Act One, II: half-truths and hangovers

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A low groan slips from Moe's mouth as she peels her face from the scratchy excuse for a pillow, eyes squinting against the beam of sunlight slicing through the window. The blanket reeks— sour and unwashed, slept on by a rotating cast of grimy teenage boys.

She pushes up onto her elbows, scooting back on the pull-out to survey the scene. Kie's beside her, zonked out, totally unbothered by the sun. She's still out cold, which is no real surprise after last night.

Moe glances toward the porch. Pope's on the couch out there, asleep, with one arm hanging off the edge like he's about to slide right off. John B and JJ are MIA, but if she had to guess, they're probably passed out in the only proper bedroom down the hall.

She slips off the bed, stretching out the tight ache in her shoulders with a crack. The place is a dump. Evidence of last night's kegger everywhere. Solo cups and empty beer cans litter the floor, buried under throw pillows and someone's hoodie. Discarded shoes. A random pair of socks. A bikini that probably belongs to Kie.

Moe feels about as utterly wrecked as the room looks.

The hangover hits in full. Her stomach flips, unsettled from a cocktail of warm beer and sugary mixers. Her head throbs, steady and mean. She stumbles barefoot into the kitchen, too tired to wince at the cold floor underfoot, too thirsty to care. Desperate for literally anything— food, water, a reset button.

She grabs what she hopes is a clean glass from the drying rack, fills it at the tap, and chugs down as much as her stomach can handle. Then she snags a slice of bread from the open loaf on the counter. Stale, but not moldy, thankfully. She hops up onto the counter, legs swinging, chewing with very little enthusiasm.

Her phone's wedged in the shallow back pocket of her jean shorts. When she pulls it out, there's a message waiting from Mac.

call me when ur up?

Before she can second-guess it, she presses his contact and her phone begins to ring. Later, she'll have to blame it on the hangover and whatever brain cells didn't survive the night. A slow twist of dread curls in her gut— she ignores it, presses the phone to her ear anyway.

Malachi picks up fast. Clearly waiting.

"Hey, Moe," he greets, far too cheerful for the hour. There's typing in the background; loud, clacky keyboard noise.

She rubs her temple. "Hey."

"How you feeling?"

Moe scrunches her nose and shrugs, phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder. "On the back end of a kegger, so... not too hot. What's up?"

"A kegger?" Malachi sounds halfway scandalized, and Moe remembers she hadn't bothered to mention it to him last night, maybe because she didn't feel like getting lectured. "With John B and JJ?"

She rolls her eyes and slides off the counter, catching sight of John B emerging from the hallway, twirling an empty beer bottle in his hand. She lifts her chin in greeting. He clucks his tongue and shoots her a wink before pushing past her to rummage around the cabinets.

Moe meanders toward the living room, wandering just for the sake of wandering.

"And Kie. Pope. Half of fricken island," she says into the phone, watching Kie slowly rise from the proverbial dead. "Who else would I be with?"

She hears Malachi scoff, though he tries to pass it off as just clearing his throat.

"Moe, forreal. How many of those things do those guys drag you to? It's not good for you."

Drag me to?

She bites her tongue. That's all it is with Malachi– other people leading her off the winding path. Never just her making her own decisions. She's no saint, but he certainly hasn't noticed.

"Okay," she mutters instead, nudging her toe against the base of the couch. "What did you even want?"

"Moe, just listen–"

"Dude." She tips her head back and groans exasperated, louder than she means to. Kie's watching her now as she brushes past, heading down the hall. "Don't do this right now. I've got a headache, just get to the point?"

She leans against the locked door to Big John's study, kicking one leg out and reaching up to thread her hand through her tangled hair. Her patience is evaporating fast. Reaching the end of her short fuse.  Lately, Mac's concern feels less endearing and more suffocating. She already gets enough of this shit from Lo. She doesn't need it from her boyfriend, too... especially not one who's not here most of the time.

Very Lo of him, really.

