Silence Magnifies Sound

Hometown zero turned mega-rockstar, Dungeon Master turned guitar god, formerly ridiculed and believed-to-be-devil-worshipping town pariah Edward Phillip Munson was getting married.

TMZ had broken news of the engagement long before Eddie had gotten the chance to make any of the long-distance calls required to tell anybody himself. Which wasn’t terribly surprising, truth be told. It had been months, close to a year in some cases, since anyone from your small hometown had been in regular contact with Eddie.

The cost of fame, you all supposed.

But no one seemed to mind it so much once they had that envelope in their hands.

Robin had called immediately upon opening the one that was delivered to her and Nancy’s place, talking rapid fire as usual, asking if you wanted to fly out early with them to sightsee, if you wanted to go in on the AirBnb with them, if you thought rock stars still registered at Bed, Bath & Beyond or was there some other super-exclusive place they got their linens and dishware?

You forced out a laugh, trying to sound as good-natured as you could when you said you’d have to let her know. Normally, you probably would have accepted without a second thought. 

Normally, you might have been joking with her about how celebrities slept on sheets with thread counts higher than your income. Normally, you’d be over the moon to see a Save the Date for the wedding of your oldest and closest friend.

Except you had yet to receive yours.

It was surprising, to say the least, to come home on the day everyone had been showing theirs off, waving them in the faces of anyone who had eyes to see, to find your mailbox barren—not so much as a catalog or a predatory credit card offer.

Still, you told yourself to keep calm. And actually managed to do so, for the most part.

There were a million and a half possibilities for why it hadn’t arrived. Maybe they had been sent out in batches. Maybe the ink smudged and it had to be returned when the post office couldn’t decipher your address. Maybe Eddie had forgot to put your new address and sent it to the trailer park where you no longer lived instead of your apartment on the other side of town.

You told yourself all these things and more, over and over again like a bedtime story. Trying to reassure yourself that nothing was amiss.

Because why would it be?

And yet your mailbox remained empty. Cluttered with the typical assortment of drab bills and junk mail, with no sign of the weighted, cream-colored cardstock bearing Eddie’s full government name written in a script so elegant you’d think he was a Duke or an Earl of some sprawling English estate rather than a gangly metalhead who hailed from the humble beginnings of Forest Hills.

Anyone you mentioned it to tried to soothe you in the same ways you tried to soothe yourself.

It has to be a mistake, they all said. Lost in the mail, delivered to the wrong address, insufficient postage—they gave endless explanations for the inexplicable. Of course you’re invited. You have to be. He wouldn’t dream of getting married without having his best friend there!

Eventually you resolved to just call him, knowing it would likely go straight to voicemail; knowing it would take a few days for him to get back to you as it always did. But just as you sat down in your living room to dial, your phone buzzed in your hand as a call from him came through.

“Hey!” you said brightly, all the hurt you had been plagued by the past few weeks having evaporated the second his name flashed on your caller ID. “That’s so weird, I was about to call you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

His voice was rougher than expected, raspy and haggard. It sounded the way it did when he’d just gotten off stage, after he’d finished screaming his own lyrics to thousands. Except there was no joy behind his exhaustion, no exhilaration or elation cracking through the way it always had whether he was singing for a sold-out crowd at MSG or the same five drunks at the Hideout.

“You okay?” you asked. “You sound funny.”

“Yeah, yeah, just ahhhh…we were in the studio all day. I’m really beat.”

It wasn’t a lie—he was a shit liar, you could always tell when he was—but there was most definitely something he wasn’t telling you.

Your spine instantly went rigid, panic spiking with a sharp pinch to your nose, and you tried to sound as normal as possible while you picked at a piece of loose skin hanging around your thumbnail.

“So…what’s up? To what do I owe the pleasure?” The teasing edge to your voice came out hollow and phony, lacking all the natural ease that normally came along with talking to him.

It had been years now since he moved out to Los Angeles but you never really felt the distance until his music career took off. When he first got there, he still called you nearly every night. And as you laid in your bed with the phone pressed to your ear, it was easy to imagine he was just a few trailers down stretched on his own lumpy mattress instead of 2000 miles away.

Secretly, you sort of longed for those days—for the nights he poured himself into bed after a shift bartending or caterwaiting or whatever other odd job he had fallen into that week. And still the one call he always made, even if he was bordering on passing out from pure exhaustion, was to you.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he explained solemnly. “About the wedding.”

“Um…me too, actually.”

“Yeah?”

There it was again—that crack, that fissure, that slight waver in his voice so unfamiliar it made him sound like a stranger. Too serious. Too stoic. Too unlike the boisterous boy you’d always known.

