i dunno, you're a freak

“Robin will come back eventually! And in the mean time, just stay the fuck away from him,” He warned. 

“Now, I gotta get laid.” He winked. You tried to open your mouth, but he interrupted. “I swear to god, Y/N, I don’t wanna hear another word from you, you’ve cockblocked me enough this week.” He said, annoyed.

You rolled your eyes, huffing as you stood straight, “Fine! Have fun.” You exclaimed, and Steve grinned, “I will, sweetheart. And you, just... hide from him or something.” He shrugged as he guided the blonde girl out of the door. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were pathetic, asking for Steve and Robin to babysit you, so that you wouldn’t end up under Eddie again, so that you could at least save some of the self-respect that you were sure probably didn’t exist at this point. 

They knew each time you said you were done with him, it was a lie. They knew you’d go back for more, but now it had been two weeks—two whole weeks—where you managed to stay away from him, blocking him for good. 

And you could feel yourself cracking; you wanted—needed—him with every fiber of your being, and it was driving you crazy. 

He drew you in with whatever he did, like a magnet always pulling you toward him, making you need to be around him, at all times.

You missed the way his hands grazed your thighs, the way he fucked you so rough and senselessly, but also so gently. The way his pretty mouth framed compliments so fucking sweetly, but turned dirty the moment he was pounding into you, praising you but degrading you at the same time. 

He was so good at fucking, but was shit at everything else.

Just like you.

So the idea of being friends with benefits sounded like heaven when you first suggested it. No feelings attached, no exclusivity, just fucking each other's brains out while also having someone to chat with afterward.

It was supposed to be simple—so fucking simple. 

But the moment feelings got involved, it turned out for the worst. Jealousy was a bitter monster that gnawed at the insides of the two of you, and it had turned into something so incredibly toxic that you knew you had to end it. Your friendship was long gone now, turning into a bitter competition where you either fucked or argued.

Exclusivity was not something the two of you ever discussed, you knew you were bad at relationships, and Eddie knew he wasn’t good at feelings, so it was a topic you always danced around. Arguments ensued the moment one of you fucked someone else, and bitterness was present in your veins like it had always been there. 

When Eddie decided to fuck another girl two weeks ago, you decided you were done. This wasn’t good for the both of you, and you needed to stop it as fast as you could. 

You knew the emptiness you felt right after you fucked was not worth it, no matter how good Eddie was.  

You were tired of sobbing into Steve’s chest drunkenly, confused about what you even felt for Eddie when he was out there fucking another girl. 

It was starting to leave a bad taste in your mouth, and you didn’t want to hate Eddie—not more than you already did at the moment. 

But there stood Eddie, curly hair laid messily on his forehead as a guitar pick adorned his neck, his infamous leather jacket paired with those black pants were your nightmare—dream—combo, he was sprawled on the couch, thick thighs spread apart, you wished you could part them further with your hands, rub him through his pants as you got down on your knees for him, giving his delicious pink-tip kitten licks as you tasted his salty pre-cum—

What the fuck was wrong with you? You shook your head as you turned around immediately, gazing into your empty cup as you hurried off to the kitchen. 

Your cheeks grew hot from embarrassment, you seriously had no fucking self-control or respect. 

“You need any help?” Eddie’s voice rang in your ear.

“‘M fine,” You muttered, voice barely audible. 

“You know I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

“Why? Did you finally run out of girls to fuck on campus?” You said snarkily, a smirk tugging on your lips. 

“Don’t act so fuckin’ innocent now, sweetheart.” He tssked, causing you to throw him a quizzed look.

“Didn’t you go home with Mr. Jock last week?” He was being possessive again, and you hated how it picked up your heart rate, you were stupid.

“So?” You quirked a brow, teasing him, and he gave you a slight chuckle.

That smug asshole, why did he have to always look so good?

“So…how was it?” He asked, and you could feel his jaw tensing as he took a step closer to you, trapping you between the drink stand and his body.

“You’re disgusting.” You groaned as you pushed him away from your face. You were not going to give in.

“That bad, huh?” He mocked, scrunching his nose.

You rolled your eyes. “No.” You lied.

It was bad, really fucking bad; the guy lasted 30 seconds and left you with nothing. That greedy bastard.

But you weren’t going to let Eddie know that.

“He was really good, actually.” You were lying through your teeth, and thankfully, Eddie didn’t seem to notice. An intense rage flashed through his eyes.

“You sayin’ that punk is better than me?” He slurred into your ear, his breath ragged and hot as it fanned against your neck. He smelled so fucking addicting—a mix of sandalwood and nicotine, earthy and making you crave him at the same time. 

You don’t even know how he even came to that conclusion, but it was funny, seeing him like this, nostrils flaring as rage filled his veins, like he was in torture hearing about the guys you fucked, he deserved that.

But your silence at his question meant everything to him; he didn’t need an answer. You knew he was better, and he knew that you were crawling closer to his palm now.

He grew more confident because of the way you stuck to him. “I've seen him in the locker room, sweetheart. He’s not that fuckin’ impressive.” You didn’t mean to gasp, but it slipped past your lips quickly.

“Munson!” You warned, a smile tugged on your lips, and you realized how pathetic you were being again, but it was too late now. 

“Don’t think he can make you smile like I do, either.” He grinned smugly, his calloused hands quick to pull the strand of hair on your face, to see the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, so fucking promising.

“You're a jerk,” You spat, groaning as you turned around, trying to avoid him, but it was no use; the damage was done, and you were putty in his hands again.  

He had a tight hold on your arm, possessive again, and you were sick for enjoying his rough side. He spun you around to meet him, eyes dark, before he held you in place. “A jerk who makes you feel good,” Eddie purred in your ear, fingers tracing toward your exposed skin, one touch from him, and you whimpered, all that anger fading away so quickly.

He chuckled darkly. “Missed those sweet lil’ whimpers,” He whispered in your ear again, fingers quick to find their way toward your panties. 

He drew slow circles with his thumb while you tried to remain tight-lipped, but it was impossible. 

“Jesus—fuck, Eddie som—someone could see...” You didn’t mean to throw your head back against the wall. Your eyes fluttered shut, and Eddie shrugged. 

“Don’t care, sweetheart.” 

“Well, I do.” You didn’t; Eddie could fuck you right here, right now, and you’d be fine with it, but you weren’t ready to admit this to yourself, and you didn’t want to take the chance of Robin seeing you like this. 

He groaned as he dragged you into the nearest room. You would’ve cried at the loss of contact if he didn’t have a tight hold on your body, calloused hands gripping at your curves, and your thighs rubbed together at his touch. 

Eddie was quick to pin you against the door, his hand curling around the back of your neck. He smashed his lips against yours without hesitating, kissing you the same way he made you feel; explosive, hard, and dizzying. 

He pulled back to look at you. 

Sweet Jesus.

His gaze was intense, and it made you feel so fucking exposed that it startled a gasp out of your lips. 

You fisted his shirt when you had enough, yanking him closer to you so that you could feel his body pressed into yours. Everything you felt was pure hunger, craving him deeply.  

Your heart was pounding in your chest when you felt his rock hard bulge grinding against you, calloused hands gripped your ass as you whimpered; you were at his mercy now. 

“What were you sayin’ last time? That this would never happen again?” He mocked, whispering against your face, his gaze never leaving you. 

Your eyes narrowed, but it was impossible to keep up your act when his fingers started ghosting over your thighs again. “Fuck. You.” You spat. 

“You don’t have to ask me twice, baby.” He grinned, chuckling when you whimpered under his touch.

“God, I love those sweet noises you make for me…” He murmured, you rubbed your thighs again at his words. “I bet if I flipped that little skirt of yours… I’d find you gushing for me.” He groaned. 

And you remained tight-lipped. God, you didn’t want to feed into his huge fucking ego, and you wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his face. 

But he was so right. Your thighs were dampened by how aroused you were. 

He was quick to slip his fingers past your panties, a grunt escaping his lips once he pushed past your folds, your slick covering his fingers. He chuckled darkly. “You’re soaking my fingers, honey.”

“I—Fuck—I hate you.” You squeezed your eyes shut, and Eddie reveled in it, his fingers pushing inside of you while his thumb stayed on your clit. 

“Always sayin’ shit you don’t mean, baby.” He mocked. “Gonna make you beg for my cock, if you keep’ talkin like that.” 

You were panting and head dizzy as he pushed his fingers in and out of you. You were going to lose it, and he had barely started.

When he finally undressed both of you, you were out of it, while his hands were still on your clit as he groaned at the sight in front of him. 

You were perfect. 

His breath was ragged when he traced your chest, eyes bulging when he realized you had no bra on, pleasure ignited in you more and more when he cupped your breasts, teeth tugging your nipple as his fingers still toyed with your clit.

“Perfect tits, just made for me, huh?” He growled, making you mewl; you were putty in his hands, and with each movement, you were getting closer and closer to beg him for more. 

The more you whimpered, the rougher he got with you, curling his finger inside your cunt as he hit that one spot, eliciting a moan from you as you threw your head back.

“P—please.” You whimpered, and Eddie tutted. 

“I’ve seen you do much better than that.” He hummed. This arrogant asshole was going to be the death of you. 

“P—please, Eds, please.” You begged, and your moans died down your throat, before he slowly dragged his fingers out and shoved them back in. 

Your head cocked to the side in pleasure, and he was quick to take advantage of it, licking a path from your neck to your ear, grinning. 

“Mhmm… not good enough, baby.” He purred in your ear as you whined, “Jesus fucking Christ—” Your cursing was interrupted when he yanked his hands away. 

No. No. No. No!

“Shitshitshit—Please, Fuck, Eds...” You murmured, eyes shooting wide open, “Need your cock inside’a me.” You mewled again. 

His dark chuckle reverberated through you, “See, that wasn’t that hard, was it?” He mocked, causing your eyes to narrow. 

“You assho—” He didn’t let you finish as he wrapped his hands around your throat, just enough to punish you but just enough for pleasure to course through your veins. And it felt so fucking good. 

You shut your mouth quickly, “What were you saying, baby?” He purred. 

God, that egotistic prick was pushing you to your last fucking limit; you could do it, you could hold it off. But on the other hand, you could feel yourself pulsing with need; if he didn’t pound into you soon, you knew you would’ve been a pathetic blabbering mess.

“Please, please, Fuck me,” You grunted. “I need you, Eddie.” He didn’t respond as he tapped your thighs, signaling for you to wrap your legs around his chest, and you were quick to oblige. 

Mind spinning before you got a chance to process what happened, he slammed into you with a vicious thrust, he was so fucking thick that it made you let out a guttural scream, tears welled at your eyes as you tried to adjust to his size. 

It wasn’t long before your loud noises turned into incoherent babbles and squeals as he kept his pace.

“Holy shit, baby,” He groaned, watching his cock sliding into you, “Such a warm fuckin’ pussy, and so fucking tight… Jesus…”

You trembled beneath him, tits bouncing up and down as your mouth hung open each time he slid further into your cunt, and Eddie wanted that image etched into his brain forever. 

He tilted you upward, hitting spots you weren’t even aware of. You were quick to wrap your hands around his frame, your nails digging into his back, roughly.

He was the only one who knew you like that; both emotionally and physically, and the same went for you, that’s why the two of you never could truly let each go, clinging to each other like a child did to their favorite toy.

You know no one else could fuck you like he did, and that smug bastard knew it, too.

The way he was pounding into you while uttering curses at your ear, furiously slapping into your body as if you were nothing but his personal fucktoy, truly his.

And you realized how sick you were for liking it, truly enjoying being this way with him. 

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you take my cock, such a tight fuckin’ pussy and all mine, yea?” He panted causing you to nod, you were barely able hold his gaze, and he groaned before his hands roughly grabbed your cheeks, forcing your head in his direction. 

“Look at me baby…” He purred, “Look, how well your cunt is squeezin’ me. You feel that, peach?” He sheathed himself further into you, and you could feel your walls clench around him, a contented groan leaving both of your lips. 

It was fucking perfect. Everything was rough and messy, there was nothing emotional about the way you fucked. You were both using each other to cum as much as you wanted to, not stopping until you were both sweaty bodies.

He could make you come apart in seconds if he wanted to, knowing your body better than anyone else. And you could make the scary freak Eddie putty in your hands if you wanted to; it was a fucked up game of control that had the two of you going at it for hours. 

Was it fucked up? Yes.

Did it feel good? Absolutely. 

“Would that asshole be able to make you come apart like this?” He asked, fingers digging into your hips, sure to leave a bruise.

This wasn’t the first time Eddie had been possessive; it was a sick, twisted game that you also participated in, almost as if both of you knew that you could never be with anyone else.

You nodded mindlessly, you weren’t going to give into him that easily, again, he grunted at your lack of reaction. 

“Tell me, baby.” He growled, his pounding slowing down to make sure your orgasm was out of reach for you, torturing you until he had you begging under him.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to give up this fast. “Beg me, honey.” His movements picked up, and his hands were quick to toy with your clit, a sharp burst of euphoria rang through your body, leaving you speechless. 

You clenched around him—a big fucking mistake—and he grinned smuggly again. “I know, baby, I know you’re close.” He panted. “I can make you cum, angel.” He promised, “Just say the word.” 

“Asshole,” You groaned between his forceful thrusts, and he chuckled darkly. You rolled your hips against his when his movements faltered, seeking the warmth and the friction when he thrusted into you fully, filling you to the brim.

And that prick was thoroughly enjoying your torture. “Tell me it’s all mine, that you’re all mine.” He purred against your ear. 

You couldn’t. You shouldn’t.

But the way his thumb circled around your clit, so agonizingly slow, and the way his cock was prodding into you so slowly was torture. God, if he just picked up his pace.

Don’t. 

You try to convince yourself, but it's to no avail, you are clenching down on nothing, and it hurts. Your hole is pulsing now, and you need him more than ever. 

“P—please,” You mewled, causing Eddie to give you a slight smirk. “Please what, baby? Use your words.” 

“I’m all yours,” You murmured, “He could never fuck me like you could.” You added, humming contently, when Eddie started to pound into you relentlessly again. 

“Please—I need to—Jesus, Eds.” Your words slurred into a moan as he increased his speed, his finger circling your clit roughly. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, baby. Feels so good.” He panted.  “Please—please make me cum, sir.” You sobbed, unable to hold it back anymore. 

And that was all Eddie needed to hear. “Cum for me, honey.” He pleaded, and you gave him low whimpers as he started fucking you faster again, watching the way his cock disappeared into your gushing cunt.

“Wanna feel you cum on my cock, baby.” He breathed. 

“Shit, feels so good, Eds.” 

“Jesus—Please… I’m going to—” You bit down on your lower lip, unable to stifle the moans leaving your lips as his assault on your clit was enough to bring you over the edge, 

“I’m gonna—I’m…Holy shit, oh god!” You sobbed, whole body convulsing in pleasure as you came around his cock, your vision blurred and mind foggy as you didn’t realize how your orgasm was triggering his. 

Eddie was whimpering for you now, “So fucking good, holy shit.” He panted, movements getting sloppier.

“I’m gonna cum, fuck, baby. My perfect fucking girl, yea?” He heaved a breath. 

“I’m gonna fuck this—Gonna fuck my load into you, peach.”

“Gonna fill you with my cum—Fuuuck.” He growled, animalistic noises escaping him as he exploded inside of you, thick ropes of his warm cum painting your walls. 

He groaned when he slipped out, mouth-watering as he enjoyed the sight of you fucked out of your mind, and his load dripping down your thighs. 

The relief you had was short-lived as that sinking feeling came to you again, the emptiness, the loneliness.

Was all of it worth it?

The two of you dressed in silence; the weight of what you did was hitting you all at once. You did it again. You had sex with him again. You let him use you again—it didn’t matter if you used him too, it meant something different for you than it did for him.

All those thoughts you had about feeling good faded out quicker than you thought they would.

You were so fucking pathetic.

Jesus Christ.

You felt sick, what the fuck did you just do?

As soon as Eddie got dressed, he gave your cheek a sloppy kiss. He was going to leave you all alone again.

You should be fine with this, this is what always happens.

Don’t—don’t say anything, just take your last bit of self-respect that is possibly non-existent and leave without another word—

“You’re…leaving?” You exhale, your mind racing with ideas.

Shit. Just shut the fuck up.

“Don’t act so coy now, sweetheart.” He gave you a slight smile, but all you wanted to do was slap it out of him.

“We both know what this was.” He muttered, that conceited dickhead still had that smile on his face.

“And what exactly was ‘this’?” You pointed to the space between the two of you.

“Fucking, no strings attached?” He added, shrugging. The fact that he had no clue about anything was pissing you off.

“Unbelievable.” You gave him a dry chuckle.

“What?” He asked, baffled.

“Is that all I am to you, just a warm body?” You said, face crinkling with disgust.

“I’m confused.” Eddie said. “You—you were the one who fucking suggested this.” He breathed.

“Well, I’m un-suggesting it!” You exclaimed angrily.

“You—you are so fucking confusing!” He spat. “I told you—I told you we could be more... told you we could try... us.” He stuttered. “You were the one who refused!”

“You were drunk! You can barely fucking say it now!” You spat back.

“What... what do you even want, Y/N?” He asked, holding his gaze.

“Do you want a relationship? Do you want something meaningful?” He pondered, a sarcastic chuckle escaping his lips.

“Is it so wrong for me to want that? To want something real?” Your voice carried so much emotion, and that’s what killed him.

He couldn’t have a relationship with you even if he wanted to; he recognized his own turmoil, and he feared he would drag you right down with him. No matter how similar you seemed to be, he was sure he’d ruin you, completely and utterly. And not in a good way.

He swallowed physically; the lump in his throat wasn’t going to go away.

He couldn’t let you have hope; he couldn’t let you down again—he had done that enough.

''A relationship with you is the last thing I see myself doing.'' He almost whispered, but you heard it loud and clear.

Your brows were quick to furrow, and your jaw was was set in a tense manner. The lust in your gaze was long gone by now, containing only rage while you glared at the source of your pain.

“Fuck. You.” You spat, tears threatening to spill but you didn’t want to give him that satisfaction

“You are a sadistic fucking asshole, Munson.” 

“Jesus… I think we should stop—whatever the hell, this is.” He exclaimed.

“Fine by me!” You exclaimed back cheeks heating up from anger.

“I really am done with you, this time.” Despite the intensity of your gaze, he could sense the subtle vulnerability in your eyes. The subtle pain that was fueling your anger

“Oh, I’m sure you are.” He chuckled smugly. This was something you two had joked about before, but it wasn’t funny now.

He saw you in the palm of his hand because you always came back to him, he was right… until now.

The fact that he laughed in your face at the thought of being in a relationship with you was too much, even for your low self-esteem. 

“I don’t care what you think.” You didn’t even hold the rage you held before; only disgust was visible in your tone.

“You’re dead to me.” You replied curtly, your voice distant and chilling.

And Eddie knew how much he fucked up, truly.

There was nothing he could do now.

“I didn’t mean it like—” He regretted what he said immediately, but you dismissed his protests, gathering your jacket in your hand as you slammed the door behind you.

Tears blurred your vision as soon as you left, the lively sound of the party clouded your mind as you silently sobbed, trying to find Robin.

it’s just your luck that, when you stroll into the sex shop with faux bravado, the guy behind the counter looks like something straight out of a porno. dark eyes rimmed with liner, chains around his neck and hanging from his belt, tattoos traversing nearly every inch of visible skin peeking out from under an all-black getup. you might as well have a neon sign across your forehead that reads i have no idea what i’m doing here!

but you’re already here and he’s already seen you, so you’ve got no choice but to commit to the bit.

“hey, gorgeous,” the worker croons from behind the counter, scrambling to put out a cigarette that he was not-so-subtly puffing on in between customers. “can i help you find something?”

“uh,” you stall, eyes scanning the shop for any sign of what you’re looking for. “vibrators?”

cheeks flushing scarlet when the worker’s face splits into a wicked grin, you watch him amble out from behind the counter and wave you over towards the back corner. and when you get there, your mouth falls open in shock, because there’s an entire wall filled from top to bottom with toys. some are neon pink and glittery, others are flesh-toned. some are curved at the end for, as the worker explains, g-spot stimulation, and others are pocket-sized and waterproof for “fun on the go.”

“you can touch the displays if you want,” the guy offers. “they’ve never been used, and we clean ‘em regularly.”

“this is a little bit… too much,” you say when he hands you a giant toy that looks like a microphone and has dozens of vibration settings. “do you have something for, um, beginners?”

“beginners?” the guy—eddie, you realize, glancing at his name tag—repeats. “oh god, you’ve never—jesus, sorry, i just assumed. okay. let’s start small.”

he rifles through a host of packages before he finds what he’s looking for. “here,” he says, passing a small box her way. “it’s a bullet, pretty small. compact. it’s good to start with something like this and work your way up.”

“hm. okay,” you agree, flipping over the packaging and reading through the advertised features. perfect for discreet play! five incredible vibration settings!

“you’ll have to let me know how it goes,” eddie says as you follow him back to the counter. “i mean, if you’re okay with that. i like sharing customer reviews, since i can’t exactly speak from experience with certain toys.”

you nod along, too busy watching eddie’s long, slender fingers tap away at the register. he runs a hand through his hair, dark brown curls that almost shine in the fluorescent lighting.

he reads off the price and you toss over some cash, dumping the change into the tip jar by the register.

“oh, aren’t you the sweetest,” eddie purrs. he drops your purchase into a bag and hands it over, grinning at you like he knows something you don’t. you try not to be too obvious when you squeeze your legs together to relieve some tension.

“thanks,” you stammer, cheeks still warm. “have a good night.”

“i’d say same to you, but i already know you’re going to have a blast.” eddie quirks a brow, and a wicked little laugh rumbles out of him. “i’ll give you a discount next time. the friends-of-the-shop special.”

“we’re friends now?” you ask, smiling back at eddie. is this how all sex shops operate?

