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( 001 ━ PARADISE ON EARTH )

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MURPHY MCALLISTER'S DAY STARTED out no more differently than it usually did: sunburnt, on a boat.

Unfortunately for her, it wasn't because of a "party-all-night-the-day-before" kind of situation; more like a "passed-out, day-drunk, party-of-one" type of thing. Ass over tea kettle, shit-faced, worst hangover of your life sort of situation—and it wasn't even noon yet.

Luckily for Murphy, the boat was hers. Or, her dad's, technically speaking, but same difference. It was a small, aluminum fishing boat, no bigger than a dinghy, with the words "Gone Fishin'" scrawled on the back in faded lettering; farther down was "Outer Banks, NC", but the paint had chipped away so badly over the years, that it read "Oter Panks, NC", instead. The paint job, the motor, everything about it was shabby and likely held together by duct tape and prayers, but such was Murphy McCallister's life.

To start, her name was Murphy. Was it a  boy's name, a dog's name—who could tell. All she knew is she had the misfortune of being born to "creative" parents who had been under the assumption they weren't having a girl. And yet, there she had been, seven pounds, five ounces, perfect and healthy, but definitely not a boy. She could have been named something plain, like Marie or Jane, or something elegant like Eleanor or Charlotte—hell, Susan, Rhonda, or Karen would have even been better—and yet, her dad, being the person he was, thought that would be a waste of a perfectly good name. So, there was no argument about it: she was and would always be Murphy Jean McAllister, otherwise known as Murph. Sexy.
Regardless of her name, there was one thing Murphy was certain about: she had come into the world unexpected and perhaps a little unwanted.

There were a lot of other things about Murphy's life that were just as messed up; many parts in need of duct tape and prayers, but like her dad's old fishing boat, it was as good as it was going to get.

But, some water and Advil would be a good place to start.

The first thing she became aware of that morning, other than the obnoxious pounding of her head, was the boat rocking gently back and forth on the water. It momentarily lulled her back into a doze, but soon threatened to stir up the contents of her stomach. Day-old Rum and Coke, and perhaps a splash of vodka, sloshed around unpleasantly as bile forced its way up the back of her throat; a nauseating reminder of the night before. Groggy, Murphy swallowed back the feeling, and without opening her eyes, she listened. She could hear the waves against the side of the boat, the wind in the trees, and birds chirping somewhere in the distance. Her house was never quite that quiet in the morning.

She was laying in an awkward position in the center cavity of the boat, squeezed between two of the benches, with one leg propped up over one of the seats and the other hanging over the side. If the boat tilted far enough to the side, Murphy could feel ocean water lapping against her bare toes. The sun was warm against her skin, but it was only pleasant on the parts of her body that received relief in the shade of branches that occasionally swayed back and forth over her head. Everything else burned. It didn't help that the metal of the boat was beginning to heat up as the day progressed, but as much as she knew it would bake her alive, she couldn't bring herself to get up. The drowsy part of her brain dreamed of an entire bottle of aloe and despite the ache in the rest of her body, it was good enough to send her back into a doze. Murphy slung an arm over her eyes to block the sun and allowed herself to drift back off.

It could have been one minute or one hour (probably the former) later that she was inevitably roused by the sound of footsteps. Bare feet against wood, like someone walking across a dock. It occurred to her that she was likely moored someplace and not just floating out in the middle of the ocean, and she could only hope that it wasn't someplace embarrassing. While Murphy didn't have much of a reputation anymore, she still had some minuscule shred of dignity left in her, one that she hope could be spared from ending drunk off her ass in some random person's back yard, or worse, in the marina. She decided to lay still as the person approached, hoping that they would see she was still "asleep" and leave her alone. Kind of like an opossum playing dead.

That was wishful thinking as, after a moment of silence, while the person was presumably trying to decide whether or not to call the authorities, he laughed, and something nudged the leg that was hanging over the side of the boat. "Murphy, what the hell are you doing?"

Begrudged, Murphy drew her arm from over her face and let her eyes peel open to meet those of the boy who was staring down at her, a face she immediately recognized. Tousled blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, and a shit-eating grin that pissed her off more than being woken up, JJ Maybank was just about the last person she wanted to see. Even if he was one of her closest friends.