“Yeah, uh…this is kind of awkward,” you chuckled again, the sound of it riddled with nerves, and you wondered if he could tell how much you hated to ask, how long you’d waited, trying to put it all off. “But I was wondering about your Save the Dates? Because everyone else got theirs and I—”

“I didn’t send yours.”

The words are maudlin. Almost pained, like he’d just told you someone died. And your reaction is more or less the same as if he had.

“…Oh.”

“I’m—I’m looking at it right now.”

You tried to imagine him in California, sitting in his fancy penthouse the record label had helped him secure just as the paparazzi began to swarm his humble fourth floor walk-up. You’d only seen it in pictures, and not even ones he had sent you—Architectural Digest had done a piece on it that came out around the same time the news broke that he had started dating Carli West.

Was he stretched out on his massive leather sofa looking out those floor-to-ceiling windows at the twinkling metropolis laid out at his feet?

Holding the phone to his ear with one hand while the other clutched an envelope with your name and address stamped on the front? 

Or maybe he wasn’t even there. 

Maybe he had finally moved into his girlfriend’s—fiancée’s—mansion in Westlake Village.

“She, um…” his voice cracked again. “She asked me not to invite you.”

The ancient springs in your plaid recliner squeaked in protest as you sank into it, wobbly legs threatening to give out underneath you. Your mind was a blank, eyes staring unfocused at the walls, totally dumbfounded. A low buzz began to drone in your ears, steadily getting louder until it was all you could hear, like a deafening static drowning out every sound in existence.

“I’m so sorry. I swear, I tried. We’ve been having it out for weeks and she won’t budge.”

“B-but…why? I’ve never even met her! What could I have possibly done to—”

“It’s not you,” he insisted firmly. “Seriously, it has nothing to do with you. She just thinks—”

Whatever explanation he was about to sputter, you didn’t hear. The simple press of a button with a red icon is not nearly satisfying enough, though. You desperately miss the harsh clang of a landline being slammed back into its cradle, its metallic reverb echoing in the emptiness and silence.

As it is, all you can do is toss your phone away and blink back tears as it bounces off the couch cushion and thumps to the floor. You opt to leave it there, reaching instead for your keys where they sit in the middle of the coffee table.

You’re not even sure where you’re headed as you follow the same roads you’ve driven most of your life, tires swerving on asphalt that’s still wet with melted snow from the barrage of winter storms you’ve had over the past couple weeks. The night is pitch black in front of you, the air stinging and harsh, threatening yet another cold snap.

It’s not until you’re halfway downtown that you realize you left your wallet at home and have to head for The Hideout. You certainly would prefer not to spend an evening surrounded by countless memories of listening to Eddie’s band play, sitting at the end of the bar watching him bob and weave in and around stumbling patrons to clear empties and wipe down tables—all while razzing Peg with his ineffable, nigh insufferable, Munson charm.

But its the only place you know will serve you with nothing more than lint in your pocket.

You posted up at the near-deserted bar, downing two beers in half as many hours, staring into the middle distance contemplating the impossible.

A movie star hated you. A movie star you’d never met, who had sucked face with half of Hollywood—professionally or otherwise—and who lived in a mansion with nine bedrooms, and who pulled in millions of dollars at the box office…hated you.

That was the only conclusion you could draw from this information, right? It couldn't possibly be an issue of space. They were inviting the entire goddamn universe as far as you could tell. 

So it had to be you. Unless…

Distantly, you register the song on the jukebox changing and the opening chords of melancholy piano playing over Bonnie Tyler’s gritty voice, making you reach for your beer and chug.

“Hey there, Bright Eyes.”

The voice of Steve Harrington might have been the last one you wanted to hear right now, and yet it’s exactly what filled in your ears. You rolled your eyes purely out of instinct as he walked over, and it caused a single traitorous tear to roll down your cheek. You swiped at it, praying he didn’t see.

“Whoa, whoa. What’s with the water works?”

He slotted into the stool next to you and a wave of his scent washed over you, the aroma made up of something gourmand and surely expensive. A few stray pieces of chestnut hair fall forward into his shining eyes as he leans his elbows on the bar and tilts his head to get a look at you.

“Just allergic to your cheap cologne,” you sniffed, the bitterness of your insult undercut by the creak of your voice. Steve’s lips quirked in a small smile. 

You knew well as he did, he never wore anything cheap.

With an overdramatic sigh, he clutched his hand to his heart and wobbled in his seat as he leaned far back like he’d been struck there. It made your chest pang, thinking how that was one of Eddie’s bits—except he probably would have fallen right to the sticky floor just to make you smile.

