Chapter Text
Chrissy had not been lying when she told Jason that she had a headache. She’d had to shout it at him, actually, over the din of several hundred dancing, laughing, cavorting students and Janet Jackson’s “What Have You Done for Me Lately,” which really didn’t help. She also wasn’t lying when she told him she was going to go get some air, and that no, she didn’t need him to come with her, and yes, he should stay behind with the others and keep dancing and have fun for god’s sake, she’d be right back, she promised, and he’d better save her the next slow song.
She hadn’t been lying. She did have a headache. She didn’t need Jason dogging her steps like a bodyguard. She had every intention of coming back, and she was relieved when he had relented so easily. The pre-party had helped, and the fact that he’d arrived at prom just a little buzzed. Jason could be stubborn and he could be charismatic and he could be so damn convincing—but with a beer or two in him sometimes he was putty in her hands, and tonight was one of those nights.
The tulle in the underlayers of Chrissy’s dress rustled against her legs, a little scratchy and snaggy on her thigh highs, as she made her way slowly down the main hallway of Hawkins High. The prom committee had outdone themselves. The gymnasium was nearly unrecognizable even to someone who spent as much time inside of it as she did. They’d even managed to get rid of that ever-present rubbery sneakers-and-basketballs smell that always hung in the air. For one night only, something magical had been superimposed over the mundane, and for the first few hours, Chrissy had been perfectly happy to let herself be swept away in it.
And then . . .
It hadn’t been Jason’s fault. They’d been dancing to Foreigner, close and slow. Her face had been resting against the warm and familiar crook of his neck. She’d been toying with the short, fine hairs at his nape, and his lips had brushed her cheek, and his hand had shifted ever-so-slightly from her hip to the dip of her waist.
It hadn’t been the music in her head, then, or the pleasant euphoria of the moment. It had been her mother’s voice reminding her with saccharine sincerity that one of the reasons they’d decided to get Chrissy a new prom dress rather than alter her mother’s beautiful 1960s confection of a gown was because she wasn’t quite as trim as her mother had been at the same age.
It’s just too bad, but I suppose it can’t be helped at this point. I’m sure this one will flatter you, though, if you're careful between now and April!
Chrissy winced and massaged her forehead, as if that would get rid of the memory. Not quite a regular headache, but an ache all the same. It started in her head, with that voice, the twinge of shame, and the idea that she wasn’t doing enough. Eventually it would settle in her stomach, and then it would claw its way up her throat, tightening like the spring of a trap, until the only thing to do was get rid of that pressure and wrangle the shame, even if despair always followed because nothing, really, was better.
She’d reached the bathroom. Too quickly. She could hear the sound of a toilet flushing inside, then running water and a peal of laughter and chatter echoing off the tiles. A trio of girls exited and brushed past her. Chrissy thought one of them must have said hello to her, but she wasn’t really paying attention. She was thinking about the cigarettes in her clutch. Donna had given them to her to hold on to earlier and forgotten to take them back. She’d been telling herself she was just going to go in for a smoke and to touch up her makeup, but that—that—was a lie.
She would end up in a stall, hunched in front of the toilet, trying not to dirty her dress and hoping that Jason wouldn’t taste what she’d done when she kissed him later. There were not enough Altoids in the world to mask how much she hated herself sometimes.
I wish you’d show a little more self control, Chrissy, honestly.
She squeezed her eyes shut and turned on her heel to lean against the wall. There was a bulletin board across the hall, cluttered with posters, notes, and announcements. One flyer caught her eye. She walked closer, leaning in to read, though the black lettering was bold and sharp on creased white paper—Corroded Coffin was playing a show at The Hideout tonight.
SATURDAY APRIL 26
9:30 PM
ONE NIGHT ONLY
Well, that wasn’t true. She knew they played there every Tuesday, because every Tuesday for the past month she’d thought maybe, if she was a braver sort of person, she could make good on Eddie’s invitation to see them.
Chrissy stole a glance at the clock overhead. The show started in fifteen minutes. If she sneaked away now and caught a bus at the stop a few blocks down . . .
She didn’t give herself time to overthink it; she had every sane reason to go back into the gymnasium and find Jason and her friends and enjoy the rest of the night. Instead, Chrissy slipped her feet out of her heels and jogged down to her locker to swap them out for the spare pair of sneakers she kept there. Five minutes later she was out the door, moving at a clip through the darkened parking lot and hoping no one would notice her.
At the bus stop, she waited alone, huddled at the end of the bench with a cigarette between her fingers and wishing she’d thought to grab her jacket. It was only as she was boarding the downtown bus and paying her fare that it occurred to her that Jason had likely noticed she was missing by now. Eventually he’d worry, and he’d try to call her parents, or he’d go to her house, and then her parents would worry too. Enough bad things had happened in Hawkins the last few years—kids disappearing, murders going unsolved, entire malls burning to the ground—that they were bound to think the worst.
How the hell was she going to explain this?
