The next few weeks, you're reeling. After everything that happened—the pain and the stress and the near-death experiences—you turn in on yourself and shut your new friends out.
You don't have to find a new job straight away, thanks to the bit of inheritance money you have saved up and your final paycheck plus bonus from Waldenbooks. You tell yourself you'll take a month off before you begin the job search, because you need that time to collect yourself and come to terms with everything.
Steve is too good to you. He comes by your apartment to check on you the day after the Battle of Starcourt. He brings you a box of freshly baked treats from the bakery downtown and a coffee. He offers to drive you to the grocery store when he notices your fridge is nearly empty, and then adds that he can drive you anywhere you need to go after dark if you don't feel comfortable going places alone. You aren't sure how he can see right through you.
Steve also tells you to call anytime—day or night—if you need anything at all.
You thank him for everything and promise you'll reach out.
You don't. Two days later, he comes back, once again extending a hand and offering it to you. You make empty promises that you'll take him up on it (fully intending to do the opposite).
One of the days he comes by, he brings Robin. The next time, he brings Dustin and Erica. Your new friends are suffering as well, and you know this, so you're pleasant and friendly and hospitable, but the whole time they're there you wish they would leave so you can curl up under your covers and be alone.
You still don't take Steve up on any of his offers. And, somewhat rudely, you stop letting him in when he comes by. You make up excuses about not feeling well, or you just don't answer the door. You can't allow yourself to get too close to him. That would be selfish, since you don't anticipate staying in Hawkins for much longer.
***
Knock, knock, knock!
"WALDENBOOKS! IT'S DUSTIN! LET ME IN!"
It's 8 in the morning on a Saturday. You're still in bed and fully plan on ignoring Dustin. You pull a pillow over your head to attempt and drown out his screeching, when he says—
"IT'S STEVE! HE'S IN TROUBLE!"
At that, you shoot out of bed like a bottle rocket. You slide shoes on your feet and grab your car keys before yanking open the front door.
"What is it?" you ask, eyes wide and frantic, hair sticking up everywhere. "Where is he?"
"Come with me," Dustin says urgently. "We don't have time to talk, we just have to go!"
You quickly load his bike into your trunk and hop into the car. Dustin navigates, giving you directions to the local park.
You peel into the parking lot and slam on the brakes, accidentally taking up two spaces.
You turn off the ignition and say, "So, where is he?"
"Right there!" Dustin says. He points to the basketball courts a few yards away.
Steve is...completely and totally unharmed. No trouble at all.
He's wearing green basketball shorts and a Hawkins Swim Team t-shirt. He and Lucas Sinclair are practicing free throws at the community courts. Lucas even tries to make a slam dunk—he's a little short for it, but the effort is there.
"I don't get it!" you say, looking between Steve outside and Dustin in your passenger seat. "You told me he was in trouble!"
"He is!" Dustin says. "He misses you. Plus, I wanted a ride to the park. Thanks! Can you pop the trunk?"
You glare at him but press the button to open the trunk. Dustin snatches his bike and wheels it around to the driver's side, before motioning for you to lower your window.
"Sorry for the mistruth," he says. "Oh, and sorry for this. STEVE! LOOK WHO IT IS!"
Steve notices the two of you. His eyebrows raise, surprised to see you out of the house, but he smiles and waves before jogging your way.
"I'll leave you to it!" Dustin says. "See you, Steve. Waldenbooks."
You sigh as he wanders away, meeting Lucas by the court. You give Steve a sheepish smile.
"Hey," you say quietly.
"Hey!" he says, much too bright for how early it is and how rude you've been, giving him the cold shoulder. "How are you?"
You shrug, noncommittal. There's no use in lying and saying you're fine, but there's also no reason to tell him how traumatized you are. He knows it, because he is, too.
"Well, I'm glad to see you," Steve says, filling the silence. He clears his throat. "Hey, actually, do you think we could talk? And walk? Walk and talk?"
You start to say no, but he hits you with a timid, "Please?"
"Sure," you say. "That sounds good."
The two of you meander through the walking trail that cuts through the wooded area of the park, dodging joggers and cyclists.
"Did you end up getting to the store?" he says. "I can do a grocery drop-off, if needed. Or I can go with you, if—"
"Thanks," you interrupt, "but I got there."
"Cool. Cool."
You walk in silence. Mourning doves sing in the branches. A breeze with a slight nip sends a shiver up your back. Despite the fact that it's August, you wish you'd grabbed a jacket.