“She wounds me, Peg,” Steve lamented when he caught the bartender’s eye. “Can we get another round over here, please? And a couple shots?”

Steve might have been the only person on the planet who could charm a smile out of ever-surly Peg. It was a small one, barely eking out, but it was there. She retrieved another beer for each of you and then placed down two shot glasses, which she filled with brown liquor that sloshed over their rims as she slid them over. Pretending not to be pleased when Steve winked at her.

“Alright. Come on, now. Out with it,” he said, pushing one of the shots in front of you.

Reluctantly, you picked up the glass and stared down it for a second like it was the barrel of a gun before knocking it back. The liquor burned down the center of your chest, like a knife slicing you down the middle. It made your throat spasm with the need to cough, but you forced it back.

“It’s not a mistake,” you said gravely after a long pause. Steve’s lips automatically pursed.

“What’s not?” he asked.

“My Save the Date isn’t lost,” you sighed heavily and pushed your empty glass away. “They didn’t send one, because I’m not invited. Because he doesn’t want me there.”

For once in his life, Steve was silent. Speechless. He stared at the side of your face until he made a sucking sound with his tongue behind his teeth.

“Nope. There’s no way that’s true.” He shook his head. “He actually said that?”

“Not in so many words,” you muttered.

Steve’s strong brow pinched, his handsome features furrowed, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek and then slipping out past his lips as he tussled with that bit of information.

“I don’t buy it,” he said, shaking his head again. You rolled your eyes.

“He said she doesn’t want me there. Except I’ve never even met her, so clearly it must be him.”

Your words started to wobble the longer you spoke, and you had to swallow the rest before they came spewing out of you like that shot nearly did. Steve picked up his beer and stared at it, his lips still pursed as he thought. It was the most pensive you’d ever seen him.

“Well…maybe she’s intimidated,” he offered after a long pause, punctuated by a swig of beer.

“She’s got a fucking Oscar, Steve,” you snapped. “In what universe would I intimidate her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you and he were like conjoined twins your entire lives? If he’s told her anything about his life before California, you can be damn sure your name came up.”

You scoffed, rapidly blinking your eyes as more tears stung behind them, threatening to spill over. Most of the town, much like Steve, thought if they ever saw a Save the Date with Eddie’s name on it, yours would be the one written alongside it. 

But you and Eddie were just friends.

Nothing more.

“He’s not—”

“Right, right,” Steve sighed, waving his beer back and forth, his eyes rolling back, “he’s not, you’re not, there’s nothing going on, yadda yadda.”

“Well, there’s not,” you snarled sourly. Never had been, never would be. “We’re just friends.”

Steve’s brow arched. “You and I are friends, and you wouldn’t be sitting here cutting your whiskey with tears if you weren’t invited to my wedding.”

“Like anyone would ever marry you,” you sniped.

The skin around Steve’s hazel eyes crinkled with a smile, seemingly pleased he managed to draw out that little attitude you always saved just for him.

“Well, then it sounds to me like there’s only one thing left to do,” Steve said.

You turned your head with a questioning glance and watched as he pushed his own shot in front of you. With a resigned sigh, you wrapped your hand around it and knocked it back. 

Another slice right down the middle.

“C’mon, champ. Time to get you home,” Steve said, lifting one of your limp arms and draping it over his stupid broad shoulder to help you to your feet, bracing you against him as you swayed.

Last call had long since come and gone. And between Steve’s credit card and Peg’s soft spot for you, you had most definitely been over served. The formerly near-empty bar was now completely deserted—tabs all closed, stools all placed on top of tables, drunks all carted away for the night.

With one notable exception.

“No,” you whined weakly against Steve’s chest as he hoisted you up. “Don’wannagohome.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” he said, shooting Peg a grateful smile en route to the door.

You grumbled some more as you tried to get your feet to cooperate in spite of your brain’s decision to abandon them. “Steve, really—please, not home. Anywhere else. Anywhere.”

Even in your current state, you knew you couldn’t be trusted within dialing distance of your phone. You would almost certainly say something you regretted, and maybe even moreso, you were terrified to see whether or not Eddie called.

Honestly, it was tough to say which would be worse—returning home to a slew of missed calls and texts you didn’t trust yourself to answer; or the just as unbearable absence of them.

Steve helped you walk across the gravel parking lot to his car and opened up the rear door. With what little control you had left of your limbs, you climbed into the backseat and tried not to think too much about how many girls he’d had back here in much more compromising positions. 

The world went horizontal as you slumped over on your side and you pinched your eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop it from spinning like a merry-go-round. The car jostled as Steve climbed into the driver’s seat up front and cranked the engine, revving it to get heat flowing through the vents.

