Two      ˚      Voicemails

"I always knew this island was haunted, just didn't realize I'd be seeing ghosts so soon." 

Salome tipped her head to the side, fork still stabbed in the piece of grilled chicken sandwiched between the lettuce. Her interactions had begun to feel like bucket list items: Topper, Wheezie, Kelce, and now Theo.

Salome tipped her fork, letting the chicken fall back onto the bed of arugula with a soft thud. The salad wasn't even hers—it was Theo's, barely touched, half an afterthought on the table between them. Her iced coffee, lukewarm by now, sat sweating in a tall glass on her side, untouched since she'd caught sight of him across the marina patio.

Theo hadn't changed much. Same slouch, same perpetually unbuttoned Ralph Lauren oxford, same hair that fell just a little too perfectly messy. He was a walking Vineyard Vines ad, all sharp angles and manufactured ease, the kind of boy who could sweet-talk his way out of a DUI with a smirk and a firm handshake.

"Didn't think you'd be back," Theo said, voice lazy, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. Not on her—never on her. That was the game with Theo. He spoke like he had all the time in the world to care, but the sharp edge in his tone always gave him away.

"Didn't think you'd care," she replied, leaning back against the iron-wrought chair, its frame digging into her shoulder blades. The Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag at her feet, half-unzipped and spilling receipts and a forgotten compact, felt heavier than it should. It was the bag she'd left behind, and felt the immense need to use the second she saw it in her closet. She hadn't bothered going through what was in it, knowing it most likely had all her essentials as all her bags did.

"I don't." He flashed a grin, all teeth and no warmth, as his fingers traced the edge of his Ray-Bans where they rested on the table. "Just saying, the last time I saw you, you were making a scene at the Pelican Club. Thought you were done with this place."

The mention of the Pelican Club pulled a faint laugh from her throat, low and humorless. She remembered that night—remembered the way the champagne tasted, flat and bitter, and the way the room had spun when she'd turned too quickly on her heels, trying to leave before anyone could stop her. Rafe had followed her out, his grip tight enough to leave bruises on her wrist.

"You thought wrong," she said simply, swirling the coffee in her glass. The ice had already melted, leaving behind a watered-down bitterness she couldn't bring herself to drink.

Theo leaned forward, his elbow grazing the table's edge, the silver watch on his wrist catching the sunlight. "I'm just confused. Is this some kind of redemption arc? Or are you just bored?" He paused, mouth slightly open as though assessing his next words. "Can I get used to you being around again?" he asked, voice softer than it had been since they'd spotted each other.

Salome's fingers stilled on the rim of her glass, the condensation pooling beneath it soaking into the already-damp paper coaster. She lifted her gaze slowly, catching the flicker of hesitation in Theo's expression. For a second, he didn't look like the polished, sharp-edged Kook she'd left behind. He looked like the boy who used to climb out of his window at 3 a.m. just to sit on her porch and talk about the things neither of them could admit during daylight hours.

"Used to me?" she echoed, tilting her head as if the words didn't sting. "What'd you do while I was gone, Theo? Cry into your Titos? Find a new best friend?" Her voice wavered halfway through, giving her away more than she would've liked to. 

He laughed softly, but there was a sharpness to it. "Yeah, something like that," he said, leaning back in his chair, the legs creaking faintly under his weight. "But, you know, you're not that easy to replace. Trust me, I tried."

Her smirk faltered for just a second, a flicker of guilt flashing through her. She reached for her iced coffee, though the watered-down bitterness wasn't any more appealing now than it had been five minutes ago. "Guess I should be flattered," she said, swirling the liquid absently.

"What, did you find a new best friend in Miami?" he shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah," Salome drawled, rolling her eyes. "I had a revolving door of best friends in Miami."

Theo slightly laughed and leaned forward, his elbows grazing the edge of the table, and the tone shifted. "But seriously, Sal, what was it? What was so bad that you had to disappear? One minute, you're here; the next, you're gone without a word. Not even to me."