“oh yeah we are, honey. we’re gonna be good friends.”

eddie’s gaze flickers over your figure, just long enough to make you want to squirm. heat pools between your legs at that look in his eyes, the electricity behind it. he gives you one last smile before you push through the front door and head out to your car.

that night, you come faster than ever before. and more than once. you’re a panting mess in the center of your mattress, the vibrating bullet pressed to your throbbing clit, the slickness of your arousal coating your fingers in a thick layer. every time you feel that rocketing, white-hot pleasure pulsing through you, your orgasm tearing strangled moans from your throat, your mind conjures up the image of eddie: his velvety-smooth voice, his calloused hands, and that look he’d given you before you’d walked out the door.

September 16th,1994

The idea to you was asinine from the moment Principal Williams opened her mouth. How no one else thought that the idea of thirteen-year-olds becoming “pen pals” with prisoners wasn’t insane baffled you. It was dangerous at worst and inappropriate at best. But despite your best efforts to reason with her, your opinion as a newer teacher was dismissed. Now here you are listening to the speech of the prison rep, Mr.Bridges, as he explained the program to your 7th grade class. Not like you had a lesson planned for them today.

Before leaving, Mr.Bridges approaches you saying that there was an inmate who didn’t get assigned a student. “We had a student move, so I’m short one student in my morning class,” you explain, keeping your voice monotone, hoping that would be enough of an answer for him. 

Bridges nodded, clearly deep in thought before perking up. “Maybe you’d like to take on a pen pal?’” he proposed, his chipper disposition coxing on the migraine that wants to break through behind your eye. The look on your face must have said it all as he tried to convince you further. “The inmates that signed up are all trying to better themselves before being re-released into society, ya’know?” His brows furrow as his focus lands to the floor, “We thought talking to kids that grew up while they were incarcerated would help them be able to cope with time they’ve lost. Give them something to look forward to when they get out.” 

After he assured you that all the letters are anonymous and would be vetted both ways, adding that only ‘good behavior’ inmates were allowed to take part in the program as a last push for your participation, you reluctantly agreed. Mostly just to get him to leave your classroom before your head explodes, but not without the stipulation that if you thought it was too much for your kids that you would pull them out. That seemed to be enough to satisfy him.  

October 7th, 1994 

The first writing session took place on a Friday. It had been a long week of testing and you felt like an easy day was in order for both you and the kids. You grabbed the letters from your desk, handing them to each student as they got out their writing supplies. “Don’t forget to keep personal information like names and where you live out of your letters.”  

Once the kids were settled, you grabbed your own letter. The letter before you had “Teach,” the pen name you chose to go by, written in a chicken scratch kind of handwriting. Just legible enough, but still had a roughness, an edge to it.  As you opened your letter, the first thing to catch your attention was the graffiti like drawings along the margins of the paper. It reminded you of a flash sheet at the tattoo shop your friends took you to for your 21st birthday, a permanent reminder of that day on your inner ankle in the form of a small butterfly that was already starting to fade. There was nothing too offensive; a rose, a sailor ship, a dove with an olive branch, all impressively done for just being pen on paper. Once you got past the artwork, you began to take in the letter's contents.

“Hey there, “Teach”... if that is your real name…” 

Pushing past the lame opener, you start to get the idea that your pen pal doesn’t take this pen pal assignment seriously. His letter was casual, a few puns here and there, with some Tolkien references that would have been missed if one wasn’t familiar with his work. Your pal says that went to prison in 1989 for drugs but is set to get out in about a year if he keeps up his good behavior. A shiver goes down your spine for a moment when you read that he’s from Hawkins. Bridges assured you that the inmates wouldn’t know what school the kids would be from, but you weren’t expecting to be talking to someone from this small town.  

Your pal also informs you that his favorite genre of music is metal, that he plays guitar, and that he used to be in a band before he got deep into drugs. The final paragraph of the letter consists of a seemingly scripted warning about the dangers of drugs and that no one should make the same mistake he did. You wondered if this was obligatory for the project. At the end of the letter, your pal signs with his chosen moniker “The Banished One.” Fitting for an inmate.  

After taking a moment to check in on your class, you start pulling your own pen and paper to start your response. You were not completely sure if your pal knew they would be talking with a teacher rather than a student, but you were confident that your handwriting would be the first thing to give away.  

It took you a couple of tries to start your letter. Instinctually you wanted to be formal, but the longer you thought about it the more you didn’t want to come off as a boring writing companion. You tried and failed to come up with something witty to match the vibe of your pal, but comedy wasn’t your strong point, though you’d argue that it wasn’t his either. Instead, you approached it as if you were writing to a friend.  

“Hello! Nice to meet you “Banished One." Though, it sounds like you won't be banished much longer.” 

Erring on the side of caution you chose to only respond directly to things he wrote, slipping in that you also enjoyed the works of Tolkien with your own reference. You mention that you listen to metal but were more into radio rock at the moment, though you’d really listen to anything. It took you a minute to calculate how to respond to the reveal of his dealings in drugs, ultimately deciding to lightly say that you hoped he learned his lesson unless he saw himself returning to prison in the future. You shared that you were familiar with Hawkins, noting that you loved the milkshakes from the old diner in town, but left it at that. As you closed the letter you complimented his artwork, informing him that the rose was your favorite and that you looked forward to seeing his artwork on future letters.

October 24th,1994 

It only took two weeks for Mr. Bridges to return with new letters for your class. Truthfully, you had almost forgotten about the letters entirely while trying to keep your students on track as the holiday season approaches. The emotional whiplash of seeing your ex out with his new, younger girlfriend wasn't helping either. 

So, when your students seemed preoccupied with the stack of letters on your desk rather than your lesson for the day, you decided to call it and give all of you a break. 

As each student began to read their newest letters, you settled at your desk and looked at the envelope meant for you, the same chicken scratch handwriting as before. It was tempting to reach for it until you glanced at the pile of ungraded papers that you desperately needed to finish. For a moment you deliberated on what to do. On one hand, you had to admit you were curious about the letter, part of you wondered if you’d even get a letter back. You didn’t want to give any personal information away, so you couldn’t blame the random man in prison for not responding if he thought he was talking to an old lady teacher. On the other hand, you really needed to get grades in the grade book as report card deadlines were approaching. 

You could always finish your papers later at home. But you did tell yourself you would be better at bringing so much work home with you this year. Your friends had an influence on your decision, making sure you took at least every other weekend to go out and do something — anything to keep you from shutting yourself out again.  

With a sigh, you decided to save the letter for later. 

 “Damn it, why can’t I find one stupid pen!” 

Slamming drawers and stomping around, you grew more and more frustrated in your search for a pen to write out the checks for the coming month’s bills. 

After searching the kitchen, you make your way to the living room and spot your school bag on the coffee table. In your rage, you began haphazardly pulling the contents out of the bag, praying you still had a pen that hadn’t been “borrowed” to never returned by one of your students. The feeling of plastic on the tips of your finger almost brought you to tears of joy. Pulling out a purple ink pen you decided that it would be good enough if your landlord wanted your rent on time.  

After finishing with the checks, you return to your bag to put the envelopes inside to drop off tomorrow. As you lift the bag, your eyes meet with the envelope you tucked away earlier. A burst of excitement ran through you at the sight for just a moment before you shook it off. It was just an envelope from some random man sitting in a jail cell, why are you getting so excited? Is it because you’re at home and not feeling the pressure to be uptight and rigid? Or maybe it’s because you can’t remember the last time you received a letter that wasn’t a bill. It gave you a feeling of nostalgia, of writing letters to your mom when you were at camp, writing to your grandparents around the holidays. It even reminded you a bit of writing in your diary if your diary could write back. It’s not like he would have room to judge you from his jail cell, right? 

You grab the letter and walk back into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and a bottle of wine before plopping down at the table. Ripping open the envelope, you pull out the letter and notice that it is covered in artwork just as the last one was. This time you notice a 20-sided dice with a banner that read “critical hit”, a very detailed dragon head, and a stylized version of the skeleton guy that you’ve seen on the cover of Iron Maiden albums. The biggest piece was of another rose, but in the fully bloomed center was an eye. It was…interesting. Well done, but not what you were expecting. Not that you were expecting anything anyway.  

Getting the artwork out of the way, take a large gulp of wine as you begin reading. 

“I was already suspicious when I was told the person I was writing to wanted to go by Teach, and no seventh grader I know can write like that. Not that I know a lot of seventh graders...Anyway, can I ask how I ended up being pen pals with a teacher? I know I could ask Bridges, but I think it would be more fun to hear it from you.” 

He goes on to ask you things like what subject you teach and how long you have been teaching. He asked if you liked working with kids and if they ever made you want to pull your hair out.  

“I was never good in school. It took me three tries of my senior year to graduate. I used to blame my teachers saying that they didn’t like the way I dressed or my taste in music. I guess now I have to admit that it was probably because I didn’t bother to show up to class or do any of my homework…” 

A small giggle escaped. You weren’t sure if he was funny or if it was just the effects of the wine as you poured another glass. This letter felt much more personal to you, too. The air about it was different, like you were talking to a long-distance friend rather than a felon. You could feel yourself smiling as you read his sketchy handwriting.  

He asked you what your favorite band was since you “like rock so much more than metal.” You genuinely laughed out loud at the way he worded his disagreement. He says prison lets them watch MTV sometimes, which has been his main exposure to new music. He typically listens to his old cassettes on his Walkman that his uncle gave him when he first entered the system.  

“Some people have tried to steal it from me, but they learned pretty quick that I have my ways to get things back and that I'm not one to be messed with.” 

That left you curious. A small glimpse into the inner workings of prison. You never really thought about what a person in prison could have. It was nice that he could have at least a small luxury. You also couldn’t help but wonder what he meant by not being messed with... 

You ponder this as you rip a piece of paper out of your notebook. Hopefully your pal won't mind the purple pen, or the probable lack of coherence compared to your first letter as the wine really starts to kick in.  

Referring back to the paper like a student answering a question in class, you make sure to answer all of his questions to the best of your ability.  

“Hello again, Mr. Banished. I see you have uncovered my secret that I am, in fact, a grown woman and not a 13-year-old. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I teach English, have been teaching since I graduated college, coincidentally in 1989. It's like we traded places; I got to leave the prison of being a student in college and you went to prison for whatever drug related charges you acquired.” You laughed at your own joke as you continued. “As for why you are stuck with writing a late 20’s schoolteacher rather than one of my students, that would be because of the aforementioned Mr.Bridges. We had a student move a few weeks into the school year and Bridges practically got on his knees and begged me to take on a pen pal.” 

You left out the detail of not being totally comfortable with the program. Not that you weren’t still hesitant, but the last thing you wanted to do was offend him by insinuating anything about the type of person he was for being in jail. The wine had rationalized with you that sometimes good people do bad things when they’re in dark places.

Continuing on, you wrote that he was probably right in both his opinions on why his teachers failed him. The older teachers at your school were stuck in their ways and judged students before really trying to help them. You did your best not to be the same way, hoping to be a teacher that your students could trust.  

“I am interested in what you wore that would call for such hard judgement. I try to be as unbiased as I can with all my kids. If you asked them, they would say that I’m stuffy or ridged most of the time, but it’s mostly because I care about their education. Partly because being a new teacher is freaking tough if I’m being honest. These older teachers don’t take half of the things I say seriously because their own kids are older than me. It’s kind of bullshit, but I just deal with it until I can get more experience under my belt.” 

A sigh slips through your lips, pen tapping on your kitchen table as you feel the frustration bubbling. It’s not fair to dump these feelings on him, but the anonymity made it so easy to just put everything out there. He doesn’t know anything about you, and if you were to weird him out by getting a little real, then he could just not write back, right? 

After taking a moment to collect yourself, you decided to just move on to a different topic. 

“Sorry, that was a lot of feelings on my part. Is it too personal to ask what you do in prison? You mentioned getting to listen to music, but what else do you do? I’ve seen in movies that inmates work out a lot and play basketball outside. Is that real or made up for the audience? If it is real, does that mean you are super buff from working out all the time? Do you beat people up if they try and take your Walkman, or do you stab them? I’ve seen people do that in movies, too. I hope you don’t stab them, that would be scary.” 

You can feel yourself getting tired as you go on, so you decide it’s time to call it a night. You wrap up the letter by telling him that you’re going to go to sleep and that you were looking forward to his next letter. You sign your name and draw a small doodle of a flower next to it.

November 18th,1994

It was 3 am when you woke up the first time. A nightmare had you shooting up from your pillow. Cold sweat drenched the collar of your sleep shirt that heaved with you as you caught your breath. He had been knocking at your door, your pen pal. You never saw his face, but heard the anger in his voice as he yelled for you to let him in. You remember sitting in front of the door begging for him to leave you alone, telling him it was too soon. That you weren’t ready.  

The nightmare became reoccurring, waking you at least 2 or 3 times a week. Sometimes it’s your ex. Most of the time it’s your pen pal. Even though you have no inkling of what he looks like, you just know it’s him on the other side. The disturbance in your sleep was starting to affect your daily life, one of your coworkers asking if you were okay after over pouring a cup of coffee in the teacher’s lounge. Even Mr.Bridges felt the need to comment. 

“Holidays stressing you out?” he asked with an energy that seemed inhuman to you, his sunny disposition could make the snow outside melt. You were sure he had to be a regular at the dentist with how white his teeth were. 

“No.” You stated shortly as you looked through the stack of letters he sat on your desk. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he said with a nod, “This is the best time of the year after all. We try and keep busy at the prison, keep the morale high and what not.” He placed the stack of letters on your desk, along with a small box that read “Greeting Cards” with a wintery scene displayed on the front. 

“These are for the students to give the inmates.” You look at him with “no shit” written on your face. He cleared his throat, “But, uh, I’m sure you could figure that out. I know this time of year can be hectic for everyone, but we all deserve some holiday cheer, right?” Your expression remains as he continues on. 

“Right, well, I’ll be giving the inmates their own cards to send to the kids with their letters. It might be a bit difficult for me to come back before Christmas, family affairs to attend to and whatnot. So, I went ahead and wrote the address and stamped the envelopes for the cards. If I don’t come back by, oh, let's say the 15th? Just go ahead and stick those in the mail and I’ll make sure the inmates get them!” Before you could protest, Mr.Bridges quickly made his exit as the warning bell rang, wishing you a happy holiday as he disappeared. 

You decided to let the kids take their letters and cards home for the weekend to work on. As you passed them out, keeping the addressed envelopes in the box, you told the kids to write something nice in their cards. Getting to the last letter, you feel your stomach jump to your throat; your pen name is not written on the letter. Instead, you read your actual government first name in the familiar chicken scratch handwriting. You hadn’t even realized that you had stopped dead in your tracks until the sound of the bell brought you back to your body. 

“U-uh, get-get your letters done by the end of class Tuesday!” You yell over your class as they begin migrating out of the classroom. Quickly, you return to your desk and rip open the letter. Unsurprisingly, it’s once again covered in artwork. The pumpkins and bats and other Halloween inspired art felt out of place, putting in perspective how long it had been since your last letter. Before you could look much further into the writing, your next class began to file in, forcing you to set the letter aside for later. 

You’d felt nauseas the rest of your morning classes thinking about how the hell your pen pal could have figured out your name. You may have been...a little tipsy when you wrote that letter a month ago, but you’re sure you didn’t say anything personal enough that he would know who you were. Could he have asked someone on the outside to look into you? No, Mr.Bridges assured you that the inmates don’t know what school they are writing to. Maybe Bridges said your name to someone at the jail and the inmate overheard?  

As soon as the bell rang for your lunch period, you practically rushed your students out the door and closed it. Throwing yourself into your chair, you grab the letter and begin reading. 

“Well, well, I wasn’t expecting to be getting more lore in your new letter! It’s a cute name, by the way…Sorry I hope that wasn’t weird. Anyway! I guess I can tell you my name, too. My name is Eddie.”

 Eddie. 

So you had included your own name in your letter somewhere. You sigh with relief, though it still made you a little uncomfortable. Sure he’s been nice, but he was still a felon. Knowing his name made you feel a little better, made him feel a tad more human, more personal than using silly nicknames. 

“Can I start by saying I loved reading your last letter? The purple pen was a nice touch. Something about a teacher complaining about other teachers is really funny to me. Nice to know the torment of some teachers isn’t just limited to students! And I doubt your kids think you’re stiff or whatever. You seem pretty cool to me. Even if I’ve only gotten to talk to you through a couple letters, you talk to me a lot nicer than I probably deserve.”

Your smile that had made its home on your lips from his sentiments dropped into a frown. You felt yourself wanting to get defensive, wanting to tell him that he shouldn’t think that way about himself. That even if he was a felon, he still deserves respect. 

“Being a younger teacher must be hard. You did all the college stuff to be a teacher so that should be enough to get their respect in my opinion. I don’t think I had a teacher who wasn’t at least in their 50s so they probably can’t see anyone under 30 as anything other than a kid I guess.”

“Hit the nail on the head,” you said to yourself with an airy chuckle. 

As you keep reading, he changes the subject to something you don’t remember asking in your previous letter. 

“So you wanna know what I look like, huh? Well back before I was in here I would wear my band shirts, my jeans had holes in them, and I have this battle vest that I’ve put together with some of my favorite bands on it. My uncle Wayne says he’s keeping it safe for me at home. It’s not much, but I learned how to stitch patches on by myself, so it means something to me. Gives me something to look forward to when I get out. 

I also had long hair when I was younger. Can’t call yourself a metal head without having long hair ya know. But I’ve had to cut it since I’ve been in here. I’ve got pretty curly hair and it was getting hard to keep up with it. It’s short enough to keep out of my face most of the time. I’m actually due for a haircut, so thanks for reminding me! Hair cuts are free in prison so I get it done way more than I ever did on the outside. You gotta tip your barber though or else they might “accidentally” shave all your hair off next time. Learned that one the hard way.”

He goes on to answer some of your questions about the inner workings of the jail. They do get to work out a lot, but says he’s not a “big meat head” like some of the other inmates. He doesn’t like basketball for “personal reasons” so he prefers to run laps. “When you’re trying to get out of a big fight it’s better to be faster than stronger.”

“I am also proud to admit that I have never stabbed someone. Almost been stabbed myself, but I used to get my shit rocked in high school so I’ve learned to dodge over the years.”

Your hand comes to your face, almost forgetting that you asked such a stupid question. Of course he hasn’t stabbed anyone. You could excuse it if it was out of self defense maybe. But then you recall him saying before that he doesn’t get “messed with”, so what is he doing that people aren’t bothering him if not stabbing them? Your head spins with possibilities as you think about it more.

As you are about to read on, you are interrupted by a knock on your door, the sound causing you to jump in your seat. Quickly closing the letter and shoving it into your bag, you rush to the door to find a student from your 3rd period class, a shy one at that, needing clarification on the newest assignment. You let her in, forgetting the letter for the rest of the period. 

The rest of the period then turns into the rest of the day. It goes by like a blur as everyone seems to be getting last minute things turned in for the week. Grades for the upcoming report cards would be due by the end of next Tuesday, so you told your classes to get any missing work in by today and you would give them partial credit. It was setting yourself up for a busy weekend, but anything to keep your mind off the upcoming holiday was welcomed. 

It would be your first Thanksgiving single in almost 10 years, and your 4th since your mom passed. Your soon to be ex-husband, Henry, had convinced you to move to his hometown of Hawkins after your mother died to be closer to his family and to help his dad’s business as his accountant. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, and after looking back on the situation, you realized that he had used your vulnerability to get a lot of what he wanted. 

It had gone okay at first. His parents bought your house, he had a good paying job. You clung to his arm, well manicured, appearance catered to his liking as he paraded you around at office parties. Whispers of the girls talking about how lucky you were to bag an older man. 

Waking up early in the morning to iron his white button ups and khaki slacks gave you purpose until the well timed retirement of your predecessor gave you the opportunity to start teaching that year. He said he was so proud of you. Until you forgot to iron his clothes as you were trying to get ready for your first day. 

Then you were behind on chores during the week, grading papers taking up most of your free time when you weren’t tending to his needs. It’s not that you didn’t clean, it just wasn't the only thing you had to do every day anymore. Passive comments about becoming lazy were brushed to the side until they collectively spilled over into your first big argument. You told him he could help, too. He smacked you across the face. 

Too busy juggling work and cleaning the house full time caused you to miss the signs that things were shifting. It started when Henry had to start staying late for work, claiming that they had a “big project” that was going to require him to stay over longer. He made it seem like a temporary arrangement that ended up becoming a pattern for months. But, he assured you that a raise could come from his hard work. So you continued to sit at home, a cold, untouched plate sitting across from you as you finished another bottle of wine. 

Then it was the pair of panties that you didn’t recognize when you did his laundry. When you confronted him, he told you that it must be a pair you owned back in high school that was mixed in with his clothes somehow when you moved.

Then it was the perfume you didn’t recognize on your pillow case when you came home from a weekend trip to see your new nephew. He told you it smelled like your perfume, you just hadn’t been home all weekend to smell it.

Then it was his father’s secretary, Missy, calling your home and telling you that she was sleeping with your husband. She had been nice at last year's Christmas party when you first met her. Nineteen, dumb as a box of rocks.

“Are you and Henry still married?” she had asked with her valley girl accent, “Because when I stayed over I saw that he still had pictures of you two at his house.”

Now you’re stuck in this tiny town, your closest relative being your brother who has his own family out in Chicago. Thankfully, you had made friends with the ever charming Steve Harrington, who’s father also worked with Henry. He came as a package deal with his roommate Robin Buckley and the two of them quickly became your best friends. They were as blindsided as you about Henry’s affair and helped you move into your new apartment. Steve offered to let you live with him and Robin, but you didn’t want to live in the same house as your ex’s coworker, even if he was never there.

“We should make a grocery list for next week.” Robin called from the kitchen to where you and Steve were sat in the living room. “Do we want to bother making a turkey or should we do something easier?”

“Do you know how to make a turkey?” you asked looking over the top of your wine glass as she taps a pen to paper scowling.

“She can barely make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, d’ya really think she can make a turkey?” You watch as a roll of paper towels is launched from the kitchen into the side of Steve’s head and your laugh erupts.

“Well, then were fucked,” you say between giggles, “because I can’t make a turkey, and I know Steve “grabs a pan without a mit” Harrington also can’t cook one.”

