#ruthie

Sarah exhales, hands on her hips. “You’re joking.”

“Don’t. Stop,” JJ mutters.

“Anywhere but here,” Kie says.

Sarah squints and asks “Who’s that chick?”

You don’t bother to hide the way your face hardens. “That’s Ruthie,” you say flat. “I fucking hate that bitch.”

You remember exactly how you met her — a stiff-backed, sneering introduction at some island fundraiser with too many cocktails and too much money.

It was earlier that summer—the kind of sticky, over-dressed night that only Figure Eight could pull off. The annual Outer Banks Island Preservation Fundraiser was in full swing: string lights over manicured lawns, champagne flutes clinking, live jazz in the background. You’d only gone because Kie begged you to—she’d convinced you that maybe, just maybe, some of the wealthy donors might actually listen to what the Pogues had to say about funding marine conservation.

JJ had called you his little mermaid in a shark tank before dropping you off, and you laughed because it felt exactly like that—wrong crowd, wrong side of the island, but you were there to help.

That’s when you met Ruthie. She’d been holding court near the buffet table—tall, sunburn-free, dripping in a thin layer of gold jewelry and entitlement. When Kie introduced herself, she gave a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, you’re the one who’s into turtles, right?” she said, almost like it was a bad thing.

Kie had nodded, trying to be polite.

You’d jumped in, backing her up, talking about how important the coastline conservation was—that the Pogue kids were actually out there doing the work.

Ruthie laughed. “Right. The Pogues saving the ocean. That’s… adorable.”

You felt your jaw tighten, but you kept your voice calm.

“Someone has to, since your side of the island keeps polluting it.”

A few people standing nearby had gone silent, uncomfortable but watching, like this was better entertainment than the silent auction. Ruthie, not used to being challenged, had blinked and then smirked.

“Well, maybe if you people spent less time surfing and more time working, you wouldn’t have to beg for donations from our parents.”

You’d taken a slow sip of your lemonade that you had dumped an airplane bottle into in the bathroom, trying to keep your cool. “Work’s work, babe,” you said, sweetly enough to sting. “Some of us just don’t need daddy’s checkbook to feel useful.”

That was the first time she gave you that look. The one that stuck in your memory ever since. Cold, calculating, and slightly frightened that someone she’d dismissed so easily could cut her down with words alone.

The kooks pull up and Kie rolled her eyes. “Of course they stop here.”

"Why wouldn't they? Not like there's an entire beach," you scoff, shaking your head. "Its a waste of waves, if you're askin' me."

"So lame," Sarah rolls her eyes.

You see Rafe and feel your pulse pick up but try to breathe through it, trying not to remember all the times that he'd terrorized you. JJ notices the way your fingers tighten on the sunscreen bottle and slides the baby pink board into your hands. The one he had bought for you with that short-lived waiter job he had last summer after promising to get you one the first night that you ever hooked up. “Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Don’t worry. He ain’t gettin’ near you. Can guarantee that.”

You give him a shaky smile that didn't reach your eyes as he brushed a thumb over your cheek, and for a second you let it be enough.

The water is perfect, and for a while the tension drops away like the tide. You and JJ paddle out together, and when you finally catch one, a clean, rolling face that takes you all the way in, he’s pumping his arms and yelling like an idiot. You ride the wave all the way in, and when you stand up you can see him through the spray, whooping and clapping, and the stupid grin on his face sends something warm blooming through you. Your chest loosens and you whoop back at him.

It doesn’t last.

JJ being JJ, can’t help it and has to do what he does best: piss off Kooks. Topper gasses for a wave but JJ drops in, slides in under his nose and sends him stumbling off his board. Ruthie shrieks from the sand, “What the hell was that!?” Kie huffs, “So much for keeping the peace,” while JJ, still kind of cocky, woops and flashes you a lopsided smile.

You run a hand down your face, half amused, half mortified. He shrugs like he’ll take the grief—but you know that grin means business and the kooks’ jaws have tightened.

Everyone’s packing to leave a while later when Kie freezes, pointing. “Guys, there’s a turtle hatch!”