"What does it look like?" Murphy grumbled, dropping her head back against the bottom of the boat. The light was harsh as she squinted up at him, even with her hand shielding her face, so she dropped her arm back over her eyes. "Sleeping."

JJ laughed again, a grating sound against her ears. "No shit," He replied, in that snarky way of his. "I meant what are you doing out here?"

Murphy thought perhaps if she ignored him, he might go away, but JJ wasn't deterred. He hardly ever was. He nudged her knee again with his foot, harder this time, and the entire boat pitched to the side with his action.

Murphy's hands shot out to grab the sides, gripping the metal tightly until the swaying had subsided, after which she followed up with a scathing look. "I dunno, JJ, just thought I'd go stargazing last night," she said to him, sarcastically. She let go of the boat and ran her hands over her face with a exasperated groan. "I have no fucking idea what I'm doing out here. I don't even know where 'here' is."

JJ snickered and rolled his eyes. "Where else would you be?"" He responded.

He gestured behind him and when Murphy propped herself up to get a better look, she was relieved to see that, she was not in fact on some strangers land or at the marina. Her boat was tied up to a long wooden dock that let out into an overgrown backyard, dotted with trees and various outdoor furniture, all of which bordered a white house in the center of the property. The house, otherwise know as the Château, belonged to John B. Routledge. John B. was another one of her close friends, one that she shared in common with JJ. Somehow in her previous inebriated state, she had managed to pilot her dad's fishing boat here. She wasn't sure how she hadn't recognized her surroundings sooner, given that she had spent almost every day there since she was sixteen, but Murphy was just glad to be somewhere familiar.

"Thank God," she mumbled, collapsing back into the boat with a heavy sigh. The wooden planks of the dock creaked beneath JJ's weight as he sat down and swung his legs over the side, his feet dangling in the water.

"Rough night?" He asked. The pad of his foot rested against the side of the boat and rocked it back and forth slowly.

Already feeling queasy, Murphy sat up, drawing her legs to herself as she used her hands to flatten down her hair. The curls stuck out at odd angles and she desperately wished she had a hair tie. "You could say that," she replied.

She turned to look at him and watched the way his eyes widened when she met his gaze fully. Her left eye was swollen and red, dark purple bruising already creeping across her cheekbone. JJ sucked air in between his teeth.

"Shit, Murph. What the hell happened?"

He reached forward before Murphy had a chance to object and grasped her chin, tilting her head side to side to get a better view of the injury. This didn't bother like it should of; her friend group had a tendency to disregard each other's personal space. What annoyed her far more was the look of concern on JJ's face, like she was this fragile little thing that couldn't handle herself. Murphy hated that look. She'd survived worse on her own—she didn't need anyone coddling her.

Murphy rolled her eyes. "Nothing, JJ. I'm fine," she said to him, her voice flat, though she could feel the irritation starting to rise in her chest. "It's just a black eye. I've had worse."

JJ didn't seem buy it. His brow furrowed as he released her chin, his hand falling to his side. "Yeah, well, 'worse' shouldn't be your baseline." His voice softened, the teasing edge gone. "What happened?"

She didn't answer right away, biting her lip as she tried to focus on the ripples in the water beneath them. Anything to avoid that stupid look. The pain in her face wasn't what bothered her—no, it was the fact that she never seemed to have a good excuse. The truth was a mess, and she didn't feel like untangling it in front of him, as much as he might be able to sympathize.

"Not your problem," she muttered, finally looking away. Her fingers gripped the edge of the boat tightly, wishing she had gotten out before having this conversation. She felt silly sitting there, swaying back and forth on the water.

JJ leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and sighed, clearly unwilling to let it go. "Your old man did that, didn't he?"

Murphy looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She knew he meant well, but it wasn't that simple. Her whole familial relationship was fucked up, that much was true, but it still wasn't easy to talk about. "Yes, but it was an accident," she admitted, defensively. "He was throwing one of his damn tantrums, destroying shit, and I walked into a backswing trying to stop him."

JJ raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "That's it?"

"That's it," she repeated, more firmly this time, trying to close the door on the conversation. "Look, I made it even. I took his good shit."