“Oh that was ONE TIME!” 

Steve goes to throw the paper towel roll at you, but you dodge, “One time is enough to never let you live it down, Steven. Maybe we should get some chicken instead.”

“Oh, I can make us some potato salad!”

After some back and forth about what to make for your “friendsgiving” as Robin had been calling it, claiming inspiration from a new episode of Friends, Steve was begging to talk about anything else. 

“School seems to be better this year,” he looks at you carefully, “You haven’t been talking about it as much lately. Not negatively at least.”

“Yeah the only thing you’ve complained about is that prison thing your class was supposed to be doing.” She looked at you with a look of curiosity, “How’s that going?”

You blink and suddenly remember the letter that you had gotten earlier. It was sitting in your bag back home where you had left it on your coffee table again. You were so busy getting ready to go to Steve’s that you had forgotten to finish it.

“It’s going okay. Hey, did you guys go to high school here?”

They both look at each other, then back to you. “Yep, graduated a year after dingus, though. Class of ‘86.”

Steve gave Robin an annoyed look at the nickname before returning his attention to you, “Why do you ask?”

You pondered for a moment if it would be okay to tell them about Eddie. The program was supposed to be anonymous, but that was just to protect the kids. If he wasn’t allowed to give you his name they would have confiscated the letter, right? Bridges said the letters were vetted both ways, so if it was a problem he would have told you. But this seemed like a breach of privacy. You only had a first name to go off of and a vague description. He never said his age, so could be older than even you, or younger than Robin. 

“Um, do you guys know anyone that goes by Eddie?” 

They both perked up at the name, giving each other a look that you couldn’t read. You swore they could communicate telepathically.

Steve was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “Yeah, we know an Eddie. Why?” His tone was curious as he side eyed you.

“Oh, well my pen pal from the, uh, the prison thing. See his name is Eddie, and he told me that he’s from Hawkins. I don’t know much about him, but I think he may be close to my age and maybe he was in school with you guys-”

Robins laugh caught you off guard. “If it’s the same Eddie we know, then yes he was in school with us. Way longer than he was supposed to be, and we didn’t really get close until the end of my senior year.”

The look on your face prompted Steve to elaborate, “Eddie was -- is, a friend of ours that we got to know better through a mutual friend. He did go to prison a few years ago, but it was because he was scapegoated by a guy he bought weed from. We thought he was gonna go to jail for, like, the rest of his life or something. I had to convince my dad to get our lawyer that he keeps on retainer to represent him in court. The guy owed my dad a favor and he did it, Eddie only got five years.”

“There’s no way,” you said incredulously. Your jaw had to be on the floor. You knew this town was small, but was it really this small? Robin and Steve would be the type to forget to mention they had a friend in prison, too. 

“What’s his last name?”

“Munson. Eddie Munson. We still talk to him on the phone every once in a while. Usually his uncle gets a hold of us, tells us that he’s going to call at a certain time so we can stay by the phone. Oh!” Steve stands up from his spot on the couch, clapping his hands, “I have my senior year book up stairs. He should be in it as long as he showed up to picture day.” 

As Steve walks away, you turn to Robin, who has an amused look on her face.

“What?” You laugh, still in disbelief at the information that has been given to you. She shrugs, lips turned in a downward smile, “Nothing. So what do you and Eddie talk about?”

“What do we talk about? Not much really. We’ve only sent maybe two letters to each other. He always covers the letters in artwork though. They look like little tattoos.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely our Eddie,” She shakes her head, “His notebooks that he would carry around with him are covered in art. He told us he’s given himself some tattoos while he’s been there. We keep telling him he’s going to look like a felon when he comes out.”

“Isn’t he a felon, though?” 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to look like it!”

“Found it!” Steve yells as he comes back into the living room, blowing the dust off the book. He plops down on the couch between you and Robin and starts to look through the pages. “See, the funny thing about Eddie, he was supposed to graduate in ‘84, but he kept fucking around and ended up repeating his senior year -- three times.” 

“Holy shit,” you were in absolute disbelief, “he told me that in one of his letters. He said he was because the teachers didn’t like him, too.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something he would say,” Robin chuckles. 

“Ah-ha, He did show up! Here he is right here!”

Your eyes snapped to where Steve’s fingers pointed to the tiny black and white square. Eddie wasn’t kidding when he said his hair was super curly. The close up of his face makes his hair almost completely take the background out of the picture. You can barely see it but it looks like he’s wearing a Judas Priest shirt under a leather jacket and what you suspect to be the leather jacket he seems to treasure so much. When you finally let yourself focus on his face you’re met with a bright smile and dimples on either side. Dark eyes scrunched up from how high his cheeks were. You definitely would have had a crush on him if you had gone to the same school. 

“Soooo…what do you think?” Robin sing-songs with an expectant look on her face. 

You can feel yourself smiling and try to reign it in, “Well, he’s not a 40 year old biker looking guy with a beard so that makes me feel better. He looks nice, actually.” 

“He’s a good guy,” Steve starts flipping through the pages of the book, “but everyone gave him shit because…of…this.” Stopping on another page in the book, you see a picture of a group of students leaning up against a wall, all of them wearing matching shirts. 

“Hellfire Club?” You look between Steve and Robin. 

“He hasn’t mentioned Hellfire Club?” Robin was baffled. “That’s like, his whole thing!”

You shake your head, brows furrowed, “What is it?” 

“His D&D club? He’s seriously never brought it up?”

“No, not yet at least.” Taking the book from Steve, you get a better look at the picture. “Like I said, we've only sent a few letters back and forth. I wouldn’t say we’ve exhausted all of our topics for discussion yet.”

“You’ll never run out of things to talk about with Eddie,” Steve states sarcastically, “You’d think prison would have had an effect on his social skills, but that guy could talk for an hour about a crack he saw in the sidewalk.”

Hearing that made you wonder if he ever held back when writing to you. His letters were usually front and back all the way to the bottom of the pages. You wonder if they only allow him one page or if has to pay for the paper. Hopefully he wasn’t wasting his money to talk to you. 

“When was the last time you guys talked to him?” 

“Uh-“ Robin starts.

“It was still hot outside I think,” Steve interjects, “Like early September?”

“Yeah,” Robin nods, eyes wide, “September sounds about right.”

“Hmm, that’s around when we started writing to each other. I guess he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t know about me yet.” 

“If it’s been that long we’re definitely due for a call from him.” Robin looks to Steve, you miss the mischief in her eyes, nor do you see the look he gives her back. “Maybe you could talk to him next time he calls us?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide meeting Robin’s gaze. You saw the look now and immediately started shaking your head in protest. 

“No, no, Robin I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You stand up from your spot on the couch, handing the yearbook back to Steve. Taking a few steps back to look at them, you bite one of your nails, thinking about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “Actually, if he does call, I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t tell him you knew me either. I’m sure he’s a nice guy but…”

“Hey,” Steve stood up and placed a hand on your arm, “It’s cool. You didn’t know Eddie before, and you barely know him now. I think Robin just meant that you could get to know him more since he is our friend. He’s gonna get out of prison eventually and we promised him that we’d just continue on like how things were before.”

“But,” you look at Steve with worry in your expression, “being in prison that long can change a person.”

“Eddie is too stubborn to let anything break him of being himself. He didn’t repeat his senior year twice because he’s dumb. He did it because he was too busy with what he wanted to do to bother with his schoolwork.”

“Actually,” Robin says, “he said prison is easier because he gets three meals a day and doesn’t have to do math, so…”

“But,” Steve gets your attention again, “My point is that you don’t have to go out of your comfort zone to be his friend for our sake if you don’t want to. Just keep talking to him on your own and see how you feel.”

You swear these two really were the only good people in Hawkins. 

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,” I’ll keep writing him, but I won’t mention that I know you two. Not yet at least.”

November 27th, 1994

Ever since your talk with Robin and Steve, your nightmares have changed. Now that you have a face to the name they’re not really nightmares anymore. Instead of a nameless, faceless voice at your door, you can see him through the peephole. He’s not knocking on your door with rage, but out of desperation. Still begging to be let in, but the lock is on his side. You hold the key in your hand, you just have to slide it under the door…

A sharp, grating ring wakes you from your sleep, eyes shooting open and taking in the room around you. The sun peaks from behind your bedroom curtains, the light just bright enough to pester the hangover migraine that’s already in full effect. You have to strain to get your eyes to focus on the numbers on your alarm clock that read just past noon. 

The continuous ringing of the phone finally throttles you out of bed and into your kitchen. When you pick up the phone you hear Steve on the other end. 

“Oh, good, you lived,” he exclaims, “Robin, she’s still alive!”

A muffled, “oh thank god” comes from the background in the receiver. You hadn’t anticipated being so emotional the night before, thinking you were past feeling sorry for yourself that you were alone on a holiday while your bastard ex had someone keeping your side of the bed warm every night.

All the emotions came up at Steve’s during dinner. It was just the three of you there, all with broken families. They had other friends who were home for the holidays, but they were doing their own thing this weekend. Robin and Steve insisted that you join in on the festivities but you declined, using not knowing them as an excuse.

Really you just wanted some alone time. Time to yourself, to let yourself feel whatever you need to feel without having to mask in front of strangers, brush off any awkwardness if the topic of your failed marriage were to arise. 

You think Robin and Steve could tell that you were in your own head. They suggested taking you out to the only dive bar in town still open on the holiday, and assuming the place would be pretty dead, you said fuck it and all piled into Steve’s car. Sharing drinks and playing pool while metal music that made you think of your pen pal. You wondered what he was doing as you stepped outside to smoke a cigarette you bummed off an older, balding guy sitting at the bar. 

After drinking so much that Robin had to drive your car home for you, their phone call really didn’t come as a surprise to you. 

“Yes, god, I’m alive. Don’t yell into the phone, please.” You pinch the bridge of your nose to try and relieve some of the tension. The phone call is brief, Steve just wanting to check in on you and confirm that you didn’t want to participate in their outing. 

“We’re going ice skating! And if you can’t skate, our friend Max would enjoy having someone sit on the sidelines with her.”

“Sorry, Steve,” you press your forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe, “I’m sure everyone is very nice, but I’m just not feeling up to it.”

After a few cups of coffee and a long shower, you settle on your couch, flipping through the channels on the tv for something to watch and settling on a Beverly Hills: 90210 rerun marathon. It didn’t take you long to lose interest and you began fidgeting for something else to keep your mind from wandering into dangerous territory. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your work bag on the floor at the end of your couch. The memory of tripping and knocking the bag over last night comes back to you, making you internally cringe at yourself. You grab the bag and see that the contents were an unorganized mess compared to how you normally keep it. The longer you looked the crazier it made you feel, so you carefully took the papers and folders out, laying them in front of you. 

When you picked up your first period folder, the familiar envelope that you had forgotten a week ago fell out, landing in your lap. You quickly pick it up and open it, remembering that you hadn't even had the chance to properly finish reading it. 

Something about seeing the letter again made you feel good. As you look at the artwork, you see the picture of the shirts his club members wore and smile as you realize he made the shirts himself. 

You reread the description of himself and can laugh because he must have worn the same thing every day, recalling the holes in his jeans and his battle vest from his pictures. It was hard to imagine the wild mane of hair he had being cut short. Do they get conditioner in prison? Because his hair must be a mess without it. 

Finally, you get to the part of the letter you hadn’t read. You felt your heart beating in your chest, an anxiousness building that you couldn’t explain. 

“I’m running low on space to write and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you again, but I just wanted to ask-"

You’re thrown off when you see two lines of the letter have been blacked out with a black marker or sharpie. There’s no way to make out what was written, and the last line is just him wishing you a “happy whatever holiday you celebrate,” his real signature greeting you at the very bottom of the page.

“What the hell?” You asked the empty apartment. The first assumption that comes to mind is that Eddie must have messed up what he was going to write and decided to black it out since he wrote in pen. Or maybe he wanted to write more, but realized he was running out of space? That would go with your theory that they are limited in the paper they can get. 

There’s also the possibility he said something inappropriate and whoever checks the letters made him redact it. That was probably the least likely, but it makes you laugh to think about. Robin and Steve brought him up a few times while you were drinking and gave him the highest praises. But, you never know what someone would be willing to say or do when they’ve been touch starved for almost 5 years.

Butterflies invade your stomach when you think about it more. He’s probably had to take care of himself quite a bit while he’s been locked up. Where does one even do...that in prison without prying eyes?

Your thighs clench together at the image you’ve conjured in your head. Steve had shown you some pictures of Eddie that he found from not too long before he went to prison. Sure, he resembled his yearbook picture, thin and lanky he once was. But the picture of him and Steve at a lake, both of them shirtless and clearly soaking wet, displayed muscles that he had likely gained from the mechanic job Robin mentioned he had. The tattoos that he had on his body were taking over, almost covering one of his arms completely. 

The image of soaked curly hairs clinging to his face as he’s leaning into a shower wall comes to the forefront of your mind. Toned arms flexing as he holds himself against the wall with one hand, stroking himself with the other. You imagined his hands were rough and calloused from playing guitar and working on cars. He was long and hard as he pumped himself, water dripping off the tip with each down stroke. God, you can only imagine his face as he cums, a loud groan falling from his lips as he spills onto the shower floor, calling your name…

You throw yourself into the couch cushion next to you and physically cringe. Where the hell did that come from? Was this the result of your dry spell since you left Henry? A guy that you’ve never even met before gives you a little attention and your brain automatically goes into the gutter. Sitting up, you rub your face in your hands in an attempt to keep the scenario from replaying in your mind. At least you had successfully distracted yourself from the self pity you were wallowing in. 

You roll onto your back, holding up the letter in your hand. You admire the artwork, the sloppy handwriting. A person wrote this letter. Someone who did something illegal and paid the price for it. Someone who is very loved and has an uncle waiting for him somewhere in this town, and friends who would do anything for him. And now, he’s writing you letters, and you wonder if he is feeling the same way that you are starting to feel…what are you feeling, exactly?

Sitting up from the couch, you grab a pen and paper from your bag.

“Hello Eddie” no.

“Hey, stranger” no.

“What’s up!” definitely not.

Another balled up paper tossed to the ground. 

“Dear Eddie,” sure why not.

“I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season yourself. Hopefully your uncle can come and see you for whatever you celebrate. If not, at least a phone call would be nice. Does the prison give you anything special for the holidays? Like a turkey for Thanksgiving, ham for Christmas, the traditional stuff. I spent the holiday with-”

Steve and Robin. You know them! I know who you are, too. Totally not weird, right?

“-my friends. They called it “Friendsgiving,” I think it had something to do with a TV show. None of us like to cook, so we ended up just picking up stuff at the store and then going out to a local bar. I’m writing this letter the next day, a little hungover I have to admit. But, writing this letter has helped distract me from the migraine I’m trying to stave off. It’s been very busy at school lately with projects, exams, a choir…thing? All that means for me is that I have mountains of paperwork to grade, and I spent the last month trying to get kids to turn in anything missing. It’s like trying to get squirrels to stay in a basket.

Winter break is just around the corner, though. Which means two weeks of getting to sleep in late, watching terrible TV reruns, and using the cold weather as an excuse to stay inside. Although, I think my friends will manage to get me out of my apartment one way or another. I feel like a cat who was adopted by two dogs who share the same brain cell. But, they have helped me a lot over the last couple of months so I owe it to them to be their voice of reason sometimes.”

You pause and have a laugh to yourself. You think about all the ridiculous adventures the two of them have taken you on in the last few months, doing things that you would never have done before Henry. They’ve taken the hard metal bones out of your binding and started loosening the strings. You wonder if you would have even said yes to doing this letter thing if you hadn’t already had your boundaries pushed a little.

“I hope this isn’t too intrusive to ask, but do you have any big plans for when you get out? Places you want to go? Food you want to try? People you want to see?”

You smile when you dot the last question mark. It feels sneaky to ask when you know that your meeting is inevitable, and there is a small voice in your ear telling you that he wouldn’t want to meet you. You’re boring. Simple. Dull. Only shades of grey fill your wardrobe, your heart, where there was once colour. Broken.

The new bottle of wine you got at the gas station stares at you from the kitchen.

Anyway.

“Hopefully you’re able to get out in time for the summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk outside as a free man and get to feel the sun on your skin? I think Hawkins is having a Rose festival again next year. There could be some inspiration there for you for your art, and if not, the funnel cakes are worth the admission price. Everything else is overpriced, but what isn’t nowadays?”

Filling the last bit of the back of the page, you felt it only fair to give a few details about yourself. Just a general description, nothing too revealing. Not that there was much to give away since becoming a professional educator has taken any creative freedom from your sense of style. You did tell him that on the weekends you treated yourself by wearing comfy clothes all day. You didn’t tell him that you only felt okay to do that recently, since your ex husband always expected you to look your best.

As you reached the bottom, you remembered the redacted section of his last letter. Do should you ask about it? Would he even be able to tell you? You went ahead and brought it up.

“Before I close this letter, I am curious to know why the last bit of your letter had been marked out. I can only imagine what you could have asked that it had to be taken out. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate, Mr.Banished.”

You added a little “ha ha” in parentheses so he knew you were just joking, careful once again not to offend.

“Looking forward to your next letter,”

You signed your name, fighting the urge to draw a heart next to it like the girls in your class writing notes to their crush. There was no way that feeling like this for someone that you’ve only had correspondence through letters and the bit of hype from your mutual friends can be healthy. Grabbing the box of greeting cards that you had sat on the coffee table, you wrote some well wishes and folded your letter to fit within the confines of the red envelope. You took a look at it for the first time since Bridges had handed them over and your heart dropped. 

In one of the ethics classes you took in college a classmate did a presentation on Pendleton Prison. It had just come out the year before that there had been an abuse of power and prisoners were basically being tortured. It was hard to observe but informative. You couldn’t even imagine something like that happening to Eddie. You wondered if the reason they were participating in this program to begin with was to help with their reputation. We’ll let them talk to some kids and it will seem like we’re not abusing our inmates.

You look at the wine bottle again.

It’s fine. If Eddie was going through something like that, surely he would have told Steve and Robin, his uncle. But you wanted to be sure. You walk into your kitchen.

December 25th, 1994

“…You can say hello when you see me. You don't have to be afraid. There's a lot of things going around about me, but none of it's true. Okay?”

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly close them when the harsh light of your tv playing Home Alone was too bright. Another dream about Eddie had taken over your mind in your sleep. You sit back to the door, the key in your hand. He doesn’t push you anymore, says to only give the key if you want to. That he enjoys your company no matter what. 

Sigh.

As you sit up from the couch where you had dozed off the night before, you decide to make a cup of coffee and ring your brother. 

“I could have come to get you. And brought you back. You know I don’t mind-“

“No, no, it’s okay, really. You have your own family now, I don’t want to dampen the mood,” you say as if you mean it. Coffee swishes around in your mug as you talk. It was true that your brother had a family of his own and was living the American dream. You liked that he invited you to be part of that, but you just couldn’t get past the notion that everyone would just look at you with pity. You’d rather be alone.

Steve and Robin also invited you to Colorado with them. Steve’s parents had a house in Aspen where they were hosting Christmas this year. Steve insisted his parents wouldn’t care if you tagged along since they started to become fond of Robin. As much as seeing the beautiful snow covered mountains of Colorado sounds like a great reprieve for your mind, you still lied and told them you were going to your brothers. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

The sound of Kevin McCallister’s hijinks in New York got your attention. The movie distracted you for a while, until it didn’t. You watched the tv -- well, rather you looked at it until you stood up, deciding to get out of the house, even if just to drive around.

The movie-esque scenery of small town Hawkins covered in snow was quiet and still, say for the few cars that you passed likely on the way to see family, traveling between houses. Something you and Henry did to make things fair for both of you. Your mom’s house first, then his parents.

Cars sat outside the Hideout, piquing your interest as you watched a man get out of a pick up truck and walk inside. It was close enough to five o'clock that you decided to pull into the lot, pulling into a spot by the door. Inside you were surprised to see it fairly occupied, mostly by men who looked like they worked at the factory in town or drove the big rig that was parked on the side of the building. The patrons seemed to talk amongst themselves, some semblance of holiday cheer keeping their spirits alive as their glasses clanked and boisterous laughs filled the air.

Sliding into an empty bar stool, you grabbed your purse to get your ID and some cash. 

“Ain’t ya little young to be sittin’ alone at a bar on Christmas?”

You looked up from your purse at the man sitting next to you at the bar. He sipped from his glass, cigarette smoke seeping from his lips, attention set on nothing in particular. He was an older man, bald on top and plenty of aging on his face, but you had the feeling he was younger than he looked. Some of his features felt familiar to you but you weren’t sure why.

“Um, well, I guess so,” you stutter as you set your purse down between your feet. “But, uh, I really didn’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

A hum and a nod, “I guess loneliness knows no age.” He huffed a laugh before getting the bartender's attention. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, no, please, you don’t-” you begin to protest, but he puts his hand up and waves you off.

“Trust me,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “I would be buying it for someone else if they could be here.”

Ah. You tell the bartender your order and the man tells him to put it on his tab. 

“Thank you,” you give him a genuine smile, turning towards him to speak as the bar patrons become louder. You paused for a beat before speaking again, “I’m sorry you’re alone today.”

“Makes no difference really, just another day to me,” he takes a sip of his beer. You almost miss it, but you see the flash of a smile on his face. 

“Just another day, huh,” you say smugly, dipping your head into his line of vision. He must have realized he was smiling because he covered his hand with his mouth shyly, the motion a contradiction to his hard exterior. Clearing his throat, he sat up in his seat, opening from his hunched position to talk with you properly.

“It’s just another day, always been to me, but,” He looks at you for a moment, then back down into his beer, “I used to celebrate, for my boy. Haven’t gotten to do that properly in a while. I’m hopin’ this year will be the last, that next year will be different.”

His endearment made your eyes misty. “That’s so sweet,” you coo, putting a hand on coat covered arm, “I’m sure things will work out.” You pull back when your drink is dropped off, quickly taking a few sips. 