"Listen," Steve says. He speaks softly—softer than usual—as if he knows you're fragile, that the wrong word or phrase will spook you. "It's not a secret that I like you. As a friend, but also as a lot more. And I'd really like to go out with you sometime. But I understand if you can't right now, or if you don't feel the same way."
"I do!" you blurt out. "I'm sorry, Steve. I like you too, and I know I'm doing a shitty job showing it. The way I've been behaving...I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No, it isn't! You've been nothing but good and kind to me, and I'm not being either of those things. But I have a reason for it, even if it's not a good one."
You suck in a breath and will the courage to say what's on your mind.
"You really don't have to explain," Steve says, as if he senses your unease. He really does see right through you. "If you don't feel comfortable talking about it."
"No," you say, "I can do it." You clear your throat. "By now, you know about what happened to my dad. I left my hometown because the memories of him were too...I don't know. Loud? Prevalent? Whatever. The grief consumed me and I couldn't move past it until I found a new place to be. Hawkins."
You pause, unsure of how to continue. You step on a leaf to bide your time, satisfied by the crunch it makes under your sneaker.
"But then all this shit happened," you say. "And now Hawkins is tainted with grief too." You bark out a hollow laugh. "Or maybe it's not Hawkins that's tainted. It's me. I'm cursed, or something."
"Cursed?" Steve questions, brow furrowed.
"Yeah. Cursed. Like, supernaturally. After what's happened, would that be so surprising?"
"That's fair," Steve mumbles.
You two continue your walk. It isn't until a pack of suburban, speed-walking moms zip past that you finally say: "I bought a plane ticket."
Steve stops walking. You don't notice at first but stop short when you realize he's not right next to you.
"Oh. Are you, uh, going on vacation, or—"
"I'm thinking about moving," you say. You can't look him in the eye as you continue. "To some small town in Nebraska. Or Nevada. Or North Carolina. It's one of the N states, that I know for sure."
You half-expect Steve to say all the shit you've been telling yourself. That you shouldn't run from your pain, that it'll follow you anywhere.
He doesn't. Instead, he swallows hard and says, "If that's what you feel like you have to do, I understand. But I hope you'll stay, because I really like having you around."
"I don't know if I can stay." Your voice is a hoarse whisper as you try not to cry. You've been crying a lot lately, and you don't want to ruin this conversation with your tears. "Everywhere I go, I'm reminded of everything that happened. It haunts me. Hawkins is ruined for me, forever."
"I get it," Steve says. "I really, really do."
You see the parking lot in the distance, the trail having looped around. You start to say a rushed goodbye, maybe with another empty promise about how you'll try to see Steve before you move, but he gently grabs hold of your hand and turns you to face him.
"Before she was a full-time-philanthropist," he blurts out, "my mom was a realtor."
You raise an eyebrow, unsure of the relevancy of this fun fact.
"A damn good one," he continues. As he tells his story, his eyes begin to glow with a kind of excitement and pride you've never seen. "Seriously, she could sell any house. Even the shittiest, most run-down piece of garbage you've ever seen. She'd get future homeowners foaming at the mouth for houses with asbestos, black mold, the works. And it was all because of one thing."
He leans in a little closer, sending your heart into a frenzy, and says: "Good bones."
"Good bones?" you repeat, unsure if you heard correctly.
"Yeah! Good bones. A solid foundation. Even if the paint is peeling and the floors are cracked, you can gut the insides and rebuild, as long as the foundation is sturdy and strong and able to withstand all the crazy shit."
You think you know where he's going with this.
"In this metaphor," you say, "am I the house?"
"Hawkins is the house," Steve corrects. He puts on airs like a salesman, play-acting as a real estate agent. "Sure. The past of this town is rocky."
"Covered in asbestos," you say, unable to hold back a smile at his dedication to this bit.
"Exactly. And infested with termites!" he says with a chuckle. The joking tone fades, replaced by one-hundred-percent earnestness. He squeezes your hand gently. "But, this place could still be beautiful, right? In its own messed-up way, it could be beautiful."
His words stir something in you. You could make this place beautiful, despite everything. You could make this place your home, embracing your pain instead of running from it. And you could do it with your new friends and lovely, sweet, too-good-to-you Steve.
"Yeah," you say. "We could make this place beautiful."
You suddenly feel warm all over at the way Steve's looking at you. You squeeze his hand back and say, "Three weeks."
"Huh?"
"My plane ticket," you explain. "It's for a flight three weeks from now. So you have until September 1st to convince me to rip up the ticket and stay."
Steve nods, as if he's mulling it over. "Three weeks, huh?"
You nod.
His smile widens and he says, "Well. I better get started then."
THE END...FOR NOW.
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