You squeal and sprint forward watching little heads are emerging from the sand. The whole group melts into a different kind of attention—soft, quiet. JJ squeezes your shoulder with that easy smile. John B, half-serious, says, “We should make a highway.” JJ answers, grinning, “Yeah. A turtle highway.” You giggle at your boyfriend as he begins making a little sand barricade, guiding the tiny lives with the reverence they deserve.

And then a Jeep engine roars.

Ruthie in her Jeep, still steaming from what JJ had done to Topper earlier and apparently done with civilities, slams it into gear and bolts toward you. For a split second your heart drops entirely out of your chest. “Shit,” you whisper. You and Kie are frantically waving, shouting that there’s a turtle hatch.

Everyone begins shouting but Ruthie doesn’t slow.

You’re halfway between the sand and the water when the Jeep veers so close your ribs feel the car’s hot draft. JJ’s hand presses to your shoulder as you stand, eyes huge.

“Shit, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is thin.

The Jeep brakes and swerves around, faced back towards you and she guns it once again. You’re shoved off balance; Kie stumbles. Ruthie drives past laughing, and flings a half-melted slushie out the window. It lands across your chest and face in a sticky smear. “Suck it, pogues!” she yells, triumph crackling in her voice.

You freeze for a breath and JJ’s hands move in a blur as he wipes the slush off your face, his fingers trembling with anger you can feel through the lightness of his touch. Your jaw tightens.

Kie keels over, fetching a tiny shell that should have been a life and now is motionless. “No, no, no,” she whimpers breathlessly, voice breaking.

You look up and the kooks are cheering like it’s a joke. Your stomach drops out of you and something cold and hot and fierce turns in your veins.

You close your eyes and try to breathe. Try to make good decisions. There are a million things in you that want to snap.

Kie starts to storm toward them, some primal, furious tide pushing her feet through the sand. You want to follow her in support but you know that'll happen if you do... you know that you're going to beat the holy hell out of that stupid bitch Ruthie.

JJ goes rigid beside you; he knows that look. He knows what happens when your anger takes front and center.

Fuck it. “Stay here,” you tell him, low and steady.

He swallows and begins to trail after you. “Y/N, Y/N, listen—” his voice is urgent. “I know I’m the last person to be saying this, but we gotta be smart, okay? We're kinda outnumbered here.”

“I don’t care.” Your voice is flat. You watch Kie hold the dead turtle in the Kooks' faces like someone’s ripped the world open. “I do not care,” you repeat, because you don’t. You don’t care about consequences of what you're about to do; you care about the little life crushed for nothing and the scream in Kie’s throat.

Topper smirks the kind of smirk that’s supposed to make you back down. “Oh here comes Y/N, on a warpath,” he says, thoughtless, like he’s narrating a show. But really it's a warning. He knows you. And he knows your boyfriend. "Your move, Broski" plays rent free in his mind from when JJ held the gun to his head at a bonfire years ago.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you realize it.

When Ruthie sneers and Kie snaps back “Cycle of life?!” the words are a splinter in your mind.

You see red. "Oh, did she just call that the cycle of life? That what just happened!?" You're moving before sense catches up: your fist drives into her jaw.

The world narrows to the sick crack of knuckles on her cheek and the flailing of a girl who thought she was safe inside a vehicle and a clique. Topper lunges to block you, hands clumsy, and JJ’s body is a wall between Topper and your wild lunges. He shoves him back hard enough to stagger him.

"I'll show you the cycle of life, bitch!"

Ruthie’s reactions are all hissed words and scrabbling hands as she tries to slap back; it’s petty and ugly and your fists answer in a rhythm born of every insult and every careless cruelty she’s ever handed you or anyone you love.

Your hands find Ruthie’s collarbone, her jaw, and she gurgles about you being “crazy,” which makes you laugh—a high, bitter sound. “Oh, I’m crazy?” you spit. “You almost ran us over! You ran over a baby fucking turtle! Not so big and bad now when you don’t have a Jeep your daddy paid for to hide behind, huh? Huh?!"