The man watches you, his head shaking in your peripherals. “So, what’s really got ya out here celebrating with Hawkins finest? Besides the, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “cheerful atmosphere.”

You stay quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the straw floating in your drink. Deep breath in, and out. “Do you want the half truth or the full truth?”

His body bounces from a chuckle, “I got a little time.”

Pouring your heart out to a stranger over drinks felt therapeutic, and not in the same way as talking to Robin and Steve. He just listened, nodded his head, grunted in what you assume to be agreement. This man, who looks like he hasn’t taken a day off in his life, made you feel more valid with no words at all than anyone else has in your entire life besides your own mother.

“And now I’m, like, kinda into this guy, but he doesn’t know I exist,” your words are a little slurred as you take down another drink. “Sorry, no, he knows I exist, but he knows nothing about me. Like, he knows some things, but he doesn’t really know me, ya know?”

His head bobs up and down, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“I feel weird feeling this way, because I would never have even considered a guy like him before. Henry, I told you about Henry, he was super uppity, snotty. A real tight ass. But, this guy is funny. Genuine, and his friends talk him up. Who wouldn’t fall for a guy like that? Even if he is rough around the edges.”

“Well, if it doesn’t work out with you and this guy, I outta introduce you to my nephew. He was always picked on in school for being different, but he’s a good kid. Just got into the wrong stuff,” the mans face sunk a bit, “My fault really.”

You tilt your head in confusion, “How so?”

“Heart attack. Had one while at work. Stayed in the hospital for a few, got the bill and almost had another one,” he chuckles at that. “I wasn’t even gonna tell ‘em, but he came over to visit and I forgot about it. Saw it sittin’ on the counter. Next thing I know he’s callin’ me sayin’ he’s booked on ‘possession with intent to distribute’. Buncha bull for some grass.” He put his cigarette out with a harsh stab. “But, he’ll be good soon. My deadbeat brother’s been keepin’ an eye on him in there and he’s been keeping his good behavior streak.”

“He sounds like a good kid,” you rest your cheek against the cool counter as you smile up at him.

“Yeah, he is.” His smile reaches his eyes, and so does yours.

“Well, gotta go, darlin’,” he slaps a couple bills on the counter and nods to the bartender, “Excpectin’ a call here soon. Get you some pretzels or somethin’ before ya take off.”

“Thank you,” your brows come together, “sorry, I don’t think I ever caught your name?”

“Names Wayne.”

“Nice to meet you, Wayne.”

.....

....

...

..

.

With her thick crown of once dark strands now softening to a caramel-brown. Wide chocolate eyes, lashes that people would pay good money for. Anyone with half a clue could deduce that’s Steve’s kid. And god, it causes Robin’s heart to lurch every time she sees Squid. A spitting image, her annoying co-worker turned closest friend now confined to the tiniest body she’s ever seen. It’s been hard not to wonder how Steve would be with her. Any air of confidence crumbling at the sight of his gurgling lump of a daughter. Nervously shushing her over his shoulder as she fusses, trying his hardest not to get water in her eyes while he gives her a bath. He’s had lots of training with kids, but not ones this small. Robin knew he always longed for a brood of his own, a family to take on holidays out of town and send out cheesy Christmas cards to loved ones. He’d make countless mistakes, putting her diaper on backwards or forgetting the stroller at home. But god knows he’d wake up everyday and try his best. Delicately, she reaches down and brushes the back of her finger across Audrey’s flushed cheek. She doesn’t stir, eyelids remain heavy and lips parted while her chest steadily rises and falls. So peaceful. The front door clicks open behind her, and she glances over her shoulder to see your shadow enter the living room.

“How’s Eddie?” She asks, propping herself on the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, he’s alright.” Your reply is hushed, so as not to wake Audrey. “Andy’s fists must be as thick as his head, he took a few solid hits.”

“Lucky he knows how to take ‘em.” Robin shoots you a wry smile, trying to lighten the room somewhat. “You want me to stay the night?”

“Sure, I might just grab a shower and then join you in bed.” Kicking off your shoes, you give her shoulder a squeeze as you pass her on the way to the bathroom. Curiosity gets the best of Robin as she watches you, the faintest traces of a smile playing on the corner of your lips.

“You were over there for a while.” Raising her eyebrows, her playful insinuation isn’t lost on you. “Anything happen?”

Your cheeks flush, and you let out an incredulous, yet unconvincing scoff.

“No! God, I just helped clean him up and left.”

“Like, ‘scrubbed him off in the shower’ cleaned up?”

“You’re sick, Robin.” 

Robin breaks into a smug grin, shaking her head. “Just… remember what we talked about. Taking it slow?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thanks, mom.”

“Anytime, darling!” She calls out behind you as you disappear into the bedroom. Stealing a final glance at Squid, she flicks off the living room light. “Lucky kid, getting two badass dads.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” For all his virtues, Eddie can be so stubborn when he wants to be. And today is no exception. 

“C’mon, just give him a chance! I’ll be back at work next week, it’s only for the days when you are Robin are working-”

“Zero chance I’m letting Henderson look after Squid. The kid misses his own mouth when he’s eating, how do you expect him to feed her?”

Huffing, you pace around the living room anxiously. Eddie is laying down in the middle of the carpet, Audrey perched atop his stomach, holding her hands to keep her upright. Toys are discarded around them, a mess of Fisher-Price to clean up later. 

“Well, I don’t really have any other options, Eddie. I mean, I don’t have the money for daycare-”

“I’m happy to spot you some cash for that.”

“That’s not the point!” You groan, plopping yourself down beside him. “I don’t want your money, and if I’m gonna pay someone, I’d rather it be someone she knows.”

“Sweetheart, she doesn’t know who anyone is.”

“Well, she knows you.”

Eddie’s lip’s spread into a shit-eating grin, lolling his head to the side so you can bear witness to his smugness.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m her favorite.” Rolling your eyes, you heave your weary body down parallel to the metalhead. “Tell you what- I’ve got Tuesday off, so I'm on the first babysitting shift. Henderson can come around and help me, and I’ll be the judge on whether he’s ready to look after her on his own. Make sure he doesn’t let her chew on the electrical cords and whatnot. Deal?”

Intellectually, you know this is as good as it’s going to get, so you concede this battle.

“Fine. More electrical cords for you, then.”

Dimples settling deep into his smile lines at your quip, he turns his attention back to the attention-starved baby situated on his abdomen. He lazily maneuvers Audrey’s arms around like a tiny puppet, and you can’t help but smile at the show they’re putting on for you.

It’s hard not to study the way Eddie’s face subtly transforms when he looks at Audrey. Crow’s feet permanently plastered around his temple, lips pressed together so minutely that anyone could miss it. Like he’s bursting at the seams with adoration. Pulling your gaze away from his lips proves to be a mammoth task you have no interest in partaking in. There’s an air of tension between the two of you, existing as a fine mist like a cloud around you. Neither of you have addressed the kiss since it happened, so it’s been easy to chalk it up to an adrenaline-fueled urge. You need to tread carefully, just as Robin suggested. Prioritize yourself and Audrey before adding anything complicated into the mix. But you hope, underneath it all, it was something real. Right now, you’re happy to just exist in this moment, watching Eddie fussing with Audrey’s jumpsuit and squeezing her sides. It’s simpler like this.

-

Tuesday afternoon rolls around, and you’re a mess. Every intention was there of cleaning the trailer before the boys came over, but you’ve spent a good majority of the afternoon scooping out piles of clothes searching for your work vest. As you throw another handful aside, you momentarily wonder if Audrey has been buried under the ever-growing mountain on the bed. But, from the next room, you hear her happily cooing at nothing from her crib, likely vying for your attention post-nap. The hideous green vest makes itself known beneath an old floral dress, and you snatch it up greedily as if it could grow legs and run away from you. Sliding your arms into the vest, a knock rings out at the front door.

“It’s open!”

It’s unlikely that two elephants just entered the room, but with the excitement and shuffling between the two, one could be mistaken. Following the procession into the living room, Eddie and Dustin are unloading the contents of a plastic bag onto the cluttered kitchen bench.

“Hey, momma bear!” Dustin beams at you, quickly abandoning the joint activity to pull you into a tight hug. 

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Eddie’s tone is dripping in sarcasm, brushing aside a pile of unopened mail.

“Ha ha. Would’ve cleaned up but it took me ages to find this fucking thing.” Eddie glances over his shoulder at you, drinking in the image of you dressed in the ugliest green known to man.

“Got all dressed up for us? You shouldn’t have.” His hands dive into the bag, withdrawing assorted-sized Tupperware containers.

“What are you doing in there anyway?”

“Wayne had a pot-luck at work, dunno what he was thinking bringing home all these leftovers. Would rather them clogging up your fridge.” It’s kind of amazing how he can twist his kind gesture into an inconvenience for you. 

“You’ve still got the caterpillar I got for her!” Dustin’s voice draws your attention back to the living room, where he is standing over the crib. Dangling the colorful insect above Audrey, the sound of the beads jingle throughout the room, somewhat covering the noise of Eddie haphazardly shoving the containers into your small fridge.

“Of course, she loves it.” 

It strikes you now that Dustin hasn’t seen your daughter since the kids came to visit in the hospital. Against the nurses wishes, they broke the two-person limit to cram into the room, excitable faces peering down at your newborn daughter. Surrounded by so much love in her first days on Earth.

“She’s looking more like Steve now, don’t you think?” Dustin asks, dropping the toy onto the couch. A sad smile dances on the corners of your lips, crossing the room to stand next to the younger boy.

“Yeah, she is. She’s growing into her head, though. Or maybe it’s just covered in so much hair that it’s balancing out.” Habitually, you gently comb your fingers through her bed head, never tiring of the feeling of her soft skin against yours. Dustin, all the while, just watches completely awestruck. “You want to hold her?”

“Hell yeah!” He doesn’t miss a beat. His reaction is a stark contrast from when you first asked Eddie the same question, his enthusiasm causing you to grin.

“Here-” Cupping your hands beneath your squirming baby, you gingerly bring her up to Dustin’s awaiting arms. He quickly adjusts to distribute her weight comfortably, making sure to support her head. Robin must have been spitting facts out at him in preparation for this moment, and you beam with pride. “Look at you, you’re a natural!”

As if she’s got any sense of comedic timing, Audrey lets out a small squeal, as babies do. Dustin practically breaks into a cold sweat at this sudden noise, quickly pacing around and giving her a gentle rock.

“Shhh, it’s okay, Squid. Your Uncle Dustin’s here now.”

“Uncle Dustin?” Eddie re-enters, shrugging off his jacket, and you hate the way his ¾-sleeve shirt clings to his frame, highlighting the sinewy muscles of his forearms. Entirely too distracting.

“Yeah!” Dustin quips back. “Y’know, like we’re all her uncles and aunts now.”

“Sure, whatever you say, kiddo.” Eddie places his hand atop Dustin’s baseball cap, rolling it around like an arcade controller. “You got everything?”

Grabbing up your handbag, you shuffle through the contents in search of your wallet. 

“Yep, I think so. Shit, this is gonna be so weird. I haven’t gone this long without being with her since- like, before she was born.”

“And she’ll still be here when you get home. Just go and concentrate on making the big bucks.” Eddie gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze, settling the sea of emotions brewing in your stomach. Sure, it’ll only be a few hours but you’re going to miss her so much. Strolling over to Dustin, you give Audrey’s chubby cheek at least half a dozen kisses, eliciting a wide grin from her.

“And me?” Dustin’s playful smile spreads across his cheeks, which he presents for kisses. Obliging, you grab his face and press an obscenely loud squelching kiss to his skin, the wet kind grandparents give. He grimaces, realizing he can’t wipe it away with his hands full. You save him the pain and do the honors yourself, but not before giving his cheek a firm pinch. Eddie stands somewhat awkwardly, waiting for his farewell gesture.

“You play nice, okay? Let Dustin do the dirty work, and help if he needs it.” 

“Cross my heart, sweetheart.” 

Heart skipping a beat as you take a step closer to him, you catch a whiff of his woody aftershave before landing your lips on his cheek. As much as you’d love to linger, there is a teenager and baby present, and you’re running late for the closing shift.

“Stay out of trouble, kids!”

Two men and a baby. Alone in the trailer. Under any usual circumstances, they would be shitting themselves. But not these men. They’ve fought monsters. They’re changing diapers with confidence by the bucketful. Getting a bit of spit up on their shirt is nothing compared to the sludge and grime coating the Upside Down. Zero reservations or shame around doing what it takes to get Squid to crack a gummy smile. They’re loving every second of it. But it’s hungry work. And it’s everyone’s dinnertime, the last of the sunlight turning golden through the windows. 

The boys settle on a delectable takeout menu, consisting of shrimp fried rice and lemon chicken, courtesy of Dustin’s fresh babysitting payment. The succulent aroma fills the small living room, with the two boys scattered across the sofa. Squid, as it turns out, has zero interest in being put back in her crib as long as the boys are around. If she’s excluded from the fun, it’s hell to pay, every time. And so, Eddie resorted to bottle feeding her with one hand with her propped up to his chest, while shoveling rice into his own mouth with his other. A comfortable silence, bar the clattering of plastic utensils and low hum of the TV in the background.

“Gotta say, Henderson. I’m impressed.” Eddie awed, taking extra care not to let the piece of chicken balanced precariously between chopsticks land on Squid’s head. Marinade in her hair is the last thing he wants to deal with, and he wouldn’t know how to explain that one to you.

“You doubted my babysitting skills for a minute there? Ouch.”

“I’m just saying! Wasn’t sure you even knew how to change your own diaper.”

Dustin scrunches his nose up at the older boy, who relishes in his perfectly-landing insult. 

“Ha ha. Very funny. ‘M sure you’ve been getting in lots of practice, playing mommy and daddy.”

Eddie’s eyes narrow, a playful glint dancing in his dark-brown irises. 

“Is that what you think goes on over here?”

“I mean, it’s clear that you two have some serious chemistry-”

“We’re friends, dingus.” Eddie retorts.

 “- Add on top of that the fact you ransacked your own fridge to bring her dinners-”

“I told you, Wayne had a potluck.” 

“- not to mention you beating up the only other guy she’s gone on a date with since Steve.” 

The older boy scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah well, you would have too…”

There’s a strange silence between the pair, each picking around at their plastic containers of lukewarm takeaway. Dustin’s gaze lands on Squid, whose eyes are growing heavy as she gradually grows happily milk-drunk.

“I think it’s good.” He mumbles, sheepishly returning to his meal.

“You think what’s good?”

“You know, her-” Dustin points his fork in the infant’s direction. “-having someone like you around. I mean, my dad was never around so, I don’t know, just makes me happy to see kids with someone like that in their life. I think it makes a difference.”

Eddie snorts, traces of cynicism palpable.

“Yeah, not always.” As far as Eddie’s concerned, Wayne is practically his father. Not the deadbeat criminal he’s spent his life distancing himself from. Like a reptile shedding its skin, navigating the world raw and free from the binaries forced upon it. When you’ve been stuck in the middle of a situation like that, it’s not hard to gravitate towards people with similar upbringings. Which, of course, led him to Dustin, who has become something akin to an incredibly annoying younger brother that he happens to love to death. His adopted sheep, and Eddie proudly playing the role of the group’s shepard.

Squid, polishing off the remainder of her bottle, burbles contently in the crook of Eddie’s elbow. Abandoning his meal, he heaves her onto his shoulder as he has many times before, and begins patting her on the back. He can’t help but think how much she takes after you, you’re always most content after a big meal. Squid looks incredibly dopey, not too dissimilar to the crowds Eddie would see shuffling out of The Hideout late at night. All the while, Dustin watches him with a smug smile, looking entirely too-pleased with himself for the older boy to let it slide.

“What?” 

“Nothing!” Dustin quickly returns to his meal, the grin still playing on the corner of his mouth.

“Spit it out, or I’m making her spit up on you. I’ve got a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Dustin lets out an on-brand giggle, turning his attention back to the older boy.

“I was wrong. We’re all uncles and aunts, but you- you are daddy Eddie.”

“I will punch you, Henderson. And I’ll enjoy it.”

You return home long after the sun has gone down, face shiny with congealed sweat but a smile plastered on your face. A smile that only grows at the sight in the house. Dustin, heavy-lidded with an equally tired Audrey clinging to his chest like a baby sloth to its mother, all arms and limbs. Eddie recalls the way you pried her off his torso, a day of longing for your child finally drawing to a close. And the immense joy seeping from your pores at the connection with her, infecting the entire house and its inhabitants. A working mother. You felt useful. Confident. And completely fulfilled.

It stung Eddie’s skin like a rash, welting flesh until it was blistered and tender. He wished it didn’t. But the creature now occupying the recesses of his mind had no interest in pure moments, making itself known at the most inopportune times.

He said his goodbyes. Dropped Dustin home, smiling and nodding along as the younger boy recounted his successes with the baby, like changing diapers was his biggest triumph since fighting literal monsters. 

He meant to return straight home. But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

The moonlight bounces off the thin veil of the lake, calm from the clear night existing above him in the form of an uninterrupted sky. The only other sound being the occasional clattering of his empty beer bottles at his feet, glass meeting stone. Carbonated liquid trickling down his throat, doing little to inhibit the ferocious war waging internally.

He longed to grant himself the happiness you dish out so freely. Not only to yourself, but to everyone around you. He wanted to accept it. Hold it tight in firmly clenched hands and never let go. But it sits like an ice block, stinging his hands and dripping through his fingers every time. 

One word continuously pierced his ears over and over again through the quiet shore like white noise.

Daddy.

What the fuck.

An off-handed comment by Dustin, now stalking him like his own shadow. It disgusts him, how two syllables took his heart in a vice grip and hasn’t let go. As if it’s unlocked something deep within his soul, a purpose he never knew was accessible to someone like him.

Eddie doesn’t know the first thing about being a dad. The closest he’s ever gotten is petty crime, abandonment and cigarette burns on his prepubescent forearm. That’s the hand he was dealt, the masterclass he was given on what a father should look like. It shouldn’t matter regardless, if he knows how to burp a baby or not, because it’s not his place.

Not his role.

It never was.

Eddie scoffs to himself, how selfish it is that he’s indulged in the coulds for so long. But beyond that self-criticism sits temptation, seductive with its alternate narrative. In another universe, another lifetime, he could be Squid’s dad. He could hold her small hands in his own, as chubby, unstable legs find the unconditional support of the ground beneath her feet to take her first steps into the world. He could bring you and her to this very same lake, when the weather is warmer and the shore is filled with sun-kissed skin and beach balls. He could tighten the strap on her bucket hat, dipping her tentatively into the lukewarm reservoir, her first visit to a natural body of water. He could parrot words back to her babbling mouth for hours, clinging to the hope that her jumbled consonants miraculously form that word he loves. 

Or loathes. 

He’s not sure yet.

Ignorance is bliss, and Eddie has existed in a state of euphoria for so long that he’s not sure if he can go back to the pain of knowing. He’s tasted a life so far removed from anything he’s ever known, relished in its sweetness and left him wanting more. He’s never known how good it feels to be needed.

Not that you ever needed him, Eddie is perfectly aware of that. He’s never met anyone as strong as you, full to the brim with resilience. 

But he sees it. 

In glimpses. 

A low sigh as you attempt to fold laundry with one hand. A hopeful glint shot his way while the room fills with a putrid smell. Fleeting snores as you doze off on the couch, your baby happily staring up at her barnyard mobile. 

Moments of unspoken safety, because he’s there.

To lend a hand, skirting around the edges of your life in contented devotion. 

Needed.

Wanted.

He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about leaving. Heartache follows him like a specter, waiting for the perfect time to announce itself. The rational side of his brain screams out to go, get away before he gets hurt or worse, hurts you. Solitude is lonely, but at least it’s consistent. 

But he knows he never could, not willingly. To leave you, to leave Squid, would be a fate worse than death itself. That kind of heartache would consume him, destined to end up as his father did abandoning him all those years ago. 

He won’t.

He can’t.

The clock is ticking, and time is running out. With every trip Dustin makes to Hawkins Lab, returning not with answers, but with hope. Filthy, addictive hope. Every tick of the minute hand taunts him, echoing his inner sabateur’s monologue louder and louder. 

You’re gonna lose them.

Once Steve’s back, they’ll be gone.

And you’ll be nothing again.

Here’s the thing about babies. They grow. Fast. It seems every time you blink, Audrey is practically hulking out of another shirt. At this point, the only top she’s comfortably fitting into is the formerly-oversized gray one that appeared one morning in Eddie’s presence. She’s wearing the very same shirt as you push the stroller across the tiled floor of the thrift store, ready to pour your entire paycheck into a new wardrobe. They don’t have a huge selection in the way of baby clothes, but enough to get her by for a month or so. 

Trinkets line the walls of the intimate store, haunted-looking dolls peering down at Eddie and Robin. They’re looking at some of the smallest dresses you’ve ever seen, clearly thinking ahead to the impending warmer months. 

You’ve always loved thrift stores. The welcoming, musky smell that is so distinctive, a collective odor of multitudes of families. Well-loved utensils that have lived a thousand lives sitting patiently on steel shelves, ready to be passed onto the next person. Shoes of all different sizes and conditions, either outgrown or abandoned. It’s strangely comforting, you think. Even as you donated the tiniest of Audrey’s newborn onesies, the somber feeling morphing into peace as you think of the next baby to wear them, not yet known to the world. Always cyclical, give and take.

Finding your way down the knick-knack aisle, something at the end catches your eye. A wicker picnic basket, with delicate linen lining the interior. Leather straps secure two plates to the cover, along with some old utensils. The wicker on the outside is fraying, clearly from years of love. There’s something so innocent about it. From the cream fabric to the metal latch, it evokes memories of a childhood you never had. The kind of life you only see in films, perfectly manicured families sitting in green pastures on spring afternoons. 

A life that has always felt so far removed.

Until now.

A small smile creeps across your face as technicolor versions of the future cascade through your mind's eye.

“Oh good, you’ve found the pots and pans.” A sarcastic voice quips behind you. Eddie saunters up to your side, a finger dusting the shelves. “They’re not quite as good as drums, but Squid’s gotta start somewhere if she wants to make it.”