"I'm just trying to look out for you," Malachi says, voice quieter now, definitely still in the internship office, trying to sound like he's not calling his girlfriend a total trainwreck, while doing exactly that. "Look... I was thinking. Do you wanna come stay with me and my aunt on the mainland for a bit? It could be nice. She'll let us both sleep in the spare room and everything."

Moe shuts her eyes and breathes in sharply through her nose. Her head knocks loudly against the door behind her.

What the actual fuck.

Where was this invite two weeks ago? Or the other day when he said he couldn't come back for a while? Why now? When she's spending time with her friends having real fun?

She doesn't want to sit around his aunt's house alone while he's off playing adult in a button-up shirt; wandering around a city that she doesn't have anything to do in, with no money to boot.

"I don't think thats a good idea, Mac. I've got work."

There's a pause. Then he sighs, "Right, sure. At the gas station."

Moe stiffens, "Yeah. I need the money, Malachi."

"I wasn't trying to–"

"Yes, you were," she cuts in, sharp and fast, "You were. And I swear to god, I wish could just run off to the mainland and not worry about my mom and I making rent or paying bills or having food to eat. But I can't. If I ever want a chance of getting off this shithole island, like ever, I've got to save... I can't just get an internship and stay with my aunt."

She hears movement on his end– footsteps, maybe a door clicking shut– then another sigh, harsher this time, but resigned more than anything, "Moe, come on. I can't do this with you right now."

Moe bites the inside of her lip until she tastes the tang of copper, "Fine," she says. Flat, bitter.

"Just... text me later? Please?"

She doesn't bother answering. Just ends the call and drops her phone onto the hardwood floor, it lands with a loud thunk. Moe's pretty sure it doesn't break anything, but it's loud enough that everyone in the house has probably heard it.

Groaning loudly, she slumps back against the door, frustration bubbling hot in her throat.

God, she hates having feelings.

For a moment, she sits there with her eyes shut, holding her breath, wondering if she can get away with walking back into the living room with Kie and Pope and John B, pretending the last five minutes hadn't happened. But even Moe– the reigning queen of denial– knows that she can't make her friends ignore something real.

"What the hell." The door to the bedroom swings open. JJ leans in the frame, shirtless, hair a mess. "Keep it down, will you?" He squints blearily– then double-takes. "Wait. Moe?"

Moe cracks her eyes open. Instantly scowling.

Right. So that's why JJ had been MIA all morning. Why Kie had shot her that warning look earlier when she'd wandered down the hall. Through the hazy fuzz of last nights drinking, she vaguely remembers JJ persuading some blonde touron back to the Château. And there she is now, sitting on the bed behind him in a crooked bikini.

The same bed Moe's crashed in like, a hundred times.

Fucking gross.

"Ugh," she groans, suddenly more nauseated by that than by the lingering hangover or her fight with Malachi. "Disgusting, JJ."

She stalks back down the hall, ignoring the way her neck burns hot at the sight of JJ shirtless with a touron in his bed. Not just anger. Something else, something unsettled.

But she files it under revulsion. Childhood-best-friend-in-a-compromising-position related revulsion. Even if that's not quite the whole truth.

In the living room, Kie is still perched on the pull-out, watching Moe with concern. "You okay? What happened?" she asks gently, as Moe grabs her stuff off the floor and starts shoving it into her backpack.

"JJ's got some girl in there." Moe answers, dropping onto the couch to jam her feet into her sneakers.

Kie gives her a pitiful look, "Before that, Moe. The phone call?"

Moe's tongue flicks out to pass over the punctured spot on her lip. The metallic taste blooms over her tongue as she digs around for her tinnie keys. Curls her fingers around them and grips them like they're a weapon.

"It was nothing," she says dismissively. "Look, I gotta go."

And for better or worse, Kie knows not to push when Moe gets like this. She just shakes her head exasperatedly, even as Moe barrels out the front door, yelling a clipped goodbye to Pope and John B as she storms down the dock.

They watch her untie the rope in one sharp motion and peel off, the motor roaring to life and kicking up spray behind her.

Just as she's pulling away, JJ hurtles into the room, vape clutched between his fingers, wriggling his way into a shirt. Touron abandoned.