The kooks don’t step in. They’re too invested in their spectacle to get their hands dirty. Ruthie tries to claw you off, nails on your forearm sharp. You squeeze once, twice; the breathing sounds stop coming easily from her chest. "Remind you of something, Topper?!" you laugh angrily.

Kie and JJ finally break in before you do something you really regret, pulling you off as your knuckles sting and your chest heaves with adrenaline and grief and a violent righteousness you don’t know how to soften.

Ruthie’s nose blooms dark and she spits blood on the sand, eyes wide and humiliated, gasping for air.

JJ’s hands are all over you, trying to steady you, but his voice is dangerous in a way that still makes you feel wrapped up and small. “Let’s go, Y/N. Come on."

Ruthie scrambles up, mascara smeared and face red, and throws down a shaking warning. “Yeah, that's right, get back to your side of the island!” she spits, voice cracking on the last word making you laugh maniacally at her attempt to seem tough.

Kie, still furious, kicks over a speaker, and the thumping beat dies with a crunch. The kooks sputter like a song with scratched vinyl, suddenly helpless without their toy.

"I seriously have never hated them more," Kie shudders, walking away as you loop your arm around her shoulders, breathing hard.

“You come near her or Kiara or any of us ever again,” JJ says, voice low and deadly, “and I’ll come back and kill every single one of you.”

Finally, you're all back at Poguelandia 2.0, the adrenaline’s burning out, leaving only the heavy quiet of exhaustion. Your clothes are still sandy, your knuckles still ache, and the sunset spilling through the windows feels softer than usual, like the island’s finally letting you breathe again.

Pope and Cleo give you all a questioning look when you walk in. It doesn’t take long for the story to spill out—Kie pacing as she retells every detail, you filling in the rest between gulps of water. By the time you get to the part where Ruthie’s nose met your fist, Pope’s jaw has dropped, and Cleo’s grinning like Christmas morning.

“Damn, Y/N,” Cleo says, wide-eyed. “I’m proud of you. That girl’s been asking for it since, like, forever.” She was the first person you went to vent to after the fundraiser, after the ride home with JJ.

You laugh weakly, shaking your head as you return her fist bump lazily, wincing as you feel your bruised knuckles against hers. The fight feels distant now. What’s left is just the ache behind your eyes and JJ’s hand finding yours under the table, squeezing once.

When everyone finally drifts off—Kie muttering something about “justice for the turtle” before disappearing into her room—you and JJ shower and shuffle to yours. The door closes with a soft click, the sound of the ocean seeping through the open window.

You collapse side by side on the bed, hair wet, neither of you speaking for a long minute. Just breathing. Just letting it settle.

Then JJ turns his head toward you, his lips twitching into that crooked grin you know too well.

“You know,” he starts, voice low, rough with sleep and smoke, “that was actually really hot.”

You blink at him, tired laughter bubbling up. “Yeah?”

He grins wider. “Kicking ass, taking names, and saving turtles? That’s, like, the ultimate triple threat.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “I didn’t save the turtle,” you mumble, guilt sneaking back into your voice.

JJ shifts closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingers on your cheek, thumb tracing a slow line across your skin, scratched by Ruthie's acrylics. “Hey,” he says softly, “you tried. You cared. That’s more than they ever will. That’s what matters.”

You nod, the tightness in your chest loosening as his thumb moves back and forth, grounding you. The world outside hums with crickets, the faint crash of waves against the shore, the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm.

JJ smiles, eyes soft now. “I love you so much. So proud you’re my girl, you know that?”

You smile back widely, eyes half open eith exhaustion. “I love you too, Jayj. Sorry for being so crazy."

He presses a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “You're the sweetest girl in the world. If you fuck somebody up like that, they had it comin'. Get some sleep, Princess."

You snort a small laugh against his chest as he hugs you close.

The night fades around you—all the anger, the noise, the chaos—until there’s just his heartbeat and the steady whisper of the sea outside your window and sweet sweet dreams about beating that bitch Ruthie's ass.