“Are you ever going to call her by her real name?”

“Sure, when she’s old enough to hate it.”

“You’re an idiot.” The metalhead chooses to ignore your remark, following your eye-line to the shelf.

“This is cute.” Eddie delicately picks up the basket from its home on the shelf to examine it closely. “Could double as a baby carrier. Put a few pillows in there, maybe take out the sharp objects and boom. State of the art baby-mobile”

You sigh. “I miss buying things just because they were fun.”

“I mean, it’s your money, so why don’t you?”

“Let’s call it a change in priorities.” Taking the basket out of Eddie’s grip, you place it back where it belongs. “How’d you and Robin go with the baby clothes?”

“Terrible. She hates everything I pick out, it’s all ‘put that down Eddie, she doesn’t need a tiny leather jacket’, or, ‘I don’t care that you’ve got matching sneakers to those ones, she’s got enough shoes’. Talk about a buzzkill.”

“My ears are burning.” Robin emerges with what appears to be the contents of the entire baby clothes rack stacked up in her arms. “Wanna come and help me sort through this?”

Eddie shoots you a look that can only be interpreted as ‘good luck’ before you trail off behind Robin, a mountain of second-hand clothes demanding your attention.

-

Whether it's the warming weather or your new routine, but you’ve found yourself with an extra spring in your step. One shift a week grows to two, then three. Your rotation of babysitters make themselves available at your beckoning call, each accepting a different form of payment. Dustin is happy with a couple of bucks to blow at the arcade, and maybe an R-rated film rented on your behalf. On the opposite end of the spectrum is Eddie, who refuses any form of payment outside of cuddles with Audrey. And Robin exists somewhere in the middle, not taking any monetary payment but will absolutely help herself whatever lives in your pantry. 

Audrey hits the twelve-week milestone before you know it, and it’s bittersweet in the best possible way. The newborn phase is drawing to a close, your tiny baby is now not-so tiny. She’s just discovered her hands, which is the most exciting thing in the world to her. Putting them to work by sucking her thumb or taking her toys in a vice grip, it’s amazing to watch her discover the world around her in a more tactile sense. And the kicking. Excited, chunky legs flailing wildly while she gazes up at you, reminding you of the sharp blows you’d receive to your bladder while pregnant. She’s growing, no longer a tiny frog curled up on your chest but a cheeky little human demanding to be seen. And demand she does. Trips to the grocery store have become an ordeal, with older ladies crowding around the stroller to peer in at Audrey. And she eats it up every time. All gummy grins and babbles, she knows how to work her charm. Definitely got that from Steve. 

Weekends are reserved for the pair of you, and when Saturday rolls around, you’re ready for some mother-daughter time. A quiet day was planned, a walk around the neighborhood followed by some ice-cream and then ringing around to the usual suspects for a makeshift-family dinner. It’s been a long time since you felt this happy, this fulfilled. A tiny cheerleader now lives in the back of your head, reverberating shouts of ‘you can do this!’. Little things hold much more weight now, like how you’ve dressed Audrey in a summer dress similar to one that’s been living in your bottom drawer for years before adorning the old garment yourself. She was occupied with staring at her fingers for most of the morning, leaving you to do your makeup in peace. With your matching dresses on, hair brushed and a milk-drunk baby in your arms, the pair of you are ready to take on the day.

Until you hear a familiar knock at the door.

Swinging it open, you find Eddie equally dressed for the spring weather. A cut off singlet allows for his tattoos to be on full display, contrasting against the un-sunkissed skin of his forearms. He drinks the two of you in, a grin spreading across his face.

“Aren’t you two a pretty little picture?” He gives you a final once-over before pulling you in for a hug.

“What’re you doing home? I thought you were working the Saturday shift.”

In the time it took you to form those two sentences, Eddie has robbed the baby from your arms. Not that Audrey was complaining, her hands greedily grabbing at his face for whatever she could reach. Her smile only grows wider as he takes a mock bite out of her hand, causing her to erupt with a ballad of giggles.

“On a beautiful day like this?! Not a chance.” Audrey manages to grab a good fistful of Eddie’s hair. “Just thought I’d- ow, come and visit my favorite girls.”

Cheeks flushing at his choice words, you’re grateful for your daughter’s distraction to keep the metalhead from seeing your giddy expression.

“If you say so. We were about to go for a walk. Wanna come with us?” You drag Audrey’s baby bag from its home beside the front door and hoist it onto your shoulder.

Freeing his curls from Audrey’s grasp, he gives her fist a sprinkling of kisses. She thanks him by smacking her palm down on his nose with as much force as she can muster.

“Actually-“ His tone is uncharacteristically bashful. “- I uh, sort of had a surprise planned. You up for an adventure?”

Eddie Munson has a baby seat in his van.

You’re not entirely sure how or when it appeared, but it now lives as a piece of decor along with the metal cassettes and fast-food wrappers. And even more out of place is Audrey, all smiles in her summer dress against the dim and worn interior. Her energy knows no bounds when she’s awake, legs kicking excitedly to the tune of Iron Maiden coming from the car’s stereo while Eddie smiles at her through the rear-view mirror.

Looks like someone is a little metalhead in there.

Eddie may have been right, after all (unfortunately). Casting your mind back to that sunny afternoon post-ultrasound, the two of you with bellies full of greasy burgers. Singing at the top of your lungs, the way Eddie swerved off the road at the false signal of distress. That was the first time Audrey kicked. And now, here she is, jumping around in her seat to heavy metal like it’s a nursery rhyme. Nothing has changed.

Through the window, you watch as the landscape of Hawkins changes from metropolitan streets to grassy pastures, further out than you’ve ever been before. Expanses of green rolling hills take shape while the van clutters along the asphalt, sunlight trickling through the brush of trees lining the road.

“Nearly there, I promise.” Like a mindreader, Eddie answers the question before it’s had the chance to leave your lips.

“This looks like the perfect place to hide a body, you know.” You joke, noting the total lack of human presence surrounding you.

“Still think I’m gonna make you a human sacrifice?”

“Not if I get the chance first, pal.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Eddie smiles, eyes still locked on the road. As the car reaches the peak of the hill, he pulls off the road onto a dirt path, the wheels kicking up a myriad of pebbles along the way. Bringing it to a halt, he turns off the engine and swings his door open.

“Stay here.” A giddy smile is plastered on his face as he closes the door behind him, a scuffle of shoes on the dusty ground outside can be heard. The sound of metal doors swings open as Eddie yanks something out of the back and then disappears. A few minutes pass, and Audrey begins growing cranky due to the lack of heavy metal in the vehicle. Gingerly, you reach over and unclip her from the car seat to pull her into your lap.

“What’s he doing out there, huh?” Pulling her up to eye level, you watch as a steady stream of drool trickles down her chin. “He’s been telling you secrets, I know it. C’mon, spill the beans, Miss.”

Audrey replies by shoving her fist into her mouth, an indication of her oath of silence. The passenger door flings open, and an out-of-breath Eddie grins at you.

“All ready.”

Propping Audrey onto your shoulder, you swing your legs out of the vehicle and follow Eddie. He leads you to the back of the van, and your breath catches at the image before you.

From here, you can see the entirety of Hawkins, a model town existing in the distance. The grass spread out before you is soft, untouched by human activity, a hidden nook only known to a few people. The scattering of trees part for a perfect view of the landscape, so picture perfect as if a cinematographer had framed it up just for this moment. And sitting in the middle of the plush grass, is the blanket from the back of Eddie’s van. The edges are smoothed down, with half a dozen pillows skirting around the border and Audrey’s baby bag placed to the side. As you approach, you can make out the object placed in the center.

The picnic basket from the thrift store.

“Oh my god…” Your voice trails off, heart swelling to double its normal size at the gesture.

“Pretty sweet, hey?” Eddie grins proudly, hands on his hips as he admires his handiwork. “I went back the next day and got it for you, thought you deserved to have something fun.”

Eddie takes Audrey from your arms in your awed-state, holding her like a teddy bear, front facing to the world. “C’mon, grab a seat.” 

As if in a trance, you follow him to the blanket and take a seat beside him on one of the pillows. Eddie places Audrey in his lap, who is already trying to beat you to open the basket with greedy hands. He reaches over and swings the lid open, beginning to unload the goodies inside. Two cans of soda are placed on the makeshift picnic rug, followed by a punnet of ruby-red strawberries and some biscuits. 

“And…” Tucked into the corner, Eddie retrieves a small disposable film camera. “Cool, huh? Jonathan had it lying around and gave it to me, maybe you might want some new pictures taken. Now she's chunking up a bit and growing into her skull.”

He hands you the camera, and takes to rummaging through the baby bag for something to keep Audrey occupied. The plastic on the camera is flimsy, likely something bought from a corner store, a cheap means to an end. But you love it. You love all of it. Peering down the viewfinder, the world contorts beautifully through the glass, streaks of light fracturing across the landscape. Turning in the direction of Eddie, you watch as he hands Audrey a brightly-colored baby rattle with a grin. Clicking down, you capture your first image on the fresh roll of film with a whirr.

“Woah, don’t waste the pictures on me, sweetheart. This is for you.” 

Thoughtful doesn’t begin to cut it. You understand what he’s saying, he wants you to have pictures of the pair of you together to look back on. Images to fill photo albums, documenting Audrey’s life from day one. But, to you, it’s more important to immortalize the people you love, loving her. 

Pointing the camera at them one again, you give Audrey’s leg a tickle to draw her attention in your direction.

“Say cheese!” 

Rolling his eyes, Eddie lifts Audrey up off his lap, holding her like a trophy. She squeals with delight as Eddie grins to the camera, another click goes off. As you roll the film over, Eddie repositions Audrey on his thigh while he opens a soda can with his spare hand.

“Dig in. Got the best the supermarket has to offer, I wasn’t sure what kind of snacks you bring on a picnic…”

“No, it’s- it’s perfect, Eddie.” Your gaze returns to the landscape, breeze brushing through overgrown weeds springing up through the soil. “I don’t remember the last time I went on a picnic.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been on one, so just let me know if I’ve totally screwed everything up.”

You chuckle, in no position to criticize this kind gesture. “How did you find this place?”

Eddie takes a sip of his soda before placing it down beside him, retrieving the rattle that Audrey had impulsively thrown an arm’s length away onto the rug.

“I used to come up here a bit when I was younger. Y’know, when things sucked at home. I’d bring a few beers, blast some music and just unwind. It’s nice, no one ever comes up here.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know there was somewhere as peaceful as this in Hawkins. Thought chaos came with the territory.” 

“You can say that again. I mean, even before the whole Upside Down shit, this place was hardly paradise.” Eddie tries to pry the toy from Audrey’s grasp unsuccessfully, stubborn fingers remaining firmly wrapped around the rattle.

Popping open the lid, you grab out a strawberry and pop it into your mouth. Without Robin’s insistence, you wouldn’t ever have fresh fruit in the house. So the sensation of sweet tanginess on your tastebuds is an indulgence you rarely grant yourself. 

“Can I ask…” You pause, choosing your next words carefully. The topic of Eddie’s family history had never come up, but something compels you to dig regardless. “You said ‘when things sucked at home’, what was that usually about?”

Eddie scoffs, averting his gaze to the horizon for a beat.

“Most of the time it’d be when my dad came back. He was in and out of jail a lot, usually petty stuff getting him locked up for a year or so at a time. There’d be a month or two in between - before he went and did something else stupid - where he’d come back. Trying to make amends and all that shit. And it just-” His nose scrunches up at the thought. “- it just kills you after a while. All these empty promises and nothing to show for it. I had Wayne, so as far as I was concerned, I didn’t need him. So I’d book it as soon as I heard his car pull up in the driveway.”

His honesty hangs in the air, dense with suppressed emotion.

“I’m sorry about that, Eddie.” 

Shaking his head, he distracts himself by wiping the drool from Audrey’s chin.

“It’s fine. I think the worst thing is the aftermath. Like, once the grenade went off there was still shrapnel everywhere. People around town knew what kind of guy my dad was, so it was easy for them to make assumptions about me, too. Call me a screw-up, just like him. For a while, I just went with it. Y’know, if no one expected anything from me, I might as well live up to the Munson name.”

Your gaze doesn’t break from him, patiently giving him the time he needs without rush or pressure. Holding the space for him until he feels ready to continue.

“But then, uh- last year happened. The whole thing with Chrissy-” His chest rises with a sharp intake of breath. “- and it felt like I was back to square one. That’s not the kind of thing you can shake easily.”

“You know the truth, Eddie, and that’s what's important.”

“Yeah.” He replies, a hint of sadness to his tone. “I wish it were that simple. I don’t think there’s anything I could do to change what the people in this town think of me. It just follows me everywhere. Sometimes, I think- I dunno…”

“You think what?”

Eddie takes a moment to sip from his soda can, mindlessly drumming his rings against the metal can.

“I think it’d just be easier to go.”

“Like, move away?”

“Yeah. Y’know, a fresh start, all that shit. Somewhere where people don’t know my name, try to, like, make something of myself.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Your stomach feels heavy, awaiting his answer. He deserves that, a clean slate away from all the rumors and assumptions. But selfishly, you’re not sure if you could handle that.

The cogs are turning in Eddie’s head, willing away the truth mindlessly spilling from his lips. Emotional availability doesn’t come easily for him, and you hope you haven’t pushed him too far.

“You want an honest answer?”

“Of course.”

Eddie discards his drink to the side, taking to fidgeting with the cotton dress Audrey is wearing. The silence feels eternal, you’re hanging onto his every word. The breeze feels more pronounced against your skin, pollen dancing through the air creating an all-too nostalgic atmosphere of spring’s past.

“Because of you.” Gaze finally meeting yours, the chocolate brown of his eyes swimming in vulnerability. His lips purse together, likely chewing on the tender flesh of his mouth to quell his feeling of total exposure. “I uh- I remember when I was walking back home, the night it all happened. And I felt- fuck, like my life was over. Done for. There was nothing to go back to, anyway. I had no idea what to do with myself, I couldn’t bring myself to the trailer yet. And then I came to see you and you- you were so broken.”

A mistrusted exhale brings a swelling of unwanted tears to your eyes, wishing them away immediately. But the visceral reminder of that night transports you back instantly, scabbed over wounds suddenly bursting open with fresh pain.

“So, I just thought, ‘right, if you can’t be strong for yourself, be strong for her’. So I did, or I tried to. I sort of went on autopilot for a while, and I knew I should have felt grateful for what Hopper did, but it just felt like so much nothing. It didn’t fix anything, I just… And then I went into Family Video that day, and that’s when I found out about Squid. And, shit- it’s hard to explain, but it just felt like hope, y’know? Like something beautiful to come out of this shitstorm. And I just felt like- like I needed to protect that. I didn’t want to lose that feeling. I couldn’t…”

At this point, you’re making no effort to conceal the steady stream of tears cascading down your cheeks. All you can bring yourself to do is to shuffle in a little bit closer to him. 

“Eddie…” Your voice is barely more than a whisper.

“You know how I hate you thanking me for shit? Yeah, it’s not because I feel like I’m doing you a huge favor or something. It’s because I should be the one thanking you. For a while, I felt like I was gonna spiral out of control. Like all the gravity had disappeared and I was just going to spin into oblivion. But you- you kind of gave me a purpose again, in a weird way. Just a reason to get up every morning and do better than the day before. For you, and for this little hellraiser.”

Eddie’s composure is wavering, but far stronger than your veil which has begun pooling around your ankles.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is- is that I get what it feels like. To just feel totally fucking alone, like it’s you against the world.” Eddie chuckles, remembering how it literally was him against the world in the Upside Down. “And I’m just grateful that you’d want me to be in your life, Squid’s, too. So, yeah. Safe to say, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here as long as you’re willing to have me.”

He shoots you a sheepish smile before brushing a stray hair off Audrey’s forehead. The pads of his fingertips dancing across her skin while she tries to fit the entire toy into her greedy mouth.

It’s as if someone has switched off the world. Like a child digging beneath their doll’s clothing for the on/off button, rendering time in a complete pause. The distant noise of cars and bustling life dulls, muffled by the glass casing delicately placed down around the picnic rug. Three tiny bugs encapsulated under a perfectly sized dome, nothing else existing beyond the parameters of their new world.  A fragile environment, maintained only by its inhabitants. So delicate.

Your limbs gravitate towards Eddie before your brain has the chance to catch up. Driven by sheer desire for closeness, to extend comfort to the man beside you, hard exterior all but dissolved. Quivering fingers find his cheek, prickly with day-old stubble. Your thumb caresses the rough surface, so warm. So comforting. 

“You care about us that much?” It comes out as a sigh, heart pumping blood through your veins in double time. 

Eddie stills, the tendon in his jaw clenching as he chokes back the cascade of emotions threatening to erupt. His palm snaked its way across your hand on his cheek, clasping it before pressing it to his lips.

“I care about you so fucking much.” He mumbles against your skin.

Seven words spoken so softly, yet they silence your whole universe. Perhaps you should say something in return. Utter his two least favorite words, barely grazing the surface of your gratitude, your loyalty. But no sentence could hold enough weight to articulate how you feel about him right now. It’s beyond vocalization, any attempt would be completely unjust in doing service to this man. What exists between the pair of you is intrinsic in nature, a harmonious dance of understanding. Care beyond anything you’ve experienced. Dare you say, even more than you experienced with Steve. It’s scary, completely disarming. Vulnerability at the forefront of your heart, with no threat of a piercing blow. Open. Unguarded. Instead, you press your forehead to Eddie’s and allow the dam to run dry. Filled to the brim with affection, it needs to be purged. It demands to be felt, as terrifying as it may be. Hot tears fall heavily, half a dozen making themselves known before Eddie’s thumb meets your tear troughs with a delicate brush. The two of you remain wordless, Audrey still babbling contendly in Eddie’s lap. He holds you. You hold him. And that’s enough.

“Can I…” Eddie’s voice is meek, lowly held in the base of his throat. Uncertain. Eyes locking with his, your walls completely drop as you coerce the remainder of his sentence out. “... can I kiss you?”

A small nod of your head is all it takes. The minute distance between you is closed with a ghosting of breath dancing across your lips. It’s deliberate, how his lips consume yours with total tenderness, a complete absence of the unadulterated neediness of your last embrace. Slow. Direct. Subconsciously held muscles in your shoulder relax as you sink into the rosy sanctuary, fingers brushing their way to the nape of his neck. The sugary-sweet soda still lingers on his supple lips, the taste making itself known on your tongue as it finds its way through your parted mouth. The tip of your tongue brushes against his nerve endings, his hand finding its way to your waist with earnestness. Yet another exposing layer is shed with this new contact. You know your body is not the same as it used to be. Firm skin and taut muscles softened and stretched to make way for a growing baby, a shell of its former self. An area of insecurity, now being explored in the most intimate of ways. Eddie’s fingers press into the fabric of your dress, kneading the soft skin beneath. Without judgment, as if every inch of your body is sheer perfection. Designed to be discovered and worshiped. The sigh choking up in your throat is indecipherable, a manifestation of your physical refuge. Eddie tugs you closer, thumb caressing the seam of your dress comfortingly. And it’s so much more than enough. 

Would it be too much to ask to remain here forever? To indulge in the luxury of his lips eternally?

Audrey thinks not. Fed up with the lack of attention, she hurls the rattle across the length of the rug with Herculean strength, the clattering enough to pull you back to reality. Breaking apart, your faces remain an inch from one another, a smile playing on each of your lips. Collectively, you erupt in a fit of laughter at your daughter’s antics, glancing down at her. Greedily, Eddie steals one more kiss from the corner of your mouth before hoisting Audrey up to eye level.

“Sorry, little Miss. Didn’t mean to leave you out.” He pulls her in and lands a few firm kisses on her plush cheek, satiating her. “Now, how do you feel about Uncle Dustin keeping you company next week so your mom and I can spend some alone time together? Maybe hit up a bar or something- adults only, I’m afraid. It’s nothing personal, I promise.”

Brows furrowing together, you try to play off the giddy smile announcing itself on the corners of your lips. “You mean… like a date?”

“Yeah.” Eddie’s attention turns back to you, repositioning Audrey comfortably in his lap. “But, like- no pressure, of course. Only if- if you wanted to.”

It’s adorable, how he can parkour so quickly between confidence and total shyness, the latter now taking over. 

“Yeah, I do.”

——Then——

In the beginning…

It was January 31st, 1988, and Wayne had come in to check on him again. And maybe he had a reason to when Eddie continued to stare at the pockmarked ceiling, dressed in the same clothes as three days prior, laying on the same bedsheets last washed by well-meaning, pre-aged, liver-spotted, wrinkled hands gnarled from factory work after being tanned on a big rig’s steering wheel for decades.

No music played from the stereo record player; The Doors still sat with the album art turned, stopped mid-spin. The paperback on the nightstand remained unfinished, its dog-eared page trapped as a placeholder from New Year’s Eve. Dust and cigarette ash clung to the room as if saving it in a time capsule of the morning he was arrested, and any movement would disturb the illusion.

“Eddie?” Wayne called out to him with his Free name; one that shouldn’t hold a stigma, because Eddie was a free man, wasn’t he? He was innocent. Even if they hadn’t caught the other guy yet. “You okay if I go?”

Tracing the bumpy lines of the most recent tattoo on his stomach, he answered, “Yeah, I’m fine,” and his uncle breathed as he usually did when he was wringing his mouth with indecision.

Wayne twisted the doorknob, uncertain. “If you’re sure.. And, uh, I’ll stop by the hardware store and pick up somethin’ for the spray paint on the trailer if the cookin’ oil trick doesn’t work, don’t you worry about it.”

Whatever rude thing someone wrote this time, Eddie hadn’t gone outside in days to know.

After a long silence, Wayne cleared his throat and gave a gruff, “I’ll see ya after work,” and left, as foretold by his rackety truck fading further into the night, and the deadness of winter taking over. A staleness of midnight inactivity in the crisp air invading the guitars and amps and magazines Eddie never touched anymore; the ceramic of his bedside lamp, the model car next to his lighter, the binders stacked on his desk with a pencil he hadn’t sharpened since it broke six weeks ago. He didn't get much relief from his routine of ignoring, shutting down, isolating, and desperately trying to get tears to form when he had none left to give, so he wept agape and dry, spiraling downward.