“Steve?”

Your voice is tiny. Quiet as a pin dropping in the dark as snow began to fall outside the windows. Steve’s head swiveled to look back at you and his jaw clenched at the sight. Your head hung off the edge of his backseat, your neck barely able to hold it up. Your face was lit only by the lone streetlight overhead that reflected off the wet trails of tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You inhaled a stilted breath, bottom lip quivering. It’s the smallest you’ve ever felt. 

Smaller even than when you were a little kid and fell off of the shoddily constructed “treehouse” you and Eddie made together, thinking it was the worst pain you’d ever feel in your whole life.

More tears leaked out of your eyes, dripping off your chin. With a shaky exhale, you finally asked the question that had been running rampant around the inside of your head all night.

Longer, actually. If you were really being honest with yourself.

“Is he really gonna marry her?”

Steve made as little noise as possible as he shuffled down the hallway, passing the guest room after stopping at the door to listen for the sound of your gentle snoring on the other side. 

You’d agreed to sleep at his house without nearly as much cajoling Steve anticipated, even going so far as to whisper a quiet thank you to him as you pulled the comforter up to your neck.

To say you were in a rare state last night would be putting it lightly.

He had never seen you so upset in all the time he’d known you and he could count the number of times he’d seen you cry on one hand, with four fingers left over. If there was a list of people you would have chosen to confide in about all this, Steve wouldn’t have made the alternates.

And yet it was his shoulder you cried on as he helped you inside his parent’s house. His was the name you gurgled out as you tried desperately not to vomit up everything you had drunk on an empty stomach. His was the hand that rubbed your back when you finally curled up in bed.

How things would go this morning, though, Steve didn’t have the faintest idea.

He’d just put the coffee on to brew when his parent’s landline started to ring and he sprinted into the living room to snatch up the receiver. No one ever called that number anymore except for a few former clients and colleagues of his father’s who hadn’t got the memo the Harringtons had       long since relocated to the city, leaving both Hawkins and their son in the rearview.

“Harrington residence,” Steve chirped.

“Hey, man. It’s Eddie.”

“Oh. Hey. How, um…how are you?”

“I’m, uh…I’m okay. Listen,” he sighed, “I have kind of a weird favor.”

Eddie promptly launched into his rendition of what happened, giving Steve an abridged version of the events he had heard your side of last night. Eddie hit most of the same points as you, but he didn’t give much more than a vague explanation of what exactly had upset you to begin with.

And he ended it all with a heavy, labored sigh.

“I’ve been calling all night trying to reach her, but she isn’t picking up. I just need to know she’s ok. Can you…I mean, would you mind going over there and checking on her?”

Steve’s tongue pushed against his teeth. “Ahhh…so, here’s the thing. She’s actually here.”

“Here?” Eddie echoed. “Here where?”

“At my place. With me.”

The line crackled as Eddie fell silent on the other end. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. Like Steve had suddenly started speaking a foreign language.

“She’s with you?” he said finally. “She’s there?”

Before Steve could answer, he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He zeroed in on your form as you shuffled down the hallway into the kitchen to pour yourself a cup of coffee.

You actually looked a lot more cognizant than he expected. There was still some mascara smudged beneath your eyes, but the black trails left on your cheeks had been washed away. A curious look on your face, you held up the coffee pot and raised a brow, wordlessly asking if he wanted a cup.

Steve’s thumb came up to his lip and he took the nail between his teeth, gnawing on it.

He was positive you had no idea who was currently on the phone. You would have run over and yanked the receiver out of the wall if you did. As it is, you just stared back at Steve blankly.

The plan forms rapidly in his head—not really a plan, per se, more like a nebulous outline of one. And before he knows it, or before he can think better of it, he’s inhaling sharply into the phone.

“Yeah,” he said firmly, eyes still locked on yours. “We’ve been seeing each other.”

letting this one out of the vault because a) I like it and I can do what I want, and b) idk, I guess it’s sort of my goodbye. I don’t feel particularly inspired to write anything new, and I haven’t in quite some time. I originally saw this as a series, but I’m going to say there won’t be any more of this coming.

i'm not leaving leaving, i'll still be scrolling and reading when I can, but I feel like it would be disingenuous to act like any day now I'm gonna be cranking out a new series or updates.

I truly love everything i’ve got to make on here, and I'll never forget the feeling of creating them, the words flying out of my fingers, scenes taking shape in my head faster than I could get it down on the page. I'll never not miss it, I think. And I'm so grateful for all the people I've gotten to know through our writing and all the stupid, silly fun we've had <3