But she didn't walk back to her room and close the door, she went over to the window. She had gazed out for a few minutes. Caroline had asked her, so very quietly, if she wanted to go on a bike ride, or take the boat out. That request had been the most they had talked in a while, other then sharing little "yeah's" or "okay".

The young girl wasn't hiding away because she hated the world, that the world hated her, or because she had nothing to live for anymore— she had plenty to live for. She was hiding away for the prospect of pity. If she stepped out into town, went to the Chateau where Jj Maybank spent every sleeping night, she wouldn't be prepared for the glances or the hugs or the sad eyes towards her. She had never made friends until that summer, and while the feeling of happiness was the greatest feeling of all, she'd never experienced pity— and she knew it wasn't good to be stared at as a lost cause.

She also didn't leave the house because she wasn't allowed to.

In the thin time between the Pogues sitting in the tent, and the overbearing silence that took over the police station in that breaking moment, the authorities took Ward Cameron and his son in. For a reason most people did not know of, except for the Pogues. They were gone, for at least a little while, and that's what they were told. But there was still an officer that came every three days to the house on the Cut, speaking to Caroline and Daryl to make sure they had everything under control.

So, outside of that house on the Cut, many things changed. Other than the vapid whispers between islanders on the streets and by the docks— the town had shifted too. But the bigger events, of the people closest to the teenage girl masked everything else. Ward Cameron was taken in by the agents. Sarah Cameron was at Chapel Hill, forbidden by the officers to leave her home until things blew over. Pope Heyward lost his scholarship. Kiara Carrera barely showed up for shifts at The Wreck. Daryl had given Jj Maybank a job at the motel, though he only showed up when he didn't want to be at the Chateau anymore.

The biggest change over everything, though, was the suitcases piled in front of the screen door.

"Come on," Daryl whispered, as quietly as he could. "We have to go." He lightly jerked his head backwards, motioning to the yellow room.

Caroline bit down on the inside of her lip. "I know." was all she said as she pushed in her dining chair.

She was going to give him a hug, but before she could extend her arms she remembered that it wasn't any use. No matter how many times they hugged, or how many times they exchanged soft smiles to lighten the mood, it didn't help. The bags were heavy.

Daryl looked to his wife for a long second, as if he were trying to communicate with no words. He breathed out a heavy sigh when she passed him, and he looked to the ground over his belly, and headed for the suitcases after her. His large and calloused hand wrapped around the second two, deep mahogany shaded, and he pushed open the tattered screen door and creaked the wooden floorboards. It was hot outside, and the sun was shining— though grey clouds were piling in by the moment and the brightness would soon fade.

As they stacked the suitcases in the Toyota's cargo bed, there was an engine sounding down the road. The old man rolled his eyes, not bothering to check behind him, assuming it would be the officer coming to check up one last time to make sure they were leaving. But the vehicle stopped on the side of the road, in front of the lawn. The engine was loud. The air filled with that certain scent.

Caroline and Daryl turned their heads to the side as a huff fell past both their lips, landing eyes on Twinkie, the dirty brown van they'd seen pull up to their house on the Cut many times before. There was smoke trailing out from the back. Daryl stared at it for a moment, hands on the rim of the cargo bed. Caroline's face lightened up a little bit— she was always excited to see the teenagers, just a little bit less now. The pair had seen the van so many times, whether it was parked on their lawn, down at the docks, or in town. But it didn't feel the same no longer— when Daryl laid eyes on the vehicle, he didn't think of the meddling kids in which it occupied, or the rebellious danger it held.

And maybe that was because Jj Maybank stepped out from the driver's seat, not John B anymore.

It was quiet as the doors slid open.

"Hey Daryl," Kiara was the one to start, her voice coming out with a soft but scarce touch, emitting that she'd been crying. "Hi, Caroline."

"Oh hello, kids," Caroline smiled, but it wasn't as upbeat like usual. She tried not to let a sad look overplay on her face, but seeing the teenagers like that was hard enough. She took a few steps away from the carog bed, hands folded.

Daryl nodded as a greeting, trying to smile— even though it only came out as a subtle twitch of his thin lips. The Pogues knew what was happening, most of the islanders knew too.

"Is she here?" Jj spoke up, hands shoved in his pockets. Of course she was there, he knew that much, but asking if he could talk to her seemed too much of a first sentence.

Daryl nodded again. He didn't need to say it, they already knew.

