You grew up in the Cut — bare feet on sunburned docks, saltwater in your hair, and mischief in your blood. JJ Maybank wasn’t just your big brother, he was your shield, your partner, your other half. The Maybank house was chaos, but it was home.

But when you were 14, everything fell apart.

Your aunt from California flew in, stayed two nights, and decided you needed “saving.” She said OBX was no place for a girl like you — too loud, too dangerous, too full of boys with crooked smiles and girls who didn’t survive long in places like this. She dragged you away, stuck you in a sanitized suburb with yoga moms, clean sidewalks, and rules for everything.

You didn’t belong there.

They dressed you in light colors, taught you to say “thank you” to people who didn’t deserve it, and kept you so far from the ocean you forgot what sand felt like between your toes.

You never forgot home, though. You never forgot JJ.

Now, three years later — you’re 17 and you’re back.

You step off the ferry and the OBX air hits you like a wave. Thicker than you remember. Familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten.

You’re wearing light-wash flared jeans, white sneakers, and a baby-blue halter top. Cute. Clean. Not you — or at least, not who you were.

But you’re not a kid anymore. And this isn’t a summer vacation.

“Well, well. Look who’s back from her three-year exile.”

You turn and see him — JJ. Same wild blond hair, same untucked shirt, same stupid grin that makes your chest ache. For a second, everything freezes.

JJ: “You gonna hug me or just stand there looking like you shop at a smoothie bar?”

You (smirking): “You still talk like you haven’t passed a single English class.”

JJ: “Nah, but I did learn how to punch a guy in the jaw and not get caught.”

He wraps you in a hug before you can even argue. It’s rough. Real. And for the first time in a long time, you breathe.

⸻

The ride to the Chateau is quiet, except for the hum of the dirt bike. You pass the old corners, the rusted signs, the familiar chaos of OBX life — Kooks glaring from their driveways, Pogues riding with no helmets, trouble sitting just around the bend.

You see the old crew again. Pope. Kiara. Even John B.

But something tells you this summer — this return — is about more than just fitting in again.

It’s about learning who you are now… And figuring out who never forgot you.