The air thickened between them, and Salome's grip on the glass tightened. She'd imagined this conversation a hundred times but never thought it would feel this raw. Theo wasn't supposed to sound hurt. He wasn't supposed to care. But now? Now he sounded hurt, like she'd taken something from him that he couldn't quite name. And that wasn't part of the script. Theo wasn't supposed to care. He wasn't supposed to sit across from her, wearing that faded  shirt she recognized from a thousand late nights, and act like her absence had mattered. Not to him.

Because if Theo cared, it made her absence real in a way she didn't want to think about. It wasn't just her decision to leave—something sharp and necessary, like ripping out a splinter. It was something that had hurt people, carved holes in their lives she hadn't stayed to see.

Her jaw tightened, but she kept her expression calm, letting the silence stretch between them. Theo wasn't stupid, but if she let her guard slip for even a second, he'd pull at the threads until the whole thing unraveled. He always did.

"I didn't realize I owed anyone an explanation," she said, her voice calm but her chest tight.

Theo let out a sharp breath, leaning back in his chair. "You don't. You never did. But you don't think it was a little weird, Sal? Leaving the night everything went down? Not saying goodbye to anyone? To me?"

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her expression unreadable. "Maybe I just didn't think you'd notice," she replied, her tone smooth, but the words caught in her throat like broken glass.

Theo's laugh was short, humorless. "Don't give me that bullshit. You knew I'd notice. I always noticed."

The weight of what he wasn't saying hung in the air between them. He didn't know the whole story—how could he? But he wasn't stupid. No one in the Outer Banks was, not really. They all saw the pieces; they just hadn't put them together. Yet. She wouldn't have either, she was sure. The only reason she knew the image of the puzzle was because she had been there, watching it construct. 

"Whatever you think you know, Theo," she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, "just leave it alone."

He sat up straighter, his brows furrowing as his grin faded. For a moment, he looked like he might press further, but then he shrugged, letting the mask slip back into place. "Sure," he said casually, leaning back. "But do you not want to know what's going on with him?"

Salome's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. "Him," she said flatly, as though the word didn't carry the weight of the last year. As though it wasn't the reason she left this island and everything tied to it behind.

Theo's grin was slow, almost lazy, but there was an edge to it now—something cruel tucked beneath the surface. "You don't want to know what's been going on with the reason you left?"

The air between them shifted, thickening like the marsh after a storm. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, her knuckles brushing the frayed leather edges, grounding her.

"You think I left because of him?" she asked, her voice low, almost amused, but Theo didn't miss the way her throat tightened, or the slight hitch in her breath.

He tilted his head, his smile fading into something softer, something Salome didn't trust. "Why else?" he said simply, like it was the easiest question in the world.

Her laugh was soft, sharp, cutting through the tension like glass shattering. "Theo, I hate to break it to you, but not everything revolves around Rafe Cameron."

He raised his brows, his hand idly tapping the rim of his glass. "Doesn't it, though? Because the way I see it, he's the common denominator in everything you've been running from."

The words hit harder than she wanted them to, and she hated the way he said it, like it was fact, like he could see through every wall she'd spent the last year building.

"Don't jump to conclusions," she said, her tone colder now, cutting off the conversation before it could go any further. "Please."

She stood, brushing past the table without waiting for a reply. The sound of her boots on the cobblestones echoed in the humid air, drowning out the rush of blood in her ears. She didn't turn back, but she could feel Theo's eyes on her, his words trailing behind her like the tide, pulling her back when she wanted nothing more than to move forward.

The reason you left. She could almost hear the gunshot again, loud and final, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Salome sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, the late afternoon sunlight slicing through the blinds in thin, uneven lines. Dust motes floated in the golden air, unbothered by the chaos that had lived in this room a year ago. Her bag lay half-unpacked on the edge of the bed, spilling its contents—vintage sunglasses, a battered copy of The Bell Jar, a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.

The room felt too quiet. Too still. Her hands itched for distraction, but she didn't light another cigarette, didn't pick up her phone. Instead, her fingers drifted toward the drawer of her bedside table, hesitant, brushing the edge of the brass handle like she wasn't sure she wanted to open it.