Murphy reached forward and withdrew a handle of liquor from under the bench in front of her and held it up for JJ to see. Bourbon whiskey, the expensive kind worth at least several hundred dollars, if not more. The glass bottle it came in was cut to resemble a diamond, it's faceted surfaces glinting in the morning light. Even by appearance alone, it didn't look like the kind of stuff a Pogue should have.

Now that she was holding it, Murphy could assess the damage done. A little under a half of the bottle remained, when it had been previously full, sealed, and collecting dust in the basement the night before. Not her finest moment, especially considering it had tasted like shit, but it was merely the spite of it all.

JJ leaned forward on his hands, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he eyed the bottle of bourbon. "Well, well, well," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Look at you, playing the long game. I gotta say, I'm impressed. You've really outdone yourself this time."

Murphy glared at him, the edges of her lips twitching in what could have been a smirk or a grimace. "I had to do something. It's about principle."

JJ chuckled, reaching for the bottle and giving it a quick shake, causing the remaining liquor to slosh around. "Principle, huh? You sure it wasn't just the need for a really bad decision at 3 a.m.?"

Murphy's eyes narrowed. "I don't make bad decisions. I make... impactful ones. Besides, that's kind of hypocritical, coming from you."

JJ snorted. "Yeah, right. I'm just saying, if you wanted to make a statement, you could've just drawn mustaches on his favorite Playboy or, I don't know, stolen his socks or something. But no, you went for the bougie booze—he'll be pissed."

Murphy smiled proudly. "That's exactly the point," she retorted, reaching over to snatch the bottle back from him. "Nothing says 'I'm done with your crap' like half a bottle of overpriced whiskey."

"If you say so. You gonna share?"

"Maybe later—if you cut the crap," Murphy replied, a playful glint in her eyes as she dusted off the broken wax seal with the tip of her fingers. "I've had about all I can handle for the morning."

JJ snorted in response. "Yeah, clearly."

Murphy ignored him. She tucked the whiskey under her arm and held out her free hand expectantly. "Shut up. Help me outta here, would you?"

JJ rolled his eyes at her gall, but got up regardless. He reached down to grab ahold of her arm and with a firm grip, he pulled her up onto the dock beside him. His hand lingering on her wrist momentarily, but only until she was safely on her feet. Murphy stood up straight and grimaced, stretching out each limb, which had grown stiff and painful at the joints from her awkward sleeping position. The tanned skin of her arms and legs was tinged pink from the hours in the sun, but she tried not to mind. It wasn't like there was any avoiding it. She gave her shoulders a roll, trying to ease the tension, then glanced back at JJ, who was watching her with an amused, almost knowing smile.

"You good?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Murphy shot him a half-smirk, brushing the grit from her clothes. "Never better."

She didn't even want to imagine what she looked like. She was wearing the same clothes as the day before and her skin was sticky with the heat, drenched in sweat. The humidity had yet to die down, and likely wouldn't, so Murphy  was left looking and feeling damp.

"Let's go in. I need AC and a shower."

JJ nodded and together, they started walking up the board walk to the Chateau. Past the dock, the lawn had become overgrown despite best efforts to keep it maintained, long blades of marsh grass reaching up towards the sun with spindly fingers. A very large angel oak tree, adorned by a blue and white striped hammock, sat closest to the dock. It's branches fanning out across the length of the yard and dock, and shaded in most of the yard. As they neared the house, Murphy could see the Twinkie, a 1950s Volkswagen van that had once belonged to John B.'s father. At some point, it had been painted a solid brown with orange and yellow striping, but it had been years since it's prime, so the color had faded and chipped to reveal the rusty metal underneath. On most days, everyone would cram together on the worn-down leather seats and John B. would drive them just about anywhere on the island.

The Chateau was a 2-bedroom house of decent size, with weathered wood floors, mismatched furniture, and a slightly worn charm that made it feel like home. Sunlight filtered through the large windows, casting a warm glow over the lived-in space, where surfboards leaned against the walls and the scent of salt air lingered in the air. Empty beer cans, random dishes, and papers cluttered the table and counter space; it was clearly a house lived in by teenagers.