"What the fuck was that?" he asks, glancing between Kie and the water. Moe's already just a speck on the horizon. "What's up her ass?"

Kie arches a brow. "What do you think? Malachi."

Kie watches something flicker across JJ's face— subtle, but there. His expression darkening as he stares out at the water, where waves still ripple in Moe's absence. His jaw ticks.

"He fucking sucks," JJ gripes. "I wish they'd break up already."

And with that, he huffs and stomps back down the hall.

Kie exhales slowly. She's never liked it much when other people decide for her which relationships are and aren't worth her time— and she knows Moe doesn't take kindly to that kind of unsolicited advice either. Has made it abundantly clear in fact, multiple times.

Besides, Kie isn't about to start judging. Whatever's going on between Moe and Malachi, is Moe's business. If she wants to stay in it and work her way through the shit, then Kie won't stop her. That's not her call, regardless of how she personally feels.

But the same can't be said for JJ. Or John B, for that matter

Pope stays neutral, but the wonder twins have made it their lifelong mission to protect Moe from things she doesn't need protecting from. Which is probably reason numero uno that Moe never talks about Malachi anymore. (Not like she needed more reasons to shut down every time someone asks her a question).

Kie gets it. She knows the boys are just protective because they've been friends forever. Eight years of sand and salt and scraped knees.

For John B, it's a sister thing. He just wants her safe and unharmed the same way she wants him safe and unharmed.

With JJ... she's not so sure. It might be a best friend thing, undying loyalty and all that shit. But sometimes, Kie swears it's jealousy rearing its ugly head– bitter and twitchy. Even if neither of them have figured that out yet.

Honestly though?

With those two, it's always been hard to tell.

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The house smells like the lavender musk of burning incense when Moe slips in through the back door. It's a familiar but not necessarily welcome smell, mostly because it's a sign that her Mom is home. And if Moe is extra lucky Ainsley might have just left for one of her shifts at the hospital. Though, the sound of the tap shutting off in the kitchen says otherwise.

Moe tries to slip past unnoticed but finds herself unsuccessful.

"Maureen," Ainsley calls from the kitchen.

Moe grits her teeth at the use of her full name. Ainsley isn't scolding her; probably doesn't even have anything important to say. But still can't be bothered to remember that her youngest daughter wants to be called Moe. It's shouldn't be that fucking hard when her other daughter likes to be call Lo instead of Lauren— and that came first.

Her mom leans back against the counter, sipping from a glass of water. She's not in her nurse's scrubs, which makes Moe bristle. That means she'll be in the house the rest of the day.

On paper, Ainsley is a good mom. She puts a roof over Moe's head, makes sure theres food in the fridge, and keeps the house more or less clean. They're victims to the struggles that come naturally with living in the Cut, but no one's ever questioned Ainsley's ability to provide.

It's not that. Moe doesn't need to be shipped off to foster care or anything.

Her Mom just... doesn't love her very much. Maybe at all.

Love was for her older sister. Lo got hugs, late-night talks, laughs, mother-daughter outings, emotional support and leniency. Even after she traded crappy old Kildare Island for shiny New York City.

And Moe got left to fend for herself.

But Moe is done caring about it. She really is.

"Hi Mom."

Ainsley smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes the way it's supposed to. Moe knows that smile. It's the same shallow one she does to herself in the bathroom mirror every morning. She wonders if her mom grips the basin the same way, flashes her pearly whites only to find that the smile on her full lips doesn't reach the honey dark eyes that they share. Does she resist the urge to slam her fist into the mirror and watch as her hand bleeds as well?

"Did you stay at your boyfriend's last night?" Ainsley asks, voice seemingly sincere. But her fingers are tapping an impatient rhythm against the countertop, telling a different story.

Moe shakes her head, biting down on the urge to scowl at her Mom's ability to remember any detail about her own daughter's life. "No. He's doing that internship with his aunt. On the mainland. I was at John B's."

"Ah." Ainsley nods like she understands, but Moe's pretty sure she couldn't pick John B out of a lineup. "Well, just so you know. I'm leaving early tomorrow. I'm covering some shifts at the hospital in Roanoke. I'll be gone about a week."