The drawer stuck slightly before giving way with a groan, and there it was—the mess she'd left behind. Polaroids, receipts, a half-empty bottle of Jo Malone perfume that had turned sour from disuse. She dug through it all slowly, deliberately, her breath hitching when her fingers grazed the edge of something small and sharp: her old phone.

The cracked screen stared up at her like an accusation. She hadn't touched it since the night she left, hadn't thought about it except in the moments when she felt its phantom weight in her hand. She turned it over once, twice, before pressing the power button, watching the screen flicker to life with a faint, shaky glow.

There was a brief pause before the lock screen appeared, a photo she hadn't changed—her and Rafe on the beach, sunlight catching their faces as they laughed into the camera. The sight of it sent a jolt through her chest, sharp and unrelenting. It was the first time she had seen his face aside from when it popped in her head—almost never unwarranted. But she shoved the feeling down, pressing her thumb against the screen. 

The notifications appeared all at once. Hundreds of them. Missed calls, texts, voicemails. She stared at the number at the top of the list, a familiar name attached to it that overpowered all the others. 

Rafe.

Her chest tightened as she scrolled, watching the dates blur together. They started the night she left. The first voicemail came in barely an hour after her flight took off. Another the next morning. Another two days later. And then more, a relentless stream, tapering off only weeks after she'd settled in Miami. After a point, everybody except him had stopped calling, leaving a trail of his name written in a bold red that made her eyes sting.

Her thumb hovered over the oldest one, the timestamp catching her eye: 1:42 AM. She didn't want to listen. She didn't. But her hand moved on its own, pressing the button and holding the phone to her ear.

The recording crackled for a moment before his voice filled the room.

VOICEMAIL ONE:
1:42 AM, one day after Salome left

"Sal." His voice was sharp, clipped, barely restrained. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but this... this isn't it. You don't get to just leave. You don't get to walk away from me."

There was a pause, a heavy exhale, like he was pacing. She could picture it too clearly—the vein in his temple, the way his jaw clenched when he was spiraling. His hands tugging his hair.

"You saw it, okay? You saw it. And now you think you can just disappear, like that erases everything? Like it makes it all go away?"

His tone broke slightly, softening for a moment. "Call me back. I need... Fuck, Sal, just call me back."

VOICEMAIL TWO:
9:36 PM, two days after Salome left

"Salome." His voice was quieter this time, raw around the edges. "What the fuck were you thinking? You can't run from this. You can't."

There was a loud clatter—something metal hitting the floor, followed by his low, uneven breathing. "You saw it, didn't you? You saw what happened. And now you're scared. I get it. But you don't get to leave me here with this."

He paused, the silence stretching out for too long before he spoke again. "We could've figured it out. You and me. We always do, don't we? But now you're gone, and everything's just—"

The message cut off mid-word, leaving her staring at the screen.

VOICEMAIL THREE:
3:04 AM, five days after Salome left

"Salome, are you serious? Are you fucking serious right now?" His tone was jagged, full of cracks he couldn't hide. "I don't even know why I'm calling you. You're probably sitting somewhere, laughing about this. Laughing about me."

He let out a harsh laugh of his own, bitter and sharp. "Is that it? Is this what you wanted? To watch me lose my shit?"

There was a long stretch of silence, just his uneven breathing filling the space. Then his voice softened, almost a whisper. "You always do this. Push until there's nothing left. But I never thought you'd push me."

Another pause. She could hear the faint clink of ice in a glass, the muted sound of music in the background—something slow and melancholy, a song she couldn't place.

"I don't know what you're running from," he said finally, his words slurring just slightly, "but you can't run forever. Call me back. Don't make me come find you."

VOICEMAIL FOUR:
11:57 PM, two weeks after Salome left

"Do you remember that night we went to the pier? When it was just us, and you made me steal that bottle of Patrón because you said no one at the bar would card me? I still have the lighter you gave me that night—the stupid one with the dolphins on it. I don't even know why. You probably don't even remember it. But I do. I remember everything."