Kiara glanced to Jj, and then to Pope who looked at the ground, as if asking for reassurance for her next words. "Hey, um," she started, taking a step forward. She was holding a book in her hands. "We were going through some of his stuff yesterday," She continued, speaking lowly. "And we found this, we thought she'd want to have it."

Caroline looked down at the book, taking it lightly. "Yes, thank you,"

Jj nudged Kiara's shoulder. She turned around to see him jerk his head towards somewhere in the grass. "Oh yeah," she said, lightly. "And give her this, too,"

"What does she need with a can?" Caroline grabbed the empty silver can of Cherry Cola.

"She'll want it," Pope was trying to smile.

"Alright then, we'll be out in a minute," Caroline thanked the teenagers again, "Would you like to come in, it's getting hot outside,"

Jj looked up from the grass. Kiara nodded to him, and so did Pope. He took small steps forward as Caroline smiled and scampered up the porch steps. It would be too much for all three to go inside, and they imagined it being too reminiscent for the other girl if she were to see her best friends standing in her living room like they used to do, except minus one. So Jj was the one to do it— he was the closest to a brother, anyway.

The old woman and the teenage boy walked down the dim hallway, stopping at the first closed door. She rose her unoccupied hand up and knocked, softly.

"Charlotte," She said.

There was no response other than a small hum from inside the room.

"Your friends are here, they gave me some stuff," she trailed off a bit, going quieter. "They're here to say goodbye. Can I come in, bug?"

Charlotte hummed again, loud enough for her to hear.

Caroline pushed open the door, slowly, and stepped inside to see the girl sitting cross-legged on her bed. She had a book laying open in front of her legs, but it didn't seem like she'd been reading it. Her phone was resting on the bedside table— the power was on all over the island, and her phone worked for the first time after months, but she hadn't used it since her parents called, when they called to check up after Caroline and Daryl told them to.

When Charlotte heard another pair of steps enter her room, she looked up— she knew the sound of Jj's boots too well. Charlotte smiled a little bit, as much as her lips would let her when they made eye contact.

"They were going through, um," Caroline paused, not saying the name, "his stuff yesterday, and they wanted to give you this." she said, leaning down to place the book on the bed covers with a glance to Jj, who stood. "There's also this can, I don't know why, but here."

Charlotte fluttered her eyes to look at the can of Cherry Cola in her grandma's hand. She didn't cry at the sight of it, rather just took it in her possession, very slowly. It was cheesy, but somehow it transformed into something bigger.

"You should come out soon, bug," Caroline lingered her fingers on the girl's shoulder.

With that, the woman walked over to the door, looked back, walked out and closed it shut with Jj still standing by the bed.

The first time the Pogues had come to check up on their fifth member, only a few days after that night, nothing really happened. That day, each of them had gone in at different times, mostly just to sit and talk and hug, even though Charlotte had been mostly unresponsive.

But now, Jj sat himself on the edge of her bed like he'd done once before in this mess. He didn't really say anything at first, because he didn't know if she even wanted to talk.

He cleared his throat. "They were gonna throw some of that stuff out," he started off, quietly, while looking down at the journal. "Uncle Tim took most of it, so did each of us. Kie said you'd want the journal most."

"I never knew he had a journal." Charlotte spoke.

Her voice was as faint as a whisper. At first, she barely recognized the way her voice smoothed out. If John B was there, she would've mocked and joked about the journal and he would've laughed.

"Only, like, three pages are filled," Jj tried to laugh softly, but it only came out as a breath of air. "I think you might wanna read it."

There was something telling behind his words-- something that implied she should read it alone, and that he would soon be getting up and leaving her for some space.

But Charlotte uncrossed her legs and, slowly, moved to sit beside her best friend. Like before, they didn't have to say anything for her to lean her head on his shoulder. He rubbed a hand on her upper arm.

They sat like that for what seemed like an hour. They didn't talk, just sat on the edge of her bed. They didn't need to talk, because the silence in the room was loud and heavy enough, and consumed every emotion and every feeling into a whirl they couldn't see. In that moment, in the arms of Jj, who felt like the brother she never had, Charlotte felt like the world hated her just a little bit less. It was unlike the first interaction since the first check-up, where all she did was cry into his shirt and mumble words upon "I miss him", even though that was the sentence she repeated to herself every single day. This was different. She wasn't crying just yet.

At some point during the calmness, Jj put his, Kiara, and Pope's individual numbers into the girl's phone for later, and left the room so Charlotte could "read" what she was given.