The phone rang.

He wasn’t going to answer—he hadn’t since December unless under obligation—but in case it was Wayne, he did.

“Hello?” The other end of the line was equally hesitant to answer his unrecognizable voice, gone hoarse from disuse. “Hello?” he repeated.

“Eddie?” A beat. “I guess I’ll get this over with. Look, uh, do you remember selling to a girl at Brad’s party a couple months back? Not the Halloween one,” they said, definitely a young woman’s voice, but with each word spoken she lost her fluttery nervous edge and replaced it with a direct tone, leaving no time for him to dawdle.

He hurled his mind into searching his memories before the ones made in the weeks prior, only grazing past the details which haunted him, and registering the question he was asked. “Uh, yeah, yeah I think so. Ah, Sarah? Something generic like that. Sold to her a couple times before. Why?”

Her severe silence loaded the chamber. His forthcoming nature pulled the trigger, never learning when to shut his mouth and keep information to himself. There was no telling who he was speaking to, or what happened to the girl he sold to, or why he was the subject of interest. His stomach clenched in knots at the whiff of gunpowder. He was too relaxed at the prospect of a normal conversation. He said too much. It was happening again. The police sirens would wail any minute now. Whatever happened to Sarah—or whoever—was bad, and he incriminated himself. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

But it was her next words that fired the shot. Rang in his ears. And he knew then, as the cold sweat took over his body and bile stung his throat quicker than his heart leapt black spots to his vision, life as he knew it was over.

“I’m pregnant, and it’s yours.”

————

In the beginning…

It was March 7th, 1988, and Eddie walked out.

It was better than listening to Wayne blame himself for not doing enough, or being involved enough, or whateverthefuck he was saying about failing Eddie, because soon those judgments would turn into nags about how Eddie’s irresponsibility got himself into this mess, and those arguments would become shouting matches about his lack of preparedness for raising a baby, and Eddie would end the fight with his fist through the hallway closet door, where his piece of shit father’s jacket swung on the hanger and fell to the floor.

Following the Munson name.

————

In the beginning…

It was April 29th, 1988, and Eddie left his motel room to drive forty-five minutes outside of Hawkins to sit across from a woman in a dimly lit restaurant with her hand laid atop her round belly, and his cold chicken alfredo. The cheese in his oval shaped dish had coagulated, but he wasn’t hungry anyway.

The entire time his mouth ran sentences, he kept his gaze focused on a crumb dirtying the white tablecloth as the candle flickered shadows through their untouched water glasses. Yet, his tone remained animated and optimistic, though a bit hollow. “—So, uh, with the money from workin’ at the gas station, and what I have saved from that graveyard shift I picked up at the laundromat, I can afford the crib no problem. Maybe you could, ah, come with me to pick it out! I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be looking for, but whatever you want, you got it. And—And I’ll start stocking up on diapers, and stuff. Y’know, different sizes. Some clothes. Could even get a nice baby blanket, or somethin’. I guess cribs have those teeny mattresses, so we’ll need sheets for that, too. Um, one of those, y’know, things that hangs over it and spins, puts them to sleep.” His lips hinted at his first smile in weeks at his dumb explanation for a mobile. “And with your job, you have health insurance, don’t you? That’ll.. That’ll really help us out,” he emphasized by bugging his eyes, and nodding. “There’s a position open at an auto shop in town that I’m gonna apply for, but I don’t think insurance will kick in until I work there for a certain number of days. Sucks, but it’s decent money. Better than what I make now, anyway. Um..” Thinking, he sorted through his plan for the future in his head, making sure he didn’t forget anything important—

That’s when he made the mistake of looking up, and a different type of heartache wrung his chest.

Indifference powdered her shimmery beige eyelids, darkening to smoky apathy at the outer corners with a touch of heavy mascara weighing her eyes half-closed. She appeared bored—he wished she appeared bored—but in the eternity he glanced at her, she resembled a loaded chamber moments from cutting him off.

Continuing, he said, “I can also handle the small stuff like bottles, and bibs, and pacifiers. Depending on how much the crib is, I can probably swing the carseat too, just gotta sell my other guitar, and—”

“Eddie,” she stated. He winced.

There was no trace of his smile left on his lips; trembling and licking at the sore metallic-tasting spot he bit out of habit. The first sign of rejection welled behind his eyes. A sense of shame clogged his throat, but he tried, “Are people still bothering you about me?” he asked, so meek and defeated.

Her words were a merciless killing, “Does it matter?” He shrugged, running the side of his hand along the table’s edge, concentrating on the crumb. “And don’t bother buying anything.”

“Why not?” he faltered. “I’m not gonna be some deadbeat who doesn’t provide, okay? I’m good on my word.”

“You know why.”

The cruelty, the truth he denied, struck him.

“You don’t want to try?” His voice went watery, and the candles swam in his vision. “We’re having a baby together, and you don’t want to try and work something out between us?” There was a reason he avoided addressing where the crib would go, or what the arrangement was after coming home from the hospital. In the first few calls they had, she seemed interested when he rattled off the list of cheap apartments he found around Hawkins scribbled into his notebook, and when he lightened the bleak mood with a joke, she laughed, sort of.

Though, he was always the one to call her, and her answers were refined to short words such as yeah, or no. And she did pick up the phone less often, but she was busy with University or her career or there was a family thing that had come up or she was just headed out the door, so he stuck with planning their future by himself, aware of the ugly reality twisting his stomach with dread.

Maybe he was being naive, but he thought she’d come around by now. See how responsible he was being, and maybe.. maybe..

“I’m not interested,” she dismissed him in monotonously stern frankness.

“I thought you said you liked me,” he reminded her, on the verge of something pathetic, “at the party.”

The corner of her jaw twitched from an emotion she ground between her teeth.

That was the final straw.

She swung her gaze around the restaurant, releasing a hard sigh of frustration, and shaking her head. Dropping her hand to the bottom of her belly, she leaned forward, and eviscerated any hope he had for them being together. “I’m not interested,” she hissed under the susurration of nearby tables, “in raising a baby with someone whose reputation is for giving girls discounts when they flirt with him.”

Eddie shrunk into himself, not expecting the hit below the belt.

“You’re just the loser dealer that all the guys send their girls to because they know you’re too lonely to turn them down. I wish I stuck with flirting, because let me tell you, having a couple of smarties to get me through last semester wasn’t fucking worth it.” She motioned at her stomach, he assumed. “I almost missed my finals because I couldn’t stop puking.”

Fat drops wobbled his vision. Anxious sweat from holding his breath prickled his hot face. His knuckles hurt from clacking them against one another, punching bone-on-bone in his lap to distract himself from letting the venom win. Biting impressions of his teeth into tongue from the weight of his one chance at normalcy slipping through his fingers.

The ache of deep-seated rejection stung worse, built worse, escalated worse with every heartbeat echoing in his head: not even someone who’s having your kid wants to be with you.

Chairs skid across the tiles behind him, and a family stood to leave. Eddie faced the stained glass window as they passed, pretending to admire the intricate details while warm tears spilled over the dam, and onto his cheeks in steady drops like rain. Drip, drop, drip, drop..

Embarrassment, failure, freak..

Even before he was wrongfully arrested, his reputation was trash.

Pathetic loser not good enough for his dad, his uncle. Can’t pass fucking high school, or get a girl to stick around for more than a few weeks; just long enough to feel the safety of attachment, learn their likes and dislikes, what their favorite flowers were, and then they’d leave too..

“Doesn’t matter,” she exhaled. One, two—she took two calming breaths through her nose while his was running, and he was trying to not sniffle through the grossness of crying.

Composed and diplomatic, she sat up, smoothed the buttons of her burgundy maternity blouse stretched across her swollen middle, and informed him “I’m giving her up for adoption.”

Eddie froze.

Her.

Tiny tines of salad forks ceased clinking on plates. Silly dull knives unworthy of much else sank into whipped butter, and stopped. Pretty laughter faded, leaving red lipstick kisses staining the rims of wine glasses.

Her.

He froze. A strange cliche to explain how his body reacted. How his heart pounded, and tears splashed onto his clenched fists. How his brain latched onto one word, one word only, and the blood drained from his cheeks to pool liquid rage in his empty belly. How his temper surged like a wave, and crashed, again and again on the shore of fate. How he was thinking sharper, seeing clearer, smelling the raw flame of the candle being snuffed out from his sudden movement.

The tableware rattled when he planted his elbow next to his forgotten dinner, and pointed a stern finger at her stomach. “That’s my daughter, and you will not—”

“C’mon, Ed—”

“No,” he cut her off. He didn’t give a damn if another tear rolled from his wide eyes when he said it, he put conviction behind his voice even when it cracked, “That’s my daughter, and you are not giving her up for adoption.”

“Be serious,” she spat back. “You don’t have the means to take care of a baby. I’m doing this as a favor for the both of us. Mostly for you.”

Eddie sucked his bottom lip inward and chewed the flesh. Shivers of indignation trembled his body, and his nostrils flared from the absolute power he invoked to rein his voice from the snap, bite, snarl his upper lip suggested. “I don’t care what you think is best,” he maintained through the viscous tar coating his refusal in the abhorrence she deserved. “That baby.. She’s mine.” He nodded until the motion was ingrained, and her expression changed. Pointing to himself, now. “She’s mine, and I want her.”

There wasn’t much thought put behind his decision. It was done. It was innate. It was automatic, and her soft warning—”You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,”—was as heeded as the candle’s flame.

He paid for the date. It cost five hours of his minimum wage. That was all his money. He was hungry when he got back to his shitty motel; opening the door to darkness, and a suitcase of dirty clothes he’d need to sort before going to work at the gas station at the edge of town where his boss cut his hours last week because it was making customers uncomfortable to see a criminal serve them at the till, and a new sound replaced the ding of the cash register: loser, loser, loser..

Already, he couldn’t afford diapers.

Already, he failed.

Already, he was worthless.

Already, he was alone.

Not even the woman he was having a baby with wanted to be with him.

——Now——

Eddie hung up the phone, and you watched his shoulders rise and fall for long moments, listening to the rain pattern shift above. The storm spilled its sorrows on the tin roof, uncaring if the structure could handle the stress of another trial when it was weak and susceptible. It poured, and poured. Ruthless. Vicious and brutal as nature could be, targeting the vulnerable and strong alike.

His back broadened with a breath, and finally, he dropped his hand from the yellowed plastic, staring at the dial pad as his arm went limp at his side. Absorbed by his thoughts as the old night rolled into another low growl of thunder, and whatever was on his mind reflected heavily in his vacant appearance.

“Ed?” You waited for him with a kind lift to your brows, but as soon as his glance landed, your chest tightened.

The emotion in Eddie’s eyes was heavily guarded, communicating little as to what caused the tenseness in his jaw when he averted his gaze to the floor, walking fast and purposefully away from you standing half-dressed in his kitchen, and stopping at the front door with his head down. Going through the motions of buttoning his pants, and buckling his belt, rigid and rough, snapping the leather against itself.

“Is Adrie okay?” you asked, voice coming out painfully shallow, like when you were using it to diffuse a customer service issue with the breeze of happiness and a plastered smile.

Leaned over, he shoved his feet into his boots, and began lacing. “She’s fine.”

Blunt, and closed off. Not like your Eddie from an hour ago. And you didn’t know how to navigate asking him what was wrong, and easing him into opening up to you, coaxing him back to that place of union and understanding.

Left feeling confused, you gleaned that this wasn’t the time to bother him about it, and mumbled, “Okay,” and assumed the rest. You dragged the whispery ends of the blanket across the floor, and picked your sweater off the carpet, having that particular sense of embarrassment as if you’d missed a cue, and should’ve read the room sooner, and been clothed and leaving without him asking.

You dressed in silence, doing up the buttons on the cardigan he so skillfully slipped you out of. Treading over linoleum to wash the evening off your hands and mouth. Making yourself small to fit next to him in the entryway, and putting on your shoes in a state of quiet obedience, missing the warmth of his hands and the comfort of his lovesick grin. Wilting under the coldness of his attitude, and wanting nothing more than to reach out, and soothe that bit of regret knotted between his eyebrows.

He regarded the exposed skin of your upper chest, and handed you his black hoodie from where it hung next to his canvas work jacket. “Here.”

Here wasn’t much of a break in the distance he resurrected between you, but you pulled the heavy scent of cigarettes and cologne over your head, and he almost found himself braving eye contact to tell you, “I’m dropping you off first.”

“What? No,” you blurted, “I’m going with you to pick her up. She’s just scared of thunderstorms, right? No big deal, you can drop me off after.” Which seemed like the right thing to say; that you were fine with Adrie crying, but when he set his gaze on you, a small image of yourself swam in his endless pupils, and your stomach clenched at the animal warning in his unbreakable stare.

Eddie shook his head an imperceptible amount, only enough to loosen the curtain of curls tucked beneath his jacket’s collar, and shift the lamp’s glare at the edge of his bitter coffee eyes. It was a threat to back off. Leave well enough alone. Stop encroaching on the parts of his life he hid, and keep the illusion intact.

“I wanna go,” you assured gently.

However, your support fell short when challenged against the aggressive shine swallowing you whole. He looked at you. Really looked at you with the same intensity as when his hands were on your hips and you rocked yourself in his lap, chests flush together with a lazy prayer of your name on his tongue; when nothing mattered more than honoring each other with lips and teeth, tasting sweat on necks and sucking bruises until moans were spilled from heads thrown back. But instead of unraveling you in shocks of pleasure, the ignorance of your child-free lifestyle softened the harsh lines of his face, and slowly, slowly, the shine dulled. The fight left him.

He saved his apology until his back was turned, and the squeaky doorknob gave under his heavy palm—turning it with too much force—and he cracked open the world beyond the two of you, dousing the lingering tenderness of your affection on his skin with frigid mist. “Sorry tonight ended this way.” The door banged open on the rusted iron handrail, caught on a gust.

The trailer park was bright with daylight. Flash, after flash.

Eddie’s silhouette eclipsed the doorway, outlined in lightning. He stood impossibly taller—like the animal threat still lurked within his structure, and caution stayed within your subconscious, altering how you perceived his lanky frame into something more imposing. His shoulders carried many burdens, bulked from five years of hard labor, possessing strengths you couldn’t imagine. He stepped to the side, insisting the door stay open with the spread of five fingers only, and his body no longer shielded you. You were exposed to the cold splash of rain on your shins. His palm was firm at your lower back, and you peered up at the hard set of his jaw feathering the muscle at the corner, sweeping the bone in a mature edge of stubble. Strands of his frizzy hair whipped in the wind. Droplets speckled his nose like freckles. His gaze, anchored on his car through the downpour, brewed with resentment.

His deep timber resonated in your chest beneath the safety of his hoodie, “Car door’s open, I’ll lock up behind you.”

And you were pushed.

Beaten down to a hunch, you took careful strides in your heeled shoes down the concrete steps and into the soft mud, covering your head as best you could from the cloud’s assault, and flinching at the closeness of the strikes darting around the boundary of treetops surrounding the trailer park. You tried the handle, and the car welcomed you into its dry insides. Guilt followed your tracks of caked on mud, leaves, and dead weeds on his nice red interior, but when you shivered to the bone, you didn’t care as much. Curled in on yourself, you spied Eddie’s vague shape through the waterfall blurring the windshield, and listened to his heavy boots trudge up to the door, and soon, the car sank with his weight too.

The engine roared to life. Heat wouldn’t come from the tiny AC units for some time, but the promise of such gave you hope. Eddie, beside you, drenched beyond measure, did not match your enthusiasm. Shadowed streams snaked across his pinched expression, swimming down his heavy brow, and splitting his raw lips. His bangs stuck to his forehead, and his cheeks trembled from his clacking teeth.

Soft music played from the radio station.

Riders on the Storm.

Two booms of thunder ended your small attempt at a smile from the timing.

Leftover adrenaline pulsed in your veins, fumbling your grip on the seatbelt. Wet earth and unease stroked your skin like skeletal hands, muddying your tights, and soaking his hoodie, weighing it down to your crushed sweater beneath. You wanted to speak; to poke, to prod, to press him to talk to you. The questions were there. On your tongue. At the ready; inviting him to tell you why his mood soured over a situation out of his control, other than the obvious weather.

But Eddie’s face was carved with irritation, baring his teeth as he attempted to buff circles into the icy fog on the windshield, only for it to cloud over in an instant. “C’mon..”

The wipers couldn’t keep up with the powerful current, and the tires struggled to find traction. “Fucking—damnit,” he said, interrupted by him slapping the steering wheel, cascading water off his work jacket, and onto every surface around him.

You twisted your hands in your lap at his mild slip in temper.

Now was not the time to bother him.

In a lurch, your shoulder bumped the door, and your head rocked side to side from the car backing over the swell of mud behind the tires. With another frustrated stomp on the gas, it evened out on paved road, and though the visibility was low, you were off towards the nicer side of Hawkins.

For once, he drove responsibly. Street signs could be read before he passed them. Fallen limbs in the road could be avoided, not ran over. His rings tinked off the glass when he rubbed at the thin fog, and the music was dialed to a somber ambiance behind the deep sighs through his nose. Dark stretches of treetops bent to the wind’s will. Short buildings sat so dim beyond the faint streetlights, they might as well have been deserted. Each red light was a necessary break for him to shove his fingers in the air vents to thaw them.

He never spoke. Never looked at you. He kept himself busy with tasks, and when those tasks were over and his hands were defrosted and the windshield was mostly clear, he regressed within himself. Unnervingly quiet. Turning onto streets with heavier regrets sagging his features the longer he crawled in front of white picket fence houses, and stopped.

The two story home was lit beautifully by the ornate sconces placed on either side of the doorway. Their lawn was manicured, and the sidewalk was free of weeds. No cars were at the mercy of the storm, they were parked inside the two-door garages. There was activity behind the embossed curtains hung in the living room of the residence. Presumably, the biggest shape was the father who called over the phone.

Someone who wore a business suit to the preschool’s Thanksgiving play lived here.

Eddie stalled. He remained seated forward, hands gripped at 10 and 2, squeezing the steering wheel as rain echoed in the belly of the car, battering the roof inches above your damp hair. There was a pause in his movements, his breathing. An awareness in his silence at the questions you didn’t ask. Tension in his pursed lips, rubbing them together as he surveyed the street.

He opened his mouth. Then, he thought better of it, and got out.

Your earnest call of his name was swallowed by the sea cleansing his body of your night together.

Leaping up the bullnose brick stairs, Eddie raised his hand, but before he could knock, the artisanal stained glass shimmered with movement. The immaculate door opened to a winced face. The man’s glasses were askew on his aged eyes, and his peppered hair hung over his eyebrows, no longer gelled back. He exchanged a few tight words with Eddie as Adrie was handed over, and Eddie, of course, shuffled into a meek posture, dipping his head, apologizing profusely. Almost bowing to this man dressed in matching pajamas and a robe. In horror, you watched the door close during one such apology. You could tell it happened in the middle of him speaking, because you had to sit through the agony of Eddie animatedly explaining something only for him to look up, straighten at the realization, and stand there for a few more seconds until the sconces dimmed off.

Worse, still, he cowered in the nook as cruel rain belted his back, doing his best to bundle Adrie in her tattered quilt and securing her on his hip, keeping all of her dry except her little legs wrapped around his middle. She buried her face in his neck, and he hesitated on the balls of his feet, judging the distance between the house and the car. His large palm covered the blanket over her head. All he had was his jacket.

Lightning revealed his weary frown.

At the clap of thunder, he sprinted.

Back in New York, at the going away party your friends threw in your and Robin’s honor, they warned you about moving to the Tornado Alley, and what to look for if one were to appear—green skies and all—but most importantly, they told you an incoming tornado sounded like a train. Being city dwellers, they wouldn’t actually know, but Robin confirmed it. And now you could too, because the piercing wail coming towards you could only belong to a natural disaster, not a four-year-old girl.

Murky water flooded to Eddie’s ankles from where it rushed against the sidewalk, sloshing in with his boot stomped to the floorboard for balance as he ducked inside amidst the fuss. He got Adrie into her carseat as quickly as possible. In the chaos, her overnight backpack fell somewhere in the dark, her quilt was chucked aside, and he cursed when the buckle bit into his thumb. She had a fistful of his hair, tangling it, making it harder to see what he was doing. He may have even threatened her full name to let go. It was hard to hear on account of the shrieking.

“Daddy!” The vowels were elongated, broken by hiccups. He shut the door, and in the small space with no escape, her big emotions rang louder. “Daddy!” Again, the y was screamed with the full power of her lungs, which would be impressive for their tiny size if it wasn’t for the pounding in your skull. She hollered louder when he sat heavily behind the wheel, “Daddy!” He didn’t shush her fourth tantrum spilt on his name; he accepted it, knowing it was futile.

It took all your strength to blink. Sat half-turned in your seat, frozen, gaze unfocused, marveling at your brain’s ability to function. You shifted your attention to Eddie’s face, a surprising few inches from yours.

The heat of his concentration scorched shame to your cheeks.

Avoidant no longer, your reaction to Adrie’s meltdown was the sole subject of his interest. Zeroed in on, dissected, and picked apart by just his eyes alone. Didn’t matter which eye you shied from, you were pinned in both, your discomfort blatant for him to witness. Your clamped mouth, your apologetic withdrawal, your fidgety fingers on your skirt; all of it. All of it was captured in his periphery because he didn’t dare break sight as he turned the key in the ignition, and started a raucous engine you couldn’t remember being turned off.

Humbled by the girl assaulting your senses, your questions were answered.

This was why he didn’t want you to come. This was why he slighted you with a pointed look from the recesses of his annoyance when you trivialized his daughter’s behavior as ‘No big deal.’ This was why he kept you separate from his parental sphere where everything wasn’t made of sunshine and rainbows. This—coming to terms with your inexperience staining each uncontrollable contortion of your unprepared expression—was why he never let anyone near his heart.