His voice softened, almost wistful. "That's what kills me, Sal. I remember all of it. The good stuff, the shitty stuff, the way you'd laugh at me when I said something stupid. I don't know if you even think about it, or if you're too busy pretending this—us—never existed."

There was a pause, his breathing uneven, like he was trying to keep something from spilling out. "But it did. You can't erase it. You can't erase me."

The line clicked, cutting him off.

VOICEMAIL FIVE:
3:14 AM, two weeks after Salome left

"Sal." His voice was different this time, hollow, like the anger had burned itself out. "You're not answering, but I know you're listening. You always listen, don't you? Even when you pretend not to."

He let out a shaky laugh, bitter and broken. "You saw it happen. You saw what I did. You think I wanted that? You think I wanted to—" He stopped, cutting himself off. "No. It doesn't matter what you think. What matters is you were supposed to stay. You're supposed to be here. With me."

Another pause, heavier this time, filled with the sound of him breathing, trying to steady himself. "You're the only one who gets it. Who gets me. And now you're gone, and I can't—"

The message cut off mid-sentence, leaving a void she couldn't fill.

VOICEMAIL SIX:
2:25 AM, four weeks after Salome left

"Do you think this fixes it?" His voice cracked, his words slurred slightly, like he'd been drinking. "Do you think running away makes it all disappear? You can pretend all you want, Sal, but you'll never forget it. Just like I won't."

There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again, quieter now. "You think you're scared of me? I'm scared of me. Of what I did. Of what I... what I could do again."

She could hear the tremor in his voice, the way he tried to pull it back together but couldn't. "But you leaving? That's worse. You left me with nothing. No one. Just—I'm scared. Call me back. Please."

The message lingered for a moment before ending with a faint click.

VOICEMAIL SEVEN: 
4:47 PM, almost two months after Salome left

"I saw that dress you liked at Heyward's shop. The ugly floral one you said made you look like a 'rich divorcee with a vendetta.'" He let out a short laugh, faint but real. "Bet you'd love that. Playing some villain in a soap opera, stirring shit up. You'd be good at it."

"So fucking good at it," he chuckled, as though it were an inside joke. There was a pause, and then his voice shifted, softer, almost vulnerable. "I wanted to buy it for you. Couldn't, though. Didn't seem right, with you gone. It's still hanging there, though. Probably waiting for you to come back."

His laugh was soft, humorless. "You know what's funny? You always said I'd be the one to fuck this up. Guess we both underestimated you."

The message ended with a faint rustle, like he was moving away from the phone, before it cut off entirely.

VOICEMAIL EIGHT
6:42 PM, two months after Salome left

"You win." His voice was flat, lifeless. "You fucking win, Sal. You left. You escaped. And I'm still here, carrying this, carrying us. Do you even think about me? Or is it easier to pretend I don't exist?"

There was no background noise this time, just his voice and the static hum of the line. "You always said I was the one who ruined everything. But maybe you were wrong. Maybe this was your mess to begin with."

Another pause. Then, softer: "I hope you're happy, wherever you are. I hope it was worth it." He paused, and she could hear the light click of his tongue. "I hope it was so fucking worth it, Salome."

The line clicked, and the screen went dark.

Salome sat there for what felt like an eternity, her fingers tracing the edge of her phone as if the glass screen could somehow protect her from the weight of everything that had just slammed into her. The room felt too small, too closed in. It wasn't the kind of silence that wrapped you in comfort, the kind that made space for thoughts and dreams. No, this silence was thick and suffocating, charged with something she couldn't quite name, something dark and electric. It felt like the air had turned to glass, brittle and fragile, ready to shatter at the slightest movement.

Her heart was a dull, steady ache in her chest, but beneath it, there was something else. Something sharp, like the burn of alcohol on an open wound. A quiet humiliation, the way you feel when you've been caught in a lie, but the lie isn't really the worst part. It's the fact that you're still lying to yourself, even now.