Too late. She’d figure it out later. Might do them good to worry about something real, for once.
The Hideout was a short walk from her stop. She’d been out this way plenty of times, but mostly during the day, and rarely alone. At night, there was an eerie quiet to this part of town that raised goosebumps on her arms for reasons that had nothing to do with the chilly spring air. She was grateful for the rumble of sound that grew as she neared her destination—though it also sparked an anxious giddiness she hadn’t been expecting and had no idea what to do with. It reminded her of how she’d felt when Jason had asked her out for the first time three years ago, when she’d seemed to be on the edge of something inevitable, with him.
It didn’t make sense that she should feel that way now. There was nothing inevitable about this. She was choosing to come here, tonight, for reasons she still hadn’t examined very closely.
The Hideout was exactly what she’d expected for a dive. All sticky floors, pervasive smog of cigarette smoke in the air, deep shadows and poorly lit corners. Against one wall, a jukebox stood in an obvious state of disrepair beside a stained pool table. The bar was sparsely populated by the sorts of people her parents would be mortified to know she’d voluntarily shared oxygen with.
Soon she was deep enough into the room that she could actually feel the music rattling beneath her feet and vibrating in her chest. And to say there was much of an audience at all in front of the small, dilapidated excuse for a stage, practically hidden at the back of the bar, would have been generous. Even the people that did seem to have come for the show looked to be more interested in their drinks or in their partners, and the one man she’d thought was dancing was, more likely, just very, very inebriated.
It was impossible to miss Eddie, though. Not that there was anything surprising about that. He may as well have been the only person up there—though this was just because he was the only member of Corroded Coffin she knew, and it wasn’t like she knew him that well, and, okay, he looked really good. Ripped black jeans (did he even own any other type?) and a ratty black V-neck T-shirt (she’d totally forgotten about that tattoo on his chest peeking out) and his hair just . . . all over the place, like it might be a separate entity altogether.
What was really getting her, though, were his hands and the way they moved on the guitar. That was captivating—more than the hair, or the sweat she could see on his throat every time his head tipped back, or the way he moved, or even the sound of his voice joined with the roar of the music and the lead singer, which was not what she’d expected but was also not bad.
It was him. It was all him. Eddie Munson was improbably, shockingly, fatally fascinating.
These were all dangerous things to be thinking this soon, at all, but she couldn't help that she had eyes.
Keeping to the shadows and feeling like a grade-A creep, Chrissy made her way nearer for a better vantage point, careful not to be too obvious; like the girl wearing a full-skirted electric-blue prom dress to the shitty downtown dive bar could be anything but. She wished she had someone to tell about this absolutely absurd thing that was happening, because even now she was starting to find the whole situation funny. Who was going to believe that Chrissy Cunningham had ditched prom to go to a metal concert?
Oh, she was so, so screwed.
At least the music was loud. It was impossible to do anything but let it consume her attention, and it was impossible to worry about how the hell she was going to explain this when forming a coherent thought was difficult. She wouldn’t be trading in ABBA or France Gall anytime soon, but now that she was here and fully in it, she could see the appeal of this too. It was almost enough to dampen the sharp resurgence of that weird giddiness when Eddie noticed her. She caught the double-take, and the way his face twitched into this baffled little smile, only for a second, before it was hidden again behind the mass of his ridiculous untamed hair.
After that, her ability to keep track of time was entirely compromised. She was swimming in noise and the warm dank dark of the bar one second, letting it get under her skin and frizz the over-styled curls of her hair, and the next there was a scream of feedback and Eddie speaking (“We are Corroded Coffin, and thank you as always for being such stunningly enthusiastic patrons of the arts.”) and the dissonant clamor of the set being torn down. Chrissy took a couple of steps forward, as if she was going to go up there and say something to him. Did people even do that at things like this?
She caught Eddie looking at her, though, as he wound a bundle of electrical cords into a tidy loop. Automatically, she raised a hand and gave a small wave, which made him smile again—fleeting and bemused—before he returned his attention to his work. God, she’d just waved like a huge dork at a pep rally. Clearly, Eddie was busy, and clearly, Chrissy was out of her element.
. . . show a little more self control, Chrissy . . .
She needed to get outside.
She was loitering on the curb, a second cigarette half-smoked and balanced between her fingers, when she heard The Hideout entrance swing open to release a burst of the muddled cacophany within.
“Chrissy Cunningham has come to The Hideout! I thought my eyes were deceiving me.”
Chrissy whirled, a little clump of gray ash flying from the end of her cigarette, and regarded Eddie in surprise. She really needed to stop doing that—being surprised by anything that happened tonight. All bets were off. She was in some sort of bizarre freefall now and was just going to have to see where she landed.
She grinned up at him and ignored the way she shivered (it was the chill, not his arrival, she swore). “You invited me, remember?”