In front of Charlotte Collins lay a journal, and the empty can of Cherry Cola. She had the blue bandanna still wrapped around her wrist, and the 'C' necklace around her neck. The bandage on her forehead was gone, replaced with a fading scar.

She didn't quite know how to feel. The last fourteen days had been still enough to think about everything, all day and all night. She knew, in a sense, what she was feeling about the whole thing, but her feelings towards leaving the island she tried to push away as far as she could. This was the last part of it all. It seemed like she had already said goodbye to Jj.

Charlotte moved her finger at once. Between the lining of the leather cover, the book flipped open. The first page was blank, she blew to the next one. On the top of the page, written in sloppy penciled words, was a date and no title. She closed her eyes. Hard. And when she fluttered them open again, she was staring down at sentences written one after the other, in that sloppy, teenage boy handwriting. All at once, she breathed out— and with the exhale, her eyes started to skim over each word. She began to read.

By the second paragraph— if it could even be called a paragraph— there was a tear droplet on the parchment.

Every word was written about her.

In writing of John B's hand, the words on the paper documented every thought he had ever thought about her, in sentences. The first page was scribbled with how they met outside the corner store, to the can of Cherry Cola, to the hurricane, to the motel, to the beach party, to the square groupers, to the graveyard, and finally to when they stood outside in the middle of the night and stared at the stars. He wrote about how she showed up on the island out of nowhere. But he wasn't writing about the galavants. He was writing about her.

About her smile and the way she talked. About how she stood outside in the dark to hug him under the stars. About how she was the most stubborn person he had ever met. About how her laugh made his stomach flip. About how beautiful, not hot (he wrote that hot was an understatement for her) she really was. About how he didn't know why he was writing all of this in a journal his dad gave to him years prior, instead of just telling her. He wrote about how she made him feel, and he admitted in the writing that he was cringing at the cheesy words, and every few lines there would be the same sentence in capital letters: JJ IF YOU'RE READING THIS, YOUR ASS IS GRASS MAN.

Charlotte giggled every time she saw the uppercase letters, because she knew Jj had definitely read every page despite the warnings.

The last page finished off with John B writing about how he'd never met someone who made him feel the way Charlie Collins made him feel.

There were tears stained on the paper when Charlotte finished reading.

She closed the book and closed her eyes. Her fingers were tangling between the cloth of the faded blue bandanna around her wrist. She sniffled and wiped her face with the bottom of her shirt. When she opened her eyes again, she lay them on her empty closet and bare walls that were stripped of her pictures and pinboards. It was time to go.

Although, all that she wanted to do was dive back into her bed and hug the journal so hard it would fade, and look up at the ceiling and imagine herself back on the docks with John B and the stars.

But she found herself at the screen door.

"There's an extra set of keys in the top cabinet," Daryl was telling Jj, when Charlotte was stepping down the porch stairs.

Caroline was there to wrap an arm around her granddaughter's shoulder upon her new presence outside. The sun was warm and barely foreign to the girl's skin. Her white sneakers were finally taken away from the doormat.

What happened next, played out in that same dreamlike quality that Charlotte had experienced on the night John B got lost at sea. Her friends were moving underwater as they hugged her shoulders one by one, drifting tears landing on their shirts and a certain poignant sadness overplaying on every face. They were all underwater swimmers, moving slowly in her eyes as she tried to catch up with them just like she'd done back in the police tents.

The red bicycle was lying sideways in the cargo bed of the Toyota truck.

She said her goodbye's and thanked them through tears for everything they had done for her. Kiara gave Charlotte two more friendship bracelets and two beaded ones in her hands. Pope hugged her tighter than she'd ever seen him hug any of his friends before. Jj was crying. He gave her one of his baseball caps that he liked the most, along with John B's preeminent pink SnapBack that he forgot to give earlier.

"I'll send you Sarah's number." Kiara had said. Charlotte was going to use it as soon as she could.

Just when Charlotte's head reached sea level, she was in the backseat of the Toyota truck, staring out the window and waving with tears in her eyes, as her best friends became small blurs in the distance.

Charlotte looked down at the brown leather journal still in her hands. As she swallowed the condensed air in her throat, she tilted her chin up.

"Grandma," she said. "Do you have a pen?"

Caroline made eye contact through the rearview mirror, smiled lightly, and then grabbed a stray pen from the cupholders. She handed it to the girl.

Charlotte slid her finger to a blank page, and twisted the cap open.

And then she began to write, as her friends disappeared into the painting, and the house on the cut with the lingering curtains and the flower-potted windowsills became no more than a golden orb in the faint distance.

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