Fault Lines • Steve Harrington

Chapter Two

A job. A distraction. Something to keep me busy instead of replaying every memory from Chicago.

"Yeah," I say. "Sure. I don't have anything else to do. And... it'll probably take a while for me to feel comfortable here anyway."

Joyce pats my arm like she understands exactly what I'm not saying.

Fifteen minutes later, we're at Melvald's General Store putting a new SALE sign in the front window. The place smells like detergent, old plastic, and dust—the good kind of small-town dust that feels safe.

The door swings open behind us. A man steps in—tall, broad shoulders, moustache, wearing a police uniform. He looks like the kind of guy who's stared down more than a few bad days.

"Hey," he says.

Joyce straightens and immediately blushes.

I raise a brow.

"Hey," she echoes, sounding way too shy for someone who just lectured Hopper about kissing teenagers.

His eyes shift to me. "You must be Laura."

I nod. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."

"Jim Hopper." He offers a hand.

I shake it, trying not to be intimidated by how big his hand is compared to mine. "Nice to meet you too."

"You busy?" Hopper asks Joyce.

Joyce glances around at the empty store. "You're our first customer, so..."

Hopper nods, silent for a few seconds.

Joyce scoffs. "What now?"

It all spills out of him instantly.

"It's Eleven," Hopper starts, rubbing his face. "That girl—she snuck Mike into the house and I caught them kissing. In her room."

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.

"And then El, she just—" Hopper throws his hands up, "slams the door. Right in my face!"

"Uh-huh?" Joyce says, shooting me a grin.

"You know, it's that smug son of a bitch Mike," Hopper continues, pacing a little. "He's corrupting her, I'm telling you. And I'm gonna lose it. I am gonna lose it, Joyce."

"Just take it down a notch, Hopper," Joyce says.

"I need them to break up."

"That is not your decision," she argues.

I nod. "They're fourteen. It's their first time in love."

Hopper groans. "They're spending too much time together. You agree with me about that, right?"

"Well, they're just kissing, right?" Joyce asks.

"Yeah, but it is constant. It is constant!" Hopper rants, grabbing an apple from the display and tossing it in the air like it personally offended him. "Okay? That is not normal. That is not healthy!"

I have to turn away, pretending to straighten a display so I don't burst out laughing. Hopper is arguing about two kids kissing like it's a national emergency.

"You can't just force them apart," Joyce says calmly, stamping a product. "They're teenagers. If you order them around like a cop, they're going to rebel. It's just what they do."

"So what—what, I'm supposed to let them do whatever they want?" Hopper demands.

"No. That's not what I said." Joyce shakes her head. "I think you should talk to them."

Hopper stiffens. "No. No. Talking doesn't work."

"Not yelling. Not ordering." Joyce leans on the counter. "Talk to them."

"Like what? A... a 'heart-to-heart'?" Hopper says the phrase like it's a disease.

"Yes," Joyce insists. "You sit them down, talk like you're their friend. On their level. Then they'll listen. And once they're listening, you can set boundaries."

Hopper stares. "Hop, no matter how they respond, you need to stay calm," Joyce adds.

"Okay, so—maybe... you could do it for me?" Hopper asks hopefully.

"No." Joyce doesn't even hesitate.

"Yeah, you could," Hopper says, following her as she moves back to the counter. "Just come over after work."

"No."

"Yes," he tries again.

Joyce ignores him and grabs a notepad, clearly preparing a script for his "heart-to-heart," because she's Joyce and she can't resist fixing things.

The two of them lean over the counter, bickering in hushed voices about the "right words" Hopper needs to say to El and Mike.

I take that as my cue to step away and let them figure out the teenage-kissing apocalypse.

I grab a stack of shampoo bottles and head for the back aisle, settling into a quiet rhythm of stocking shelves, trying to pretend everything in this town is normal.

It isn't. I can feel it. But for now, I'll take the distraction.