Life on the Cut had a rhythm to it — sunburned mornings, salt-sticky afternoons, and nights that smelled like gasoline and ocean air — and ever since Clara showed up to spend the summer with her aunt, that rhythm had shifted just slightly, like the tide pulling harder than usual. The Pogues didn’t plan to adopt her, it just happened; one minute she was the quiet new girl watching John B Routledge get into an argument with a marina worker, the next she was in the back of the Twinkie van with JJ Maybank teaching her how to shotgun a soda and laughing when it exploded all over her shoes. She fit without trying — not loud like JJ, not intense like Pope Heyward, not morally balanced like Kiara Carrera — but steady, sharp-eyed, the kind of girl who didn’t panic when things went sideways, which was good because things on Outer Banks were always about to go sideways. After the hurricane hit and they found the wrecked boat in the marsh, Clara was the one who spotted the motel key lodged under a rusted seat, her fingers brushing JJ’s underwater before she grabbed it first, and from that moment she wasn’t just “the new girl,” she was in — in the treasure hunt, in the secrets about John B’s dad, in the late-night map-spreading sessions at the Chateau where tension hung thick between Pogues and Kooks and everyone pretended they weren’t scared. The deeper they got into the Royal Merchant gold mystery, the more dangerous it became — sketchy motel rooms, guns on nightstands, men who didn’t ask questions before throwing punches — and JJ, who usually treated danger like a sport, started glancing over his shoulder to make sure Clara was still there, still safe, still breathing; he’d throw himself into fights without hesitation, but if someone shoved her, something darker flashed in his eyes. Their thing wasn’t official — it lived in almost-touches, in shared looks across bonfires, in JJ wordlessly handing her his last beer like it was obvious she’d get it — but everyone saw it, especially when JJ would lean in too close just to watch her roll her eyes, or when Clara would grab his wrist before he did something reckless and he’d actually listen. As John B spiraled deeper into proving his father had been searching for the Royal Merchant gold, Clara became the quiet glue of the group, the one who asked the smart questions, who noticed the way Ward Cameron watched them a little too carefully at the docks, who caught JJ staring at his bruised knuckles a little too long after fights with his dad and would sit beside him without making it a big deal. Treasure hunting wasn’t glamorous — it was muddy, terrifying, and fueled by adrenaline and desperation — but for Clara it felt like more than gold; it felt like belonging somewhere wild and messy and alive, especially when JJ would flash that reckless grin and say, “Ride or die, yeah?” and she’d answer without hesitation, because somewhere between stolen scuba gear, midnight boat chases, and nearly getting caught by the wrong people, she realized the real danger wasn’t the treasure or the Kooks or even the law — it was how easily JJ had become the one thing on the island she wasn’t pretending not to care about.
Published
By writing, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Policy