Don't Blame Me ➵ Steve Harrington

twenty three

Dylan pulled up a chair, sitting down across from Steve, and piling pancakes and hashbrowns onto the empty plate in front of her. The aura was warm, comfortable, but a cold, grey fog hung over the room. This was the first bit of true normalcy she had felt in the last year—yet she couldn't ignore the empty chair next to her father where her sister used to sit. She couldn't help but glance over there every now and then when someone said something Barb would have found funny or when Steve acted in a way that would have made the younger Holland's eyes roll in disgust. When Dylan blew out her candle—placed haphazardly on top of a special birthday pancake (a chocolate chip pancake with a mound of whipped cream smothered on top)—she could only wish for one thing: to know Barb was okay wherever she was now and that Barb knew how much she was missed.

Steve was true to his word. After they were all stuffed with breakfast foods and her parents began to clear up, Steve led Dylan out the door—he never informed her of his plan, claiming it would ruin the surprise. Dylan excitedly (although, begrudgingly) hopped in his BMW, ready for the day Steve had conjured up—Billy, so far, hadn't even crossed her mind once this morning.

He drove for what seemed like forever—a million miles past Kokomo, at least. In reality, the drive had been just over two hours. It only seemed longer because Steve and Dylan insisted to argue over what song was playing on the radio. Every time a new song came on. Until they reached Indianapolis.

While neither of them were that hungry, Steve had made reservations at some restaurant and didn't want to waste them. He pulled up to a small building in a quiet part of the city. Inside was dimly lit with dangling lights, the dark wood and brown leather didn't help brighten up the place either. Dylan shifted on the balls of her feet as they waited for the hostess to show them to their table—the whole place just seemed romantic and after last night Dylan was unsure of Steve's intentions. He must have felt something for her. She might have felt something for him but she was too confused right now to figure it out. This all seemed like a date, a real one, not the sham kind of dates Billy took her on (making out in his car, fucking when nobody was home, watching a shitty movie she didn't like). This seemed genuine.

A woman, not much older than them, stepped up to the podium, smiling at the pair. "Do you have a reservation? Otherwise, we're full."

"Yes," Steve cleared his throat. "It should be under Harrington."

The woman's eyes scrolled down a piece of parchment in front of her and nodded slowly.

"Yes, it's here," she pulled two leather menus out from the podium. "Follow me."

She led them to the back of the restaurant, which was even darker than the front, which Dylan think was even possible without leaving them in the pitch black—but she was wrong. Steve slid into one side of the booth and Dylan slid into the other, both of them in complete silence.

"Your waiter will be right with you." The woman said before walking away.

Dylan wordlessly flicked through the menu, squinting at the tiny words.

"This is weird, right?" Dylan lowered her menu to look at Steve, whose brows had creased together in worry.

"Really weird," Dylan replied reluctantly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "I get what you were trying to do but this didn't us. It's just... weird."

"I don't know what I was thinking," he sighed, shaking his head. "Let's ditch, hey? I have more things planned for tonight anyway."

They ended up just eating street tacos and walking around the city until night fell and the cold started to creep in again. They left the car in the lot of the fancy restaurant and just strolled through the different streets. When it felt like it was getting late, Steve lead her down a shady alleyway and Dylan hesitantly followed him, gripping his arm tightly.