favourite worst nightmare [JJ MAYBANK]

viii. the golden band

"Yeah, now I get to hear you rambling on about business ventures for six hours. Thrilling."

Her dad gives her a look.

"I'm kidding," she mutters.

He looks at her, smiling and exhaling sharply as he slaps his hands down against his thighs. "You ready?"

Shoes buckled, she stands. "I'm ready."

But, with what would unfold that night, she should have known that you can never be ready for that sort of shit.

❖ ❖ ❖

          By the time they arrive at the Island Club, entering through the wide open double doors at the front of the property and making their way through the bustling carpeted hallways until they reached the beachside terrace and gardens, they're slightly late and almost everybody has arrived. Everything -- the walls, the decking, the staircase down to the trimmed garden, the flowers, the lights -- is pearl white. Lilies have been planted, so many that the air floats with their scent, mingling with the tang of the sea.

          Her dad easily mingles, shaking hands as he passes, kissing cheeks of wives and admiring how much children have grown ("Elodie -- it's been two months since I last saw you and you're already almost as tall as me!"). As they emerge onto the terrace, and are handed champagne by a waiter in a black and white uniform with a bow tie, he leans down and says, "Did I tell you he offered me a job?"

          "Who?" Rita asks, having not been paying attention to who her dad seems worthy enough to say hello to. She's much busier smiling at Sarah Cameron, who's in a beautiful white dress with a wonderful mermaid silhouette, matching white flowers braided in a crown in her hair. Sarah smiles back, wiggling her fingers in a friendly wave.

Rafe, in a baby blue suit, follows her stare to Rita, who turns away.

           "Drew Atwood," her dad replies. "CEO of some electrical engineering company on the mainland. He wants to recruit me." He doesn't add details, knowing that most of his obscure job titles and duties aren't exactly high up on Rita's list of interest. "I wouldn't be doing any of the manual jobs. It'd be more management and sales."

"You gonna take it?" Rita asks, sipping her champagne.

Neither of them are looking at each other, instead taking in the view, but in her peripheral vision she sees his shoulders move with a shrug. "Do you think I should?"

"If it's something you'd enjoy, sure. I'm sure the retirement money's great, dad, but you can't be unemployed for the rest of your life. That'd get boring."

Like he's uneasy about something she said, her dad simply mumbles a vague, "Yeah," around pursed lips and necks his champagne.

She guesses her dad's more boring than he let on; maybe he does enjoy staying at home day in and day out. But she sure as fuck doesn't. That one day on HMS Pogue had been the highlight of her two months in Outerbanks. And her smoking session with JJ a few days earlier had been great, too.

          Speaking of, as if her thoughts of them have summoned them, she spots the Pogues (or, rather, 50% of them) out on the lawn, so far back from the crowd that they're lingering together on the border where the sand meets the manicure-perfect grass: Kiara, wearing a satin purple dress that reaches her shins, a white purse dangling over her shoulder and hair tied back in a bun, and Pope in another worker's uniform, manning a barbecue. They're chatting idly, watching the crowd with the same judgemental glances of Rita and her dad.