Adrie could no longer form his name through her open-mouthed cries, resorting to plain, wet screams which trilled past your eardrums, resulting in a throbbing headache.

At that, he grasped the gear shift, put his boot to the gas, and cut fat lines through the river overflowing the pampered neighborhood streets.

Eddie’s anger was a presence. His embarrassment, too. Just like at the auto shop when problems stacked and stacked into an unbearable weight on top of his sleepless nights and long mornings, he turned inward to delay his outburst. To feel everything so fully in his fists wringing the leather covered steering wheel until it creaked, and teeth gritted until they begged no more. Just that one second to release his frustration, and then it was suppressed from sight. But you felt it. His ire rested below your braced muscles, beneath your clammy palms and in your shallow breath. It invaded the tidy home you kept behind your ribs, taking up residence in your hammering heart.

The humiliation of having the date end when it did paid its dues in his bad mood. Disappointment radiated off his narrowed eyes, and slack frown. “Adrie,” he warned in a low tone.

She bawled louder, shriller than the crack of lightning.

The immense pressure to adapt was upon you. There was no sense in parsing what he expected you to do in this situation, it was clear he was soured by your ineptitude the moment you let it show on your face, but.. Only two short weeks ago, he relied on you to divert Adrie’s meltdown before DND night. And sure, she had already stopped crying by the time you got there, but you could come to his rescue again, couldn’t you?

You twisted around in your seat, proud of yourself for thinking of a solution, and showed him you could handle a modicum of parenthood. “Adrie, look!” you tamped down your children’s television host voice to a delightful, excited cheer, “I’m here. Miss Mouse is—!” Shocked with your hand reaching towards her, shooting pain traveled up your arm from her swift kick to your wrist. You recoiled, rubbing at your forearm without blame. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t even looking at you. Her fit was directed at the window she couldn’t peel her attention from, dropping tear after tear from her swollen eyes at the thunder shaking the car. “Adrie?” you tried softer, but she beat her hands on the carseat harder. Wailed until you were defeated to a wince. Yelled until you accepted a unique heartbreak you weren’t prepared for.

Miss Mouse couldn’t always save the day.

Acute twists of rejection wrung your chest. Eddie wasn’t the type to say I told you so, he wasn’t mean like that, but when you sat forward and your gazes moved past one another, never quite meeting, you knew what he was thinking.

Little else stung worse than his obvious cynicism at how this date was concluding.

Exacerbating the issue, Adrie escalated to screeching her distress. Every open sob of hers pulled your focus, invaded your brainspace, overpowered any thought before it began, and set your teeth on edge from the high-pitched squeals you swore vibrated in your bones. Her behavior seeped into your nerves, winding them up, scratching them with the very tip of a brittle nail, inciting a riot. The need to flee crawled under your skin. Breathing was uncomfortable. Your ankle hurt. There was to break in between the blinding pulses of your headache. The car was too hot, too cold, too swerving from the high winds buffeting it sideways. Your tights were too tight. His hoodie too stifling. Itchy yarn from your sweater chafed your damp neck. Alarms of panic battled inside. Louder, louder, louder—Adrie cried louder. Eddie’s lips tugged down at the corners, chin wrinkled, tensing his face from a sadder response. Your lashes fluttered from the chokehold his frown had on you. Fingernails bit your palms. You tried to bide your time, to resist snapping. Dug down deep for something, something you could do, something.. innate. Some answer within you to fix it all. To get her to stop. To get him to relax. Something, something, something—instinctual.

“Pull over!” you barked; Eddie had every right to whip his head around at your sudden demand, but in your panicked state you only cared about the road ahead. “Ju-Just—just—” You scanned the dark parking lot outside the hardware store, and stabbed your finger on the cold window, pointing past it. “The gas station! Under the roof-thing.”

When it wasn’t clear he heard you, you turned towards him at the same time he leaned forward to catch your eye. Justifiable skepticism burdened his brow, tightening the edges of his crow’s feet. His lips hung parted with a confirmation hesitating between them; however, it was silenced after you maintained your need, and the fight against the wind won.

Soppy pebbles scraped wet asphalt, muddied in the bump and grind from Eddie turning too sharply into the sloped driveway, banging into a pothole, and rattling the innards of his already rocky cargo. He careened towards the closed convenience store with its row of dim fluorescent lights inside. Pulling up alongside the gas pumps, he slammed the breaks. A second later, he slapped the windshield wipers OFF, violently shushing their grating squeak.

His patience strained thinner. Working through the sensory overload festering like infected wounds on blistered skin, he rumbled a shallow apology past his aching teeth. Quickly, it devolved into a barrage of doubt. “Look, I’m sorry she—Wait, where’re you—?” The instant fear of rejection shot past his octave. “Wait! Please don’t—”

Cruelly, he thought; heartlessly, he knew; the sun-faded black cotton draped about your shoulders was the last image his adrenaline latched onto, playing it over, and over, door slam and all. He wasn’t parked for more than a clock tick, and you hurled yourself out into the storm, leaving him behind. His first assumption was gentle. Kind whispers stroked the angst in his chest, telling him you needed a break from the noise, that was all. Then the hatred of abandonment gutted his center.

“Giving up already?” he asked aloud in a conclusion only meant to hurt himself when no one was there to answer.

As if sensing his hopelessness, Adrie sniffled into the worst of her hyperventilated cries. Broken disjointed things. Sinking him deeper, deeper into his seat, crossing his arms over his caved chest, shuddering at the hot sting wobbling his vision at his own inadequacy.

Never good enough for anyone to stay.

Tremors of repressed memories wakened the churn of nausea making him sick.

“Baby, baby, it’s okay,” soothed a voice behind him, trickling in with the splash of faraway drops. “It’s okay, sweet baby, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Eddie jerked his chin up and stretched his neck to see into the rearview mirror. The wall of water teetering on his lash line made everything blur, so he tugged down the slick skin beneath his eyes to suck back the tears, and almost allowed them to spill at the scene behind him anyway.

In the reflection, you crawled across the backseat and unbuckled Adrie’s carseat, learning how to maneuver the straps from watching him. She reached for you, your hair, your clothes; small fists belying their strength. You didn’t care. You calmed her struggles with pretty words. “It’s okay, yeah, you can hold on to me, baby. Let’s get you wrapped up nice and warm. There we go.” Shhh. “Let me see your face, so I can clean you up.” Shhh.

“M–M-Mizz Mou—se,” Adrie got out between body-wracked sobs.

“Mhm, I’m here.” Shhh. “Miss Mouse is here.”

—Oh.

“Baby..” So modest was his whisper when so resolute was his yearn.

He leapt into motion, flushed with adrenaline.

The ripple effect of your actions caused tidal waves to swell and crash over him; body hitched in the place where his past convinced him he lost it all, only to collapse into a stuttered exhale of acceptance, understanding there was someone out there who cared about him to this degree; throat constricting with gratitude he could only express by stumbling out into the foggy cold, throwing open the door, and sliding into the backseat with you.

His fingers grazed the baby hairs at your nape on their way to the side of your head, using his wide palm which took up too much room to cradle you steady with a gentleness unknown to his tough skin. He trusted you to forgive him for how hard he knocked his forehead to your temple, and smashed his nose to the soft of your cheek. He need not worry. Beautifully, you adjusted to the bulky arm behind your neck, leaned into the crook of his body he hollowed out for you, and filled the familiar place at his side. You worked diligently to clear his daughter’s face while he passed a strong hand over her back and dropped it to shape his grip at the end of your thigh, curving his fingers in and slotting them to the underside, behind your knee.

“S’okay, Adrie,” you cooed, wiping at the sticky grossness clinging to her nose. “I’ve got you,” you continued the mantra, albeit with a lapse in motherly tenderness as a result of trying not to gag too hard.

Outside the car, the gas station’s tall canopy provided enough coverage to stop the rain from pounding the roof. Harsh winds howled past, encouraging the woeful sobs dropped onto your breasts, but the lightning stayed within the clouds, and the thunder faded in the distance. “Look at me,” you guided, sweeping the hoodie’s cuff over her puffy cheeks glowing splotchy red from the neon beer signs in the postered up convenience store windows. “We’ve got you. Nothing bad can happen when we’re here.”

Eddie lips pulled thin against your skin, breath stuttering damp and thick on your neck like a smothered cry.

“Nothing bad can happen when we’re here, okay?” Repeating the union of you and him, you went on, “We’ve got you. You’re safe with us. Nothing bad can happen when we’re here. Right, sweet bean?” You tucked the quilt around her feet, and held her close. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you, ever.”

With her hands latched into the folds of fabric around your neck—cotton, yarn, and canvas—her big coughs were cushioned by your arms snuggling her to your front while Eddie’s chest was at her back, embracing her between your two bodies converging to protect her in a toasty nest. Warm air hummed from the vents, shooing off the stale chill clinging to the backseat, now disturbed by activity and plucky guitar strings playing over the radio.

Across the Universe.

Undertaking the complexities of the man rubbing his forehead into your hair with the same sort of neediness as his little girl wringing your clothes, you assumed the responsibility of consoling them both. “Nothings gonna change my world,” you mumbled the lyrics into the patchwork quilt covering Adrie’s curls. “Nothings gonna change my world,” you sang to Eddie, face tipped up and eyes falling closed, seeking out his nose to trace the tip of yours along the soft bumps in a devoted offering after the turbulent events causing you both inner strife.

His fingertips became an imposing force spread across the scope of your cheek, turning you toward him, capturing you in a deeper kiss than you were ready for. It was demanding, hard with desperation, misaligned and urgent. Born out of necessity in the moment. He kissed you in front of his daughter, where she could see if she picked her face up from your chest, and a dart of surprise lit your heart at the recklessness. You kept a level hand atop her head in case he’d come to regret the decision, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. He sighed into a second helping, and at the sound of the wet smack, she stirred.

Adrienne hooked her fingers into your collar and sniffled hard, soothing herself from further cries by hugging you tight, huddling into your comfort, oblivious to what was happening around her.

Easily, you fell into the third kiss. Became what he needed, mouths mashing together at the odd angle, your lower lip plush between his. Dizzying amounts of reverence manifested in his spontaneity. He packed a lifetime’s worth of bottled up feelings into the affection he was privileged to. Giving, and taking. But his impulses were still a puzzle. When he’d drank his fill, he squeezed your leg, broke apart from your lips in a silent slick slide, and drew a deserved breath.

“Sorry, no one’s ever just.. done that for me before.” He shrugged his hand off your thigh at the poor summary of the millions of things on his mind, and left it at that.

Spurred by the praise, you seized the opportunity for communication. “Remember how before we played DND that night, I told you to call me first next time you needed help?” you reminded him, and something vulnerable, maybe even pleadful, entered your tone. “I want to be someone you can rely on, Eddie.”

An unfortunate amount of complicated emotions passed in his eyes. There wasn’t much to garner from them, nor his soft grunt when he dropped his nose to the column of your neck, above Adrie’s head, and regressed into his quiet self. Reserved. Hard to decipher. He did speak up once to warn you she would fall asleep with how you were holding her—same as he did most nights on the couch while Late Night with David Letterman aired—and you embellished your promise to him with a kiss to the stringy curls frizzing at his scalp, “That’s okay.”

And it was okay, truly, when the storm raged heaves of rain against the car, spraying the windows with shocks of water. You dabbed Adrie’s cheeks. Wiped her nose. Rocked her in the same tempo as the backs of Eddie’s fingers stroking your cheekbone, flexed bicep behind your neck. Thunder occurred. Lightning happened. But with your quick thinking, lulling gestures, and genuine effort to speak past the fondness clogging your throat, you calmed her. Calmed her so well, in fact, her hands went limp and her body relaxed, fatigue claiming her victim to the numbered sheep hopping over fences in her dreams. After her tantrums, she was taxed out. Drained.

Stuck in the cramped middle between Eddie and the carseat, you rearranged your legs before they went tingly numb from her weight on your lap, and shifted the pressure off your heels. It was sweet having her fall asleep on you. Her slow breaths filled your arms as a reward for your efforts to hush her. The quilt smelled of their home, cozying itself in your lungs and sweeping you in a sense of longing for the humidity in his kitchen after making soup.

Though, as much as you thrived on the temporary role you played as parent—taking over for Eddie and dwelling on the fact Adrie slept propped on your chest like the many times she napped on his stained coveralls—you could do without the additional pain of him leaning on you too.

You groaned at the sharp twinge in your spine from slouching sideways, and conveniently, your movement roused his consciousness. He launched into a sleepy inhale. Robust, filling his lungs to the brim, too loud, too silly and sweet. He primed you for a solid press of the bridge of his nose to your jaw by thumbing you towards him, after which he pulled away, separating himself from you fully.

Eddie rolled his shoulders, stretching out from the uncomfortable position, and faced the window. He commented in a sincere tone, “You’re good with kids.”

“I know how to entertain kids,” you corrected him. “I don’t know how to do any of the hard shit you do.”

The streetlights painted strokes of dotted orange on his complexion cast in shadow. He played with the tips of his fingers, squishing each one in a line as he ruminated, staring elsewhere, perspiration blurring the outerworld, sealing yourselves in this crowded car together. “You do a good job,” he reassured, petering out in a hoarse whisper.

Ceaseless nerves gnawed at his absent-minded ring spinning. Not a big production like when he wrung his hands or bit his nails, but enough to show he was getting anxious. You’d expected his leg to be bouncing by now, but it was laying softly against yours. Something big was on his mind.

You bumped your knee into his. “Talk to me.”

Talk to me. Yes, you asked the world of him. You knew it, too. Encouraging his gaze to flick to Adrie bundled in your arms, and back to the window. His eyes weren’t wide with fear, just larger than normal at the subtle confrontation. It was time he opened up to you. There wasn’t a concrete ultimatum if he didn’t, but there was a mutual understanding that if this were to continue, he needed to trust you to be there for him. No more reluctance.

He extended his hand towards your knee, patting twice before claiming it in the great breadth of his palm, stroking his thumb over the thin pantyhose; bridging the gap from his earlier behavior, but not yet apologizing for the soreness he caused.

Sorting his thoughts, his throat bobbed twice on the swallow.

And of all the questions he could ask, of all things he could say, of all the topics he could choose, he picked, “Did you ever want kids?”

Heat swam to your cheeks, blood rushed to your ears. Buds of true belonging bloomed at the question, adorning stems of untended longing first planted during the Christmas party at work, ever growing. Your heart pumped faster at the inherent past and implied future of the subject. His curiosity was a mild prod, perhaps not meant to encourage these leaps in logic considering he announced it in the same buckled cadence of someone who was asking about the weather—and yet, the hold it had on you was impossible to deny. A blend of you, Adrie, and him, just like now, but in different contexts—different meanings other than sitting in the back of his car—something domestic, like being piled together on the couch watching Disney movies; that’s what was pushed to the forefront of your mind.

But, despite those instantaneous fantasies, this was a place for honesty, and the significance of your pause between his question and yours was an entity of its own, stiff like his posture.

“Are you ready for this conversation?” you checked. He fostered an anxious glance and nod. “Having kids is not something I ever saw for myself, no.”  The consequence of your answer marked his immediate dropped eye contact, but ever patient with him, you continued strongly, “With how I dated and moved around, I didn’t think it was for me, that sort of lifestyle. It’s just not something I put a lot of thought into except when my friends were having kids, and really, they kinda turned me off of the idea. Pregnancy sounds.. daunting. Or—you know—really fucking scary. They’d always talk about how awful it is, all the complications you could have, the risks, the near death experience in one case,” you broke off in a squirm. “And then you don’t even get the relief once the baby comes. Like, seriously, taking care of a newborn sounds straight up terrifying.”

Eddie cracked. His hiss of laughter was a welcomed reprieve, especially when it sank to his chest, gripping his shoulders in a hearty shake. “Y-Yeah,” he got out, face crinkled in all the ways you adored, “it is straight up terrifying.”

You giggled in the softest way, careful to not disturb Adrie’s shallow breaths, and careful to not swoon too head-over-heels over the image of him rocking a baby. “It seems easier when they’re older, though,” you said, broaching the real crux of the conversation with your chin dipped to the top of her head. “Like it’s not as bad when they can actually communicate why they’re crying, or tell you what’s bothering them.”

“Not necessarily easier, just different,” he clarified. “It’s less about making sure this little tiny thing that can choke on its own snot survives the night, and more about the emotionally draining problems like her telling you about her day at preschool, explaining a situation where a group of kids kept giving her tasks to do that sent her away, and she’s smiling so big when she’s telling you, thinking it was a game, but deep down you’re just waiting for the heartbreak years down the line when she realizes they gave her errands to run because they were excluding her, and the reason they were laughing every time she came back was because they took joy in being mean to her.”

Wilt tinted your faint, “Oh..”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He upped the pressure he used to pat and rub your knee. “S’part of life.”

Consumed by his side profile, you studied the scope of his impassive expression set on the premature lines edging his face. The urge to find the right thing to say amidst the convoluted churn of anger on his behalf, and sadness on Adrie’s, itched something fierce beneath your skin. Ultimately, no words of inspiration came.

Eddie took an anticipatory breath.

The radio garbled advertisements for the station’s sponsors.

“Still wouldn’t trade it for those first months when she was a newborn, though.” Pursing his mouth thin, he rolled his lips inward with a hardened brow, releasing and scrunching tension around his nose as he shook his head slowly, addressing the memories of those days with a shine of pain to his eyes, and a loud smack of his tongue. “The moment I found out Adrie’s mom was pregnant, I wanted to do the right thing—y’know?” He took his hand off your leg to demonstrate the narrow path he followed. “Kept my head down, stayed focused, didn’t bother anybody, got a real job, and kept my mouth shut. Lotta places didn’t wanna hire me, obviously, but I applied anywhere I could, and when I got the job, I’d go get another one on a different shift, and another one on a graveyard shift. Sold whatever I had—guitars, ‘nd shit—bought what I could with the money. I wanted to be a good man. Be a provider. Be worth something.” Scrubbing his shaky fingers over the stubble on his chin, he aimed to calm himself, but when bringing up the Hell he went through during those times, there was little to stop his pitch from wavering. “Still wasn’t good enough.”

A verdict aimed at him flippantly, yet the impact on his self-esteem was immeasurable.

Gathering himself, he licked the inside of his cheek, and explained, “In the beginning, when Adrie was born, I tried to make it on my own. Locked in this little motel room with a crying baby. Couldn’t go to work. Didn’t have anyone to call to watch her for me, y’know, didn’t.. didn’t have anyone to rely on after walking out on my uncle, and isolating myself from my friends. The people at the bullshit resource center said I wasn’t eligible for benefits because they were for single moms, not dads. And child support was taking too long to kick in. Not like it mattered when it couldn’t pay for a single canister of Similac. I didn’t have fucking anything. Or know anything.”

His shame was only beginning to unravel.

“There were these free classes at a clinic for expecting parents, but I..” He dropped his knuckles to his thigh and fed them along the coarse cotton, using the friction to burn away the guilt. “I-I didn’t go. I didn’t want to go alone. Be the only guy there, by myself. Have all these people w-who might know who I am fucking.. fucking staring at me.” With how he was looking down at his lap, rocking slightly with his movement, he stood no chance against the wall of tears damming at his lashes. “I didn’t want to go because of my sense of pride, and my baby suffered because of it.”

“Eddie, that’s not true—” you stepped in.

Three effective beats of his fist on his leg, and you were left to witness his face crumple from the utter contempt he had for himself.

“It is true,” his volume fluctuated in jumps. “She wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t fucking eat and keep it down.” Droplets splashed his jeans in unyielding splats. Drip, drop, drip, drop.. They slipped and spread in splotches of salty remorse he couldn’t wipe away quick enough. “Nothing worked. Couldn’t get her to latch onto a bottle, and, and—I didn’t know, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to microwave the formula, but she wouldn’t take it room temp, so if it was too hot she’d just scream at me until it wasn’t, and I–I just—I was having these breakdowns, I don’t know. I blacked out, and next thing I knew, I was at Harrington’s, and Nancy was taking care of her for me.” The emphasis alluded to much, though the fact their son was only a year older, and Nancy would still be producing milk said it all. 

Frantic breaths which wouldn’t catch were pulled past grimaced lips parted on the unrefined sob his confession emerged on. “I never wanted to be with Adrie’s mom, but proving what she said was right, th-that I was a fucking loser who didn’t know what he was doing, it-it-it.” In a desperate flourish, he pointed at his temple, It lives in here, and another tear clung to the tip of his nose, smeared by the back of his wrist.

Stunned useless by the suffocating urge to help him, you blanked. Sat still while your favorite mechanic reduced himself to the wrong opinion of others; the same person who showed his gentle nature by picking worms out of the garage after a heavy rain so they didn’t dry out. Remaining frozen while silent pain wracked your friend’s held breath, heaved and shuddered out as a cough into the same palm he used to catch your ankle when he challenged you to a race on the creepers, and he had to cheat to win before you beat him to the service door. Saying, “Baby, no,” to the man who snuck a smirk over his daughter’s head when he caught you doting over her as she sat on his hip, and the smell of Christmas potluck embedded itself into the memory of Eddie’s eyes hinting at a deeper glint than the tease on his grin.

“I am a fucking failure,” he seeped out his regret. “C-Couldn’t give her what she needed. I still can’t. Still can’t give her what she wants, ever. T-T-Tellin’ her I can’t get her something when she asks for it—and the disappointment. Just a piece of shit who disappoints her. Never good enough—” There was another high-pitched stutter, but it was muffled behind his trembling hands covering his face, and smothered by your intervention.

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you shot out, hand and voice working together to untangle the trauma his knotted fingers attempted to hide. “Listen to me.” No please, but no lack of kindness, either. “You are not a disappointment. Not then, not now, not ever. Do you hear me? You’re not any of those things.” You tugged at the canvas jacket around his stiff arms tucked tight to his body, and rocked him away from his huddle against the door.

In the aftermath of your scramble to comfort him, Adrienne startled awake. Her soft hmm? became a grunty whine when the sensation of slipping backwards disoriented her. “Daddy?” One of her fists found your hoodie for balance, but her groggy curiosity dealt a heartbreaking blow.