She had told herself, over and over again, that she was done. That he was done. That there was nothing left between them, not anymore. But the sound of his voice? The ache in it? It had cracked something wide open. She couldn't have expected it to be easy, but she hadn't thought it would hurt this much. It was the kind of hurt that didn't heal. Not in a year, not in ten. The kind that became a part of you, a scar that marked everything you touched after.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned back, letting her head rest against the edge of the counter, staring up at the ceiling. She was exhausted. The kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with remembering. With remembering him. With remembering how it had felt to be wrapped in that chaos, how it had felt to let him pull her into the storm again and again, knowing it would destroy her every time.

But it wasn't just the storm that had killed her. It was what he'd done to her once she was inside it. She had lost so much of herself to him. She'd allowed herself to become a part of his destruction, convinced that she could fix it—fix him—and in doing so, forgotten how to save herself.

She closed her eyes for a moment, but even in the dark, the sound of his voice echoed, reverberating inside her skull. His desperation. His anger. The sharp edges of every word, every syllable, as if he had clawed them out from the deepest parts of himself. And yet, as much as she tried to push it away, the ache—the burning inside her chest—wasn't just from the things he'd said. It was the things he hadn't said.

Maybe you think I'm the one who's broken.

Her thumb hovered over the delete button again, but this time, it was different. The impulse to erase everything wasn't there. Instead, she just sat there, letting it sink in. He had said things she couldn't ignore, things she didn't want to admit she still cared about, things that cracked the carefully constructed facade she had built around her life.

It was only when she flickered her eyes open again, she caught the remaining notifications on her voicemail log.

Four new messages. Back-to-back.

Salome's heart skipped, her pulse roaring in her ears as she unlocked the phone. There they were. Four messages. Seven months after the last voicemail, long after she was sure he had forgotten about her.

Her throat went dry. Her stomach turned over, like it had fallen out of her body entirely. Four messages. Four attempts to reach her, to pull her back into whatever hell he had crawled out of, as if nothing had ever changed. She hadn't wanted this. She hadn't wanted any of it. She hadn't wanted him to need her again.

She hadn't wanted him to remember.

Her fingers trembled as she tapped on the first one, the voice note starting without hesitation. Rafe's voice cut through the stillness of the room again, the weight of it hitting her like a punch to the gut. But this time, there was no frantic pleading. No desperation.

Just a quiet, steady kind of recklessness. The kind that had always been more dangerous.

VOICEMAIL NINE
2:47 AM, 9 months after Salome left

"I shouldn't be calling." His voice cracked on the first word, hoarse and unsteady, like he'd been yelling or crying—or both. "I told myself I wouldn't. Told myself I'd moved on, that you didn't deserve another fucking second of my time. But here I am. Calling. Like an idiot."

There was a pause, filled with the faint rustling of fabric and the clink of glass against a hard surface. He exhaled sharply, the sound of it crackling through the static. "Topper made me delete your number. Said I needed to grow up. Move on. Like it's that fucking easy."

He let out a bitter laugh, low and hollow. "But I didn't really delete it, Sal. You know that, right? I didn't need to. I remember it. Every digit. Every fucking word you ever said to me. It's all still there. Stuck in my head, like you branded it on me or something."

Another pause, longer this time, and she could hear him breathing hard, like he was trying to hold himself together but failing miserably. "Do you even remember mine?" he asked, tone scornfully teasing. "Bet you don't," Rafe's voice dripped with a sharp, venomous edge. "Bet you've got some new number now, some big-fucking-city area code I don't know. Or maybe you're in New York, living it up with some trust-fund fucker who thinks his Rolex means he's a fucking catch. Probably one of those 'I do mergers' types, all blazers and half-smiles. Maybe he's got a dog—some stupid golden retriever with a bowtie and a pedigree, and his name's Charlie or some shit. Real basic, huh? One of those 'I'm a businessman' types, who talks about stocks like he's got an ounce of personality behind it." He scoffed, like the thought disgusted him. "Or maybe he's the type who takes you out for sushi and tells you he wants to 'get to know the real you,' like you're some fucking project he can fix."

"Does he know you hate the sound of wind chimes? That you said they made you feel like the world was about to collapse? Does he know you drink bourbon neat because you think ice 'waters down the good stuff'? Or that you won't eat strawberries if the stems are still on, because you say it feels too much like wor—"

The line cut off. 