There it is. The real reason she called Moe over. Not because she wanted to ask about her day, but because she needed to check a box. That's Ainsley, always playing the part of a parent without really being one.

"Right. Sounds good."

"I'll leave some money on the fridge. If groceries run out."

At least there's that. Moe hopes it's a fifty. Then she can snag some weed off Andy Maybank and they'll still have leftovers for a trip to the corner store.

"Sure, Mom."

Ainsley gives her that same fake, tight-lipped smile and walks right past her, disappearing into her room. Conversation over. Typical.

Moe rolls her eyes and does the same.

Her room is her safe haven, as unbearably cliché as that sounds. It's just a bed shoved in a corner, a clothes rack, a rickety desk. But she's made it hers over the years. Filled the corners with stolen plants and pots that won't be missed from houses on Figure Eight, a collection of greenery that spills out over her room. The recycled wood shelves John B drilled into the wall, for all the books she'd "permanently borrowed" from the library. Her desk plastered with stickers from tourist places all across the island. A carefully curated wardrobe with Kook hand-me-downs from the thrift and stuff she's stolen from JJ's touron hook-ups (as way of penance).

It's the only reason she comes home at all really, even if it is just to water the plants and stare at all the pictures of her friends she's tacked to the wall.

She kicks off one shoe, then the other, and lets them thud to the floor. Her socks stay on– dusted with sand from yesterday's impromptu trek through the marsh– but she cant bring herself to care. The ceiling fan ticks above her head like a metronome out of time, casting shadows that flick and twitch on the walls. Moe blinks up at it, arms flung above her head, body splayed like a dead thing across her bedspread.

The house is quiet. Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, but the kind that stretches too long, sits heavy in her chest.

Her phone buzzes beside her. She doesn't check it. Already knows who it is.

Malachi has this way of taking up unwanted space in her head, that slow creep of guilt that winds around her ribs and squeezes. She wants to feel angry instead. Wants to hold onto it, keep it bright and burning so she doesn't have to look at the hollow inside of her chest. But it's already fading, replaced by the dull ache of frustration. In him. In herself.

She sighs, scrubs a hand over her face, the pads of her fingers catching against a spot of tender skin near her lip. The spot from earlier, where she'd bitten too hard. She hadn't even realized she'd done it until the metallic taste pooled against her teeth.

Her eyes drift to the pictures tacked up on the wall above her desk– sun-bleached snapshots of her friends on the HMS Pogue, or crammed together on the beach, wide smiles, wind-tangled hair. JJ in the center of most of them, his arm slung around her shoulder, mostly looking at the camera, sometimes looking at her.

She stares at those photos for a long moment. Then reaches up and flips her tropical patterned pillow over, pressing her face into the cooler side. It doesn't help.

She's not sure how long she lies like that. But eventually the exhaustion starts to tug at her. Her limbs grow heavy. She's still in the clothes she put on yesterday morning. Before the kegger. Before storming out of the Château. They feel glued to her skin, scratchy and stale. But she's too tired to change.

It's too early to sleep, but her body doesn't really care. Hungover, hungry, mentally exhausted— crawling into bed and sleeping it off is probably the best decision she's made in a while.

It's dark when she comes to. Milky moonlight spills through the window, slicing pale shadows across the leaves of her plants. A shadow moves, suddenly eclipsing most of the light.

Moe frowns, blinking blearily at the window. Finds JJ clinging to the gutter with one hand, knocking insistently against the glass with the other. Let me in, he mouths.

She groans quietly and rolls off the bed, unlatching the window and shoving open the half he's not clinging to.

"Took you long enough," JJ mutters, climbing in with practiced ease and landing with a soft thud.

"What if I wasn't home?" she mutters, voice still thick with sleep. "You'd have just clung to the gutter all night?"

"Nah," he says, "Would've broken in."

Moe rolls her eyes but can't stop the small twitch of a smile. She steps aside as JJ flings off his shoes and makes a beeline for the bed like he owns it. He doesn't even ask anymore. Just flops down across the end of it and stretches out on his stomach.