She traced the wet trail on his cheek, encountered a tear in its path, and broke the droplet’s surface tension on her finger, wondering aloud, “Why’s Daddy crying?”

Thinking quickly, you used your muscles earned through unloading car parts from delivery trucks, and scooped her from your lap onto his, diverting the nuance of grown-up-problems by fumbling out, “Daddies cry sometimes, too. Have you told him you love him today? Can you tell him? It’ll make him feel better. Please, Miss Adrie?” Whether or not it was the perfect phrasing wasn’t important. What mattered was the unsuspecting gratitude laden at the base of his frown.

“I love you, Daddy,” Adrie said, latching her arms around his neck. “I love you.”

“You’re a good man,” you added, and rolled onto your hip, fitting your body to his side. You nosed through his long, frazzly curls, and spoke earnestly, but softly into his ear, “You’re a good man, Eddie. Look at how well you take care of her. Look at how well fed, clothed, and happy she is. You make her so happy.. You make me happy, too. You’re the best dad I’ve ever met. No one else compares.”

He dragged a sniffle from his last sob into an unintelligible mumble.

“I’m here.” Shh. “I’m here.” You included Adrie in your hug as you brought your hand up to the other side of his flustered hot face, blending your fingers through the hair stuck to the sweat and stubble on his jaw. “We’re here for you. We’ve got you. Nothing bad can happen when we’re here.” Sweet with conviction, “It’s okay, handsome, I’ve got you.”

Overwhelmed by the small I love you, Daddy, on one side, followed by You’re a good man, on the other, his inhale shivered, and he cuddled Adrie to him for a watery, “I love you, too.” Croaky and real, and mouth agape on an ugly cry he let you witness until his needy reach cupped the back of your head, and smushed you to his wet cheek, scratching the same sentiment into your nape, just like you were rubbing it into his scalp, exchanging the affection without words.

Us and Them funneled through the car, mellowing the heightened emotions with its dreamy saxophone opener.

“I’m so glad to have met you,” you prized in tender sweeps of whispers and thumbs. “I actually look forward to coming into work because of you, even when you hide my pen cup, and tickle me when I go to reach for it on top of the Coke machine. Which is unfair, by the way.”

“Yeah?” he asked for dear reassurance, and distraction.

Humming against the intimate corner of his jaw, you nudged the prickly scruff, and melted into his uncoordinated pets over your ear. “I see your sacrifices, and trust me, Eddie, you’re doing a great job at raising your daughter. Stuff like buying her toys, or cookies, or whatever doesn’t matter. The love you show her is better than any of that. She’s so lucky to have you.”

Another tear dropped to the tattered quilt. Another, another dropped. He squeezed his eyes shut and more fell. Hindered breaths let go in stuttered huffs shook his chest, swayed his damp hair. You circled your thumb over the rivers on his sensitive skin, and found a dry section of your sleeve to clean the price he paid for being a good father without the proper support he needed. Soothing him with fond shushes and feather touches. Forming a ball of comfort around him: cramped in the tiny car, a cast of solid fog on the windows for privacy, Adrie’s blanket draped about your jumbled legs, and her lanky arms wrapped around his neck where precious words were stoked from the embers of a fire which he built. “I wanna color with you to-mah-rrow,” she pronounced. “You can have the dinosaur book, because I want the kitty cats. Deal?” Deal, he nodded.

Your bottom lip introduced a blessing at his sideburn, “You deserve to see yourself how we see you.”

Recovering from the unbearable throb his stuffed sinuses drove to his headache, he tried—“Thank you, baby,”—though the letters were mashed together, and further pulped by the thickness in his throat. Loud, however, was his hug. Crushing you both to him with honed strength; flexed forearms demonstrating the power lying dormant in the track of muscle he snaked around your waist. Groans were earned from his expertise. Bones protested the gesture, begging to be released. It took several seconds of your heartbeat pumping visibly at the edge of your vision, but he let go. Afterall, there was no praise to be had by flattened lungs.

“That hurt,” Adrie complained.

“Ow,” you agreed.

“Sorry,” he said in non-apology.

At a change in tone, you fawned, “But that was a nice hug.”

Adrie rated it, “An 8 out of 10.”

Crowded together, the bond was unmatched. His arms were spread like a greedy dragon hoarding its wealth. Chest open, collecting his most remarkable treasures to the roaring furnace locked within the confines of his body, ready to share the warmth to those who could appreciate its value. Clasped in your hand was Adrie’s ankle, gaining squirmy kicks for each smile and giggle traded under Eddie’s chin. Dressed in his well-loved hoodie, the crook of his elbow fit to your figure, and the backs of his fingers strummed your bicep in a trained motion. None of it was perfect, no. The hoodie could smell less like cigarettes, his forearm stuffed behind you meant you couldn’t recline comfortably, and when he patted your hip, he awakened the dull throb of the bruising grip he left during earlier events.

Those weren’t bad things, though. They were as real as human flaws. Accepted as such, too.

“Are you feeling better?”

Sporting a grin favoring one cheek more than the other, Eddie’s eyes were framed by clumped together lashes after being stripped to his barest self and given the grace he needed. “Yeah,” he answered Adrie in fondness, “I’m feeling better now.” Not forever. He wasn’t cured. But with time, he guided his gaze to the velcro shoe you were wiggling back and forth onto her heel, and climbed his soft study up to the plump concentration on your bottom lip after you released it from between your teeth.

Perceiving his attention, you clocked him with a sneaky grin. “We’re a sardine family.” Brightening at the bewildered noise he made, you tapped Adrie’s knee, and imparted your wisdom as if he should know it too. “Yeah, you know, you, me, and Adrie. Jammed packed back here like a tin of sardines. All squished together.”

They blinked at you. You blinked back.

“And I thought I was supposed to be the one with bad jokes,” Eddie offered after some thought. You cut him a look. “But I like the image,” he amended.

“I like sardines,” Adrie chimed. She didn’t know what sardines were, but you appreciated her enthusiasm.

The conversation waned from there. Drowsiness from the old night seeped into your collective huddle, slouching you all towards one another. Heavy limbs went boneless. Tender brushes of thumbs came to an end. The sound of deep breaths were heard between the local ads for Indiana’s finest antique mall and an uptick in the rain smacking the paved street. Near the edge of sleep, you convinced yourself to get Adrie up and into her carseat. Eddie sat back and watched you go through the steps of buckling her in, listening to her plea for Fluff in her backpack, tucking the quilt around her just right, and hitting your head on the roof in pursuit of making her happy. Taking care of his kid. You collapsed beside him, far closer than would be proper for coworkers, and basked in his approval, noting the pride in his charged gaze. The emotional rollercoaster of the evening took its toll on his swollen face—nevertheless, romance novels could learn a thing or two from the way his stare rendered you weak.

“Should get you home before the storm gets worse,” he warned in an attractive thrum of sternness. He might call you lil’ lady next. Or remind you he promised your father he’d have you back on time.

Floating in the fizzy pool of your crush's attention, you nodded your dizzy head, and observed without need, “Yeah, should get home before it gets worse.”

He laughed. You swam in his laugh, in the instinctual desire based in his mood after watching someone nurture his young. A silly thing to rock you into a sultry sweat considering the outcome of your second date. Luckily, when you stepped out of the car, the frigid mist stole your focus, hosing you down and keeping you from reading too much into the odd chemical imbalance that must be happening in your brain.

The night was really fucking long.

Driving with the radio on low, Eddie drifted his ringed fingers over your forearm whenever they weren’t being used on the stick shift. A small gesture letting you know he was thinking about you when there wasn’t anything to talk about, not that it was needed. The calm was nice. The storm behaved en route to the Buckley’s, avoiding the occasional tree limb blocking a lane. He removed his touch from your person, and with a glance, you were assured it wasn’t the last.

“You didn’t have to walk me to my door,” you gasped, posing with your arms stuck out, useless against mother nature sagging your soaked clothes.

A puddle formed on the wood planks where he wrung his hair. “And make you do this run all by yourself? C’mon, sweet stuff. I’m a gentleman.”

Shivering on the covered porch, your shoes were partially to blame for the slipping incident(s) in the muddy driveway. The lack of the house lights on was another, slowing down your sprint into a crawl. A yellow cast from a lamp in the back room lit the hallway, but other than its soft glow, that was it. Clearly, no one expected you to come home.

“Is it okay if, uh,” you began, “Is it okay if we kiss in front of Adrie?” Oh, how your awkward pointing from yourself to the car came to a charming halt, fingers caught in the stiff fabric of his jacket, under his spell.

Plush pink lips warmed by vented heat promised your worries away.

“I think she’s asleep anyway.” His voice was playful, tugging syllables in the way his lopsided grin ought. “But,” he softened, “yeah, we can kiss in front of her.”

The permission washed over you. Weeks and months in the making. Brewing tension under the surface in your daily interactions—and now? You kissed him. Just for fun, just to show off. You kissed him again. Gentle, pretty brushes. Tame, refined, and for the sake of exploring the lack of boundary before saying goodbye.

Working man arms defined your waist.

Fingers calloused from gripping pens grazed his steady throat.

He swallowed, and spoke endearments with his busy mouth, “Could kiss you all day, baby.” Your lips kicked into a smile which he devoured, kiss after kiss. Neat little things. Virtues, maybe.

“Could’ve kissed me since the day we met,” you answered, feeling the squeeze around your back when his belly pressed you into his embrace. Though, his dismissive snort caused you to frown. “I’m serious. Coulda had me back then. Or at least you could’ve kissed me when we were slow dancing in the garage, or standing under the mistletoe at the Christmas party. Like, seriously, way to make me feel rejected.”

His wide passionate eyes shared common ground with his genuine smirk at your feigned agony. “Excuse you, but I am not having our first kiss be at work.”

“Then why not at DND when everyone left?”

“Because, sweetheart,“ his cadence loved those two words most of all, “I knew I only had a few minutes with you. And I needed a helluva lot more than a few minutes with you.”

“Or, what about when—”

Crazy how you strove to be silenced by his mouth. Craved it like no other, provoking him into eager unions, fulfilling the itch and providing the scratch with your bottom lip between his, just how he liked.

You shifted. Your inner thighs rubbed through your ripped tights. The untimely circumstances bringing you to Robin’s door lived on the surface of your chilly skin; ushering you to reality, and he as well.

“I’m sorry for how all this turned out.” Eddie’s sincere apology pitched his voice to something sorrowful, something deeper, and maybe you underestimated how much the night ending when it did upset him as a man.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

He shuffled his stance, scraping his boots in dissatisfaction. “Baby, you didn’t even get anything,” and you knew what he meant. And it annoyed you he’d even brought it up.

Combing your fingers up from his nape through his hair, you drove him into you, chasing the molten ooze pooling at your center in effort to shut him up. Wet, hard, nipping kisses at his plump lips until they were raw like his tear-stained cheeks. You forwent air. Mouths melding as one, then apart as two, then one, then a set of awake eyes boring into his drunk ones. “Our date was perfect. We needed this.” The trust, the experience, the uncomfortable glimpse into his life and how you handled it. His breakdown, his shame, his face when he finally let go and ugly cried in front of you. “I don’t regret how our night turned out.”

Nodding into a nudge of his nose stroking the side of yours, he was honest with himself, “I don’t regret it, either.”

“Well, you might regret it in the next half-hour if this storm keeps up, and you’re stranded with Adrie in the car because a tree fell across the road.”

“Shit.” Indeed, the weather was turning again. If luck were on his side, he could deal with the high winds and sheets of rain until he got home, but, more likely, he drained his luck over the course of the date, and lightning was about to start again.

Eyeing the sky with hesitance, he asked, “Can I call you tomorrow? Or—today?”

“I’d be upset if you didn’t.” Acting as an endorsement to get going before things worsened, thick forest branches creaked in the distance, popping like warnings. You followed it with snappier affections doled between your palms fitted to his jaw. “Please be safe, Eddie.”

“I will, I will. Kay?” Urgency swept him from kiss to kiss—needy, and intense, treating them as the last. “I adore you, baby. Tell me you adore me.”

Mushy under his tender affirmations, your body went pliant and he accepted your weighty lean on his chest, making it harder than it already was for him to leave his sweetheart behind. “—dore you too, handsome,” you moaned into his mouth, sending him off on a proper goodbye.

“Jesus Christ, woman.”

Ever the lovestruck fool, he stayed rooted on the porch watching your figure move from shadow to light within the home, eyes glued to sways and curves as you met the hallway and bent to peep inside Robin’s room. It was the single lamp being turned off which broke his greedy gaze, and ended his fun. Oh well. His Monday morning was booked with penciled in meetings for his admiration and your assets.

Eddie spun on his heel and stopped stalling. He didn’t bother throwing his arms over his head, he accepted his fate, and ran. Sloshing through puddles, slipping in mud. He wrenched open the door, and fell inside the car. The heater made him sticky warm in the gross way, so he turned it down, and got comfortable behind the wheel, adjusting, adjusting.

Pulling oxygen into his outkissed lungs, he heaved a solid breath, and sank into his seat, unable to comprehend the recent events carving out a new path for him to consider where there wasn’t one before.

——Then——

In the beginning…

Summer died to autumn, and it was time to move on from Steve's. Eddie tried to make it on his own in the motel room over the three day weekend break from work, but his wallet was empty, his baby was dressed in another family's blue sailboat onesie, and come Tuesday morning at 7AM, he needed someone to watch Adrie who wasn't an overworked Nancy Harrington.

Infant in hand, pride left behind in his boyhood, Eddie knocked on his uncle's door, and in Wayne's usual manner, he answered by clearing his throat when neither words nor greetings failed to repair the strained relationship.

“Can I live with you?”

Taking in the marks of fatigue under his nephew's averted eyes, Wayne said, “Of course, son,” and welcomed him inside with a swung gesture.

The walk to the single bedroom humbled what spirit Eddie had remaining. Or, crushed what was left of it. He passed by the kitchen table which still had his chair cocked out, noticed the patched-up hole in the closet door, and flicked on the lightswitch, grazing the curled edge of a poster he hung over a decade ago. His stomach sank at the familiarity.

Blazed by the ornate lamp hung in the corner, standing out like a behemoth beside his white desk, was the crib he was never able to afford.

Adrie grunted awake in her carseat. Looking down at her would spill his tears, so he cranked his head back to stare at the ceiling, steeling himself after spotting the new bedsheets stretched across his mattress, and he knew—he knew—if he turned around, the pullout bed in the living room would still be set up.

His uncle never took his room back.

Defeated by the routine pang of worthlessness, impressed to have any self-esteem left to be stolen from him at the point, Eddie sank to his childhood mattress with his three-month-old daughter at his feet, undressed himself from his boots, and made a clear spot for them both on the bed, away from blankets or pillows. He laid on his side, legs crossed and knees bent with an arm beneath his head. Same position he assumed on the motel’s carpeted floor yesterday when Adrie experienced a milestone: rolling over. Not from her back to her stomach, she wasn’t coordinated enough for that yet, but with enough powerful kicks and wiggling, his paranoia coaxed his other arm around her.

He molded himself to be her protector. Chest sunken on a shallow breath, forearm spooned to her side closest to the edge, and gaze trained on her chubby cheek. Her babbly noise of happiness brought him a sense of reward, and though the newborn smell had faded in the weeks where motor oil stung his nostrils, he put his nose to the top of her head for a whiff of a sweet scent that wasn’t there, and felt the peace it brought him anyway.

Wayne shuffled into the room with a sizable stack of chunky hardcover books between his hands. “I, uh, checked these out from the library. Been doin’ some readin’ while you were gone.” He set them down on the bedside table, and pointed at a few of them. “Learned a lot from the one on the bottom, but they were all, ah, educational, I s’pose.. Some lean more religious than others,” he grumbled. “But, uhm..”

The expectant pause in his uncle’s speech drew Eddie’s awareness.

“Can I hold her?” Wayne asked.

“Yeah.” He almost had the strength to clear the rasp from his throat. “You can hold her.”

Putting his new knowledge to good use, Wayne first worked his palm under Adrie’s head before scooping her into his folded arms. Eddie took his shame in small doses, glancing at his uncle meeting his grandchild for the first time, and looking away when he cooed over her. Three months and his only family member had yet to meet his baby. Three months spent avoiding this trailer, and depriving his uncle from making these memories.

Self-loathing boiled under Eddie’s skin, and still, there was a fleeting desire to brag about Adrie’s neck strength, and how it wasn’t so necessary to be wary of her head falling back.

But he stayed quiet. He pushed his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, and read the book’s titles, wondering what sparked enough interest for Wayne to stuff receipts between the pages, or mark them with paper clips if they were particularly interesting.

Speaking in his gruff smoker’s voice with an edge of seldom heard unease, Wayne introduced a conversation, “I read in that yellow book there that babies shouldn’t sleep in the same bed as the parent. Dangerous, with how tired you are, ‘nd all. Should I put her in the crib?”

As gingerly and delicately as one could be when discussing the reality of a child suffocating to a parent who was well aware of the risks, Eddie regarded him with an annoyed expression, and Wayne shut his mouth in apology.

“I’ve gotta do her night routine again, so I’ll be up for a bit.”

“Yep.” A solid statement, and conclusion, to the conversation.

Bending down, Wayne positioned Adrie in the hollow Eddie created for her, and mentioned there were leftovers in the fridge on his way out. He shut the door behind him. It didn’t take long for tiny fists and tinier fingers to find a lock of his hair, and pull it into a drooly mouth. Didn’t take long, either, for his exhaustion to kick in and for the emotions to crash through his walls.

Tears slipped sideways along his features. Cresting over the bridge of his nose, colliding with his other eye, and joining the wetness at his hairline, dotting the bedsheet. He pressed his face to his baby who was too innocent for this world. “Daddy loves you,” he whispered, tasting the word for the first time. Daddy. It didn’t feel right when Steve stepped in as a father figure, but he could acknowledge it now. He was a dad. A momentous occasion followed by, “I’m so sorry you’re mine.” An apology uttered on a wet hiccup—borderline unintelligible—but after coming back to this trailer, and enduring his memories trapped between its thin walls, he promised, words slurring to a constricted squeak in his throat, “Daddy’s gonna get us a nice house, okay? Your own room. Your own bed. Daddy’s gonna do it. Just give me some time, okay? I’ll do it, I swear. Daddy loves you so much. So fucking much.” The promises bred dread even then, living in the pit of his stomach as future disappointments, knowing he would fail.

Perhaps sensing his distress, his little girl used the last of her energy to kick his arm in a fair warning before her face scrunched, and the wet coughs preluding her wail for food began.

He dried his face on the bedsheet. In this moment, it was hard to continue crying when he had another human relying on him. It was time to move on. Time to bury the pain, and move on. Time to neglect himself, and move on. Time to give up, and move on. Kiss her chubby cheeks so fucking much he feared he’d never be able to stop, and move on.

——Now——

Now, he checked the rearview mirror and Adrie was looking back at him, possessing a curious pinch between her brows at his reflection.

“You were kissing Miss Mouse,” she accused and questioned.

“I was,” he confirmed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, ah,” he filled the pause with another ah while he searched, “It means we’ll be seeing more of each other. She’ll be coming around more, and stuff. Hanging out with us.”

Ever ponderous, ever candid, ever blunt, she asked, “Does that mean she’s my–”

Crazy Little Thing Called Love blasted their eardrums.

Eddie’s fingers slipped over the volume dial by accident—totally by accident—as he reached for the stick shift, turning the music on high and drowning out the last word of her sentence.

—Mom.

No way in hell was he ready for that conversation after the emotionally grueling night he’d had.

“Whoops,” he pretended, “Sorry, couldn’t hear you—but, uh! Hey, do you wanna start our bedtime story early? Should I go with the princess one, or the Sesame Street gang running their own bakery? Hmm.." He drew out his hum until he was in the clear of the Buckley's mailbox, swearing he wasn't the reason it was laying flat in a ditch. "How about we pick up where the princess one left off? So! The firbolgs have declared alliances with Toadstool Kingdom, and.." Throwing it into first gear, Eddie raced home as quickly, but responsibly, as possible, talking non-stop. His parched throat begged for a drink by the time he pulled into the trailer park—a scratchy pain made worse by his nervous chatter in the elusive quiet of his parked car.

He wrapped Adrie in her quilt as best he could while securing her on his hip and booked it through the rain, unlocking the front door and ducking inside right as an unlucky flash of lightning came.

And when nature’s nightlight died, he blinked and blinked at the spots in his vision.

It was unfathomably dark in his living room.

Stumbling over a small shoe in his way, he patted the wall for the lightswitch, and flipped it. And flipped it again. And harassed it some more. Sighing heavily in defeat, he grabbed the giant flashlight on the kitchen counter, and lit the way. "Looks like we're camping tonight." (Their codeword for when the power was knocked out.)

"Okie dokie," she said, ignorant to the cruel world of no pancakes for Sunday breakfast when the electric stovetop was out of commission.

In the meantime, he got them both ready for bed with the added pain of doing it by a single wobbly light source, ready to pass out the second his body sank to the mattress and his head hit the flat pillow—

But of course, Adrie rocked his shoulder incessantly, goading him into giving her attention at her whim, sanity be damned. "Mm?" he grunted, coating the noise in mild annoyance.

"Daddy?" she checked.

The wait for her question grew excruciatingly long.

He almost wasted an eye roll. "Yes, my child?"

"I wish Miss Mouse was here."

Surprised more so by his yawn than the request itself—and then surprised again when his heartbeat remained calm when confronted with the reality of Adrie noticing too much—he struggled to stay awake in his best interest, perhaps giving an inappropriate answer, and unwittingly feeding into her inner wishes, "I do too." He was fading, and quick. The hard rain had returned, droning white noise on the roof, soothing his eyelids closed over the dry sting they drew. Rolling, fighting the stiff sheets tucked around them both, he threw an arm over her before the doom-roll of thunder came. Sweet dreams greeted him in a pair of tiny arms folded to his chest. Brain shutting down. Night, night. Asleep.

"I wish she was my mom."