Salome sat still, staring at the phone. Her breath was shallow, but the sting was different this time. It wasn't just anger or frustration or bitterness—it was something else, something that curled under her ribs like a wound that had never healed.

A part of her wanted to call him back, to hear his voice again, even though she knew it was a mistake. But the longer she sat with it, the more she realized it wasn't about needing him. It wasn't about anything he said, or even the desperation in his voice.

It was about the fact that—somehow, despite everything—she still needed to know what would happen if she stayed.

If she let herself fall back into the pull of him, back into the world he created for her. She'd been gone long enough to forget, but she could still hear his laugh in her bones, feel the heat of his hand against her skin. It had taken less than five hours of her being back for her to be pulled into his orbit. She could still remember the way he made her feel—like she was both untouchable and owned at the same time.

And maybe that was the problem. She was never really hers. Not when it came to him.

Her thumb hovered over the play button of the following voicemail. Because she loved torturing herself, apparently. 

VOICEMAIL TEN
2:49 AM, 9 months after Salome left

"I wasn't finished." His voice was sharper now, like he was irritated at the interruption. "I wasn't fucking finished. You do that, you know? Cut people off before they get to the point. Before they can say what they mean. You're so fucking good at that."

There was a pause, his breath catching like he was trying to steady himself. Then his voice softened, dipping into something darker, more deliberate. "Does he know you like it when someone pulls your hair? That you dig your nails into people when you can't hold it in anymore? Does he know how you used to claw at my back like you were trying to leave a mark?"

He laughed again, quieter this time, almost to himself. "Bet you don't let him see that side of you. Bet you make him think you're all soft edges and polite smiles. But I know better. I know you."

"Does he know you always looked at me like you were daring me to ruin you? And then you hated me for doing it."

His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, it sounded like he might stop. But then he kept going, softer now, almost a whisper. "Does he know I can still feel you, Sal? Like you're fucking branded on me? Because I do. Every goddamn second of every goddamn day."

VOICEMAIL ELEVEN
2:51 AM, 9 months after Salome left

There was a faint rustling, the sound of him lighting a cigarette and dragging on it before he spoke again. "Does he know you hate your middle name? That you only told me because we were filling out that stupid form for your mom's charity event and you refused to answer any of the questions until I promised I wouldn't laugh? I remember you were already halfway through filling it out, like you had some plan to avoid the one thing I'd always asked about. But then you gave up. 'It's Delilah,' you said, like it was some big confession. Like I hadn't already guessed it from how weird you got when I'd say anything close to it. You didn't want anyone to know, but I swear, I was so proud to have it, like I knew something no one else did."

He took in a deep breath, as though he was gathering every piece of information about her that he could. He was. His laugh came then, soft and bitter, the sound cutting through the static. "He doesn't know you keep a glass bottle of water by your bed because you think it tastes colder than the plastic ones. Or that you never actually liked champagne, but you always ordered it because it made you feel like one of those women in the old Hollywood movies you used to watch. Or that you have that weird habit of tapping the table three times when you're nervous, like it's some kind of magic spell to keep everything from falling apart."

There was a pause, and his voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper now. "Does he know—"

VOICEMAIL 12
2:53 AM, 9 months after Salome left

"Does he know how you always read the last page of a book first, just in case you don't make it to the end? Or that you still keep that ugly red lighter in your bag—the one you swore you'd never use because it reminded you of your dad?"

Another pause, this one longer, heavier. "Does he know how you looked at me that night? Like you were scared. Like you didn't know who I was anymore. Like I was something you wanted to run from. Does he know that?"

His voice cracked, and for a moment, it sounded like he might stop, but then he kept going. "I keep telling myself you're not worth it. That I should forget you. That I want to forget you. But you're still fucking here, Sal. You're still in my head, in my house, in every goddamn thing I do."

Another sharp exhale, followed by a muttered curse. "Fuck, Salome. I can't get you out. And I don't know if I even want to."

The message ended with a faint click, leaving the silence heavy and unrelenting.