She climbs back under the covers, grabbing her phone more out of habit than anything. JJ's presence makes everything feel easier. Less like the weight of it all is going to crush her. He fiddles absently with the rings on his fingers, and she watches him through the screen glow.

There are no visible bruises tonight. No cuts. His jaw is relaxed. Good. Whatever drove him here, it wasn't a fist or a broken bottle. She supposes he just didn't want to be home tonight.

She doesn't ask.

They have an unspoken understanding. JJ shows up hanging off her roof in the middle of the night for reasons he doesn't need to say aloud. No questions from her, no explanations from him. She doesn't need him to say that he dreads going home, dreads being around his Dad.

To her, it's simple. To him, maybe not. Love and violence and family all tangled up like string. But she doesn't attempt to untangle it. She's not interested in making choices for JJ that he doesn't want made. So she gives him this instead— her room, her bed, her silence.

He's grateful. She knows. Even if he never says it.

"You look like shit," JJ says finally.

Her concern for him evaporates. Instantly. "Wow. Thank you so much."

A smirk splits across his face. Lunges forward and snaps the strap of her bikini top where it pokes from under her shirt. She thwacks his hand away.

"Well, you do," he says, nose scrunching, looking up at her. "Your hair's a fucking mess."

Embarrassingly enough, her hand reaches immediately for her head, confirming that yes, her hair is in fact a mess. She's not sure how bad, but it's knotted to shit at the back and at her hairline where her head usually pushes into the pillow during sleep. The collar of her t-shirt is basically halfway down her chest as well as JJ had so graciously indicated to her before. At least the bikini top kept him from getting an eyeful of her tits. She yanks the shirt up and frowns at him.

JJ groans dramatically, dropping his face into his arms. "Aw man. You're ruining my fun."

"You're such an ass." She pitches forward and shoves his shoulder. He flops over like she's knocked him unconscious, face buried in the duvet. "You say I look like shit and then you're sad about not seeing my boobs?"

He snorts, words muffled by the duvet. "If I'm ever not sad about missing a chance to see a girl's rack, then something's seriously wrong with me."

Touché.

For a moment, she watches him. Eyes fixed on his folded arms, the toned, tanned muscles that flex slowly over the bone of his shoulders. Moe swallows thickly, trying desperately to ignore the flash of heat that rolls through her. Guilt follows fast. She swallows and forces her eyes back to her phone.

There's a text from Kie, two hours ago. You okay? Moe ignores it.

The rest are from Malachi. Missed calls. Apologies.

hey I'm really sorry for getting shitty about ur job. I know you need it. It was super fucked that I brought it up just coz i wanted u to visit

u ok? everything good?

Id still love for you to come visit the mainland if u have a free weekend or whatever. I'll comp the ferry and everything

like if ur still mad can u just say? don't ignore me

MISSED CALL – 7:37 PM

MISSED CALL – 8:21 PM

alright then, goodnight.

She checks the time. Just past midnight. Which means she'd slept through the entirety of his apology-turned-guilt-trip.

A terrible kind of self-satisfaction bubbles through her– thinking about how she'd been staring at JJ just before. But that's gone as quickly as it enters her head. Frustration bubbles up in her throat.

She groans and tosses her phone onto the bed, louder than she means to.

JJ lifts his head. "What was that?"

Moe frowns, tries to brush it off. Tips her head back and then levels JJ with a look that conveys how little she would like to talk about it right now. But Moe should know better by now than to think he would just leave it alone.

JJ narrows his eyes, scoots up the bed.

Annoyed, he says, "Moe. You can't just do that and expect me to pretend nothing happened."

"Drop it, JJ."

Before he can press her, she turns away to bury her face into her pillow as if she's already halfway to sleep. As if he'd believe that.

"Dude." He pleads.

She doesn't move. They both know she heard.

When JJ concedes and moves her phone to the nightstand– so that he can slip comfortably under the duvet with her– he can't help catching a glimpse of the name on the screen. He stops himself from saying anything, pretends it doesn't bother him. But inside, something hot and ugly starts to burn.

JJ's good at pretending. He's been pretending things for Moe for a long time.
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