John B. was sitting on the couch when Murphy entered, looking like he had also woken up recently; his hair was disheveled and, like her, he was wearing the same clothes as the day before. She caught his gaze and greeted him with a smile, which he returned for a split-second before he glimpsed her swollen face and it dropped from his face altogether. She didn't bother waiting for him to bristle and interrogate like JJ had done, so Murphy waved him off dismissively with her free hand.

"Don't even ask. I'm fine, right JJ?" She asked, setting down the whiskey on a table near the door. She headed straight for the kitchen and rifled through the fridge for something to drink. Thankfully, there were a couple of untouched water bottles at the back. She happily grabbed one, cracked it open, and almost immediately began to drain its contents.

In the living room, JJ plopped down in an armchair adjacent to the couch, eyeing her with a dubious expression. "Yeah. Completely fine," he echoed, a hint of doubt in his voice.

After chugging nearly the entire bottle, Murphy walked back into the living room, and perched herself in the arm of JJ's chair. She patted his shoulder with fake sympathy.

"You two look like you had a long night," she commented, looking across the room at the mess that had been left behind. Beer bottles, scattered clothes, and an empty pizza box littered the space, evidence of a late night that hadn't quite wrapped up yet. JJ leaned forward to pick up a half-drank beer off the coffee table, peered down into the neck of the bottle, and gave it a tentative sip. Murphy made a noise of disgust and rolled her eyes.

John B. rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged, taking a moment to look around at the state of the living room. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he said. He got up from the couch and started to collect the empty bottles and trash, tossing them into a nearby bin. "Pope was here last night, but I think he left this morning for work."

Murphy blinked, momentarily frozen as she processed his words. Her hand, still holding a half-empty water bottle, dropped to her side. "Oh shit." The reality of the situation hit her like a freight train. She had completely forgotten about her work shift. Scrambling up from her seat on the arm chair, Murphy sought out a small table clock in the kitchen and flipped it over in her hands to read the time. She was an hour late.

"Fuck, I'm so dead," she muttered, dropping the clock back in it's place and hurrying from the kitchen into the back hall.

"What?" JJ called after her, perplexed.

Murphy didn't respond right away, rifling through a dresser in the spare room for a change of clothes. Usually there was something her size left over, either by herself or by Kiara, the only other girl in their friend group, but Murphy wasn't having such luck this time. Everything was too big, worn through, or not work appropriate (ex. one of JJ's muscle tanks). She managed to pull out an faded old tie-dye t-shirt, which was still twice her size, but it was better than nothing. Deciding her shorts from the day before would have to do, she shucked her current shirt and pulled the other over her head on her way back out into the living room. Both boys looked in separate directions, despite having seen her in a lot less before.

"I forgot I was supposed to work today at 10," Murphy said, stepping into the bathroom. She avoided eye contact with her bruised face as she piled her hair on top of her head, twisting and pinning until it somewhat resembled a bun. She exited the bathroom and John B. checked his watch with a frown.

"But it's 11 now."

"Exactly," Murphy replied, her voice right with frustration. "Cal said he'd fire me if I was late again, which he definitely won't, but he'll bitch about it just the same."

"You need a ride?" He asked, gesturing out the window to the Twinkie.

Murphy shook her head. "No, I'm good. I'll just take the boat," she answered, shoving on a pair of shoes she assumed to be Kie's, based on the style and size. She straightened up and glanced over her shoulder at JJ and John B. "Either of you boys wanna come with? There might be a shake on the house for anyone who can help me prove my innocence."

JJ looked to John B. and shrugged. "Sure, why not? I like milkshakes."

John B. nodded in agreement and stood up. Neither bothered changing their clothes, much to her chagrin—not that she was surprised. They passed her on the way out the door, heading down the walkway to the dock, where Gone Fishin' was waiting. The silver metal siding flashed in the sun. Before leaving, Murphy paused in the doorway, before grabbing a sticky note and pen from a desk in the corner of the living room. She ripped off one of the small pieces of paper and using the doorframe to write on, she scribbled a quick note in all caps. Then, she stuck it to the front of her father's whiskey, and then let the door slam shut behind her.

MURPHY'S
DON'T TOUCH

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