Fireworks (BYLER) [ENG]

ONE-SHOT: Fireworks

ONE-SHOT: Fireworks

New York, July 2, 1992 — Thursday

Will Byers closed the door of the SoHo gallery at six-fifteen, his hands still stained with a stubborn streak of acrylic blue he hadn’t managed to scrub off completely. He was twenty-one, yet on certain summer afternoons he still felt like the kid from Hawkins who used to hide drawings inside Castle Byers. This time, though, he had sold two prints. The gallerist had told him his sea landscape series was gaining traction. “Looks like you’ve finally found the light,” he’d said. Will had smiled and said nothing.

The Line 1 subway was a furnace, as always in summer. The old cars without air conditioning turned every ride into a sauna. He gripped a pole, his thin t-shirt stuck to his back, and thought about Carlton. They had fought about two weeks earlier—not about monsters or the past (Will had never really told him about that). He had only mentioned once that he had suffered a lot when he was younger, that some things were better left sealed in a box. Carlton, twenty-four and a literature student, wanted more: a trip together in the fall, concrete plans, total openness. “You never fully open up, Will. It’s like you’re always waiting for something to take you away again.” The words still burned. Will hadn’t answered. He had just grabbed his jacket and left.

His apartment in the Village was a small sanctuary on the third floor of a red-brick building. Warm, cozy, entirely his. The cream-colored walls were covered with canvases: waves breaking under a golden sky, patches of light that no longer resembled the shadows of the Upside Down. An old wool blanket on the couch, stacks of art books and comics, a thriving monstera Joyce had given him the year before. Will kicked off his shoes, took a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion and the knot in his stomach.

Wrapped in a towel, he sat on the floor with his palette. He was mixing a warm violet when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Will! Sweetheart, it’s Mom.” Joyce’s voice came through bright as ever. “Have you eaten? Are you still painting?”

He smiled. “I’m good. I was just finishing the colors on a new canvas. I want to show it to the gallery next week.”

“Wonderful! Listen… Jim and I are organizing a barbecue for the Fourth of July. Nothing too big, just family and the kids. They already said they’re coming and staying the whole weekend. I know it’s last minute, but… will you and Jonathan come? I miss seeing all of you together. Plus, there’s the ocean here. You could go for a swim… it would do you good to breathe some sea air instead of staying in that city of steel and concrete. You deserve it…”

She paused for a moment, then added more softly, almost carefully:

“Maybe you want to spend it with Carlton? If you’d rather be alone with him, I understand. Or he can come here too, if he wants.”

Will looked out the window at the rooftops glowing in the New York sunset. Joyce had always had a sixth sense for when something was wrong between him and Carlton. The thought of the Montauk beach, the smell of salt, and the seagulls loosened something inside him. After all, it didn’t happen often that everyone—really everyone—got together.

“No, it’s fine, Mom. I’d love to come. Just… I don’t think Carlton will be joining.”

Joyce was quiet at first, then laughed, touched. “Alright. Then…” she didn’t quite know what to say without hurting him, “given the situation… one more reason not to spend it alone. It’s right that we’re all together again for a normal holiday.”

“Normal,” Will repeated softly. They both knew that word carried a different weight for them. Eleven was gone. She had died in the explosion of November 1987, sacrificing herself to bring everything down. The group still sometimes hoped she was alive somewhere, but Will knew. She was gone. And he had learned to live with it. He missed her terribly. They all did.