“Ahh, I remember saying you should come to one of our shows, but I also remember that there’s a certain big-ticket event tonight at ye old high school that all the good little boys and girls haven’t shut up about since January and that you definitely would not miss.” He glanced at her dress, chewing on his lip, then plucked at the ends of his hair. “I also didn’t actually think you’d show up. Liiiike . . . ever.”
The dynamic shifted. Was he nervous?
She was trying to think of something to say when Eddie bent suddenly and dramatically at the waist until his head was nearly level with her knees. At first she thought he was bowing to her, which made no sense—but then he made a show of squinting down at something at her feet, one hand resting on his hip as the other flew up to scratch his head. Startled, she took two steps back and nearly tripped off the curb.
“What are you doing?”
He straightened, arms folded over his chest. “Checking to see if you’ve got both your shoes on. I was starting to worry we might have a Cinderella situation on our hands.”
“Oh.” Chrissy gave a short, breathless laugh. She grabbed her skirt with both hands and lifted it a few inches off the ground, kicking each foot forward in turn. “Nope. Both shoes are intact. Though I had to swap the heels out before I left.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Always a good choice.”
“And I came by bus, not pumpkin.”
“Well, well, well. Better not give it ‘til midnight just to be safe, though, right?”
He was looking at her again, more openly than before, maybe because she had relaxed and had played his game, and Chrissy didn’t mind one bit. She felt pretty tonight. She liked her dress—the bright blue skirt, the silky black bodice studded with twinkling sequins, the deep V-waistline, the delicate lace gloves. She liked the way Eddie was watching her expectantly and that she could see the wheels turning in his head, though she couldn’t fathom what he might be thinking.
After what felt like a very long time, he blinked and rocked back on his heels.
“Hey, are you planning to stick around a while?” he asked.
“I guess I was.”
“Great. Uh, just give me ten minutes. Gotta go finish helping the guys load the van and, you know, make myself decent.”
“Sure,” Chrissy said, peering past him to the flickering light above the door. “They’re not going to wonder where you’re going off to?”
“I was just going to tell them Chrissy Cunningham is out here waiting for me.”
She dipped her chin and gave him a dubious look. “Is that a good idea?”
“Jeff and Gareth won’t believe me, Harry will forget by tomorrow—possibly within the hour.” He shrugged. “It’s as good as any story I could come up with.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at him sidelong, fighting another grin. “Yeah, I’ll be here.”
“Great. Hm. Here.” He shrugged off the leather jacket he’d come out in and held it out to her without ceremony. ”You’re a vision right now, but it’s a little cold for the”—he vaguely mimed at her shoulders, avoiding her eyes—”whatever you call these.”
“. . . straps?”
“Yeah, that.”
“Thanks.”
He started toward the door, then looked at her over his shoulder like he expected her to have vanished. “Seriously, just . . . wait there.”
“Seriously, I will.”
Eddie disappeared through the threshold with yet another incredulous look, and Chrissy gave the jacket a once over before pulling it on. It was warm and well-worn, quite literally held together by pins and chains in some places, and it had a vaguely dusty smell that was tolerable enough while she waited, distracted by the moments before. He’d called her a vision, just said it, not like he was trying to get anything out of her with it. It had been unexpected, and she could tell he’d meant it, even if half the things he said always seemed to be just shy of ironic. It had warmed her up even without the jacket.
She was still thinking about that, replaying it in her mind as her cigarette burnt down to a crumpled stub, when he reemerged. He’d found a flannel shirt somewhere and put it on over his T-shirt, and his ubiquitous denim vest over that, and he had a guitar case strapped to his back. Still, he looked more than a little disheveled, and his eyes were bright and his face slightly flushed as if he’d only just stepped off stage.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She stared at him for a few moments, waiting. “I thought you said you guys only played here Tuesdays.”
“You really do remember that, huh.”
“I told you!”
Another disbelieving huff. “Their usual Saturday night act broke up last week.”
“Oh.”
“We got super lucky, obviously,” he said. “Way, way bigger crowd than usual.”
“Really?”
“Nope. Pretty sure there were actually less people, which defies all logic, but— I’m thinking next time we should aim to actually drive them away. Then we’ll know we’ve made it. Corroded Coffin: famously bad for business.”
Chrissy snorted a laugh, then tried to cover it up as he fished around in his pocket and came up with a fresh pack of cigarettes and a shabby little matchbook.
“So,” Eddie said, lighting up.
“So . . .?”
“What’d you think of your first metal show?”
She shook her head. “It’s not my first.” Eddie only narrowed his eyes, so she pressed on. “You guys have gotten a lot better since middle school.”
That won her another grin. “Yeah. Yeah, well. We have six years of practice and the successful completion of puberty to thank for that.”
“The hair probably helps too.”
“Totally. The one thing I have going for me.”
“I liked the song toward the end,” she said, smiling. “Something about a tiger, or something?”
Eddie’s lips pursed, and he raked a hand forward rather than backward through his hair, partially obscuring his eyes. “Tiger . . . oh! Hah. That’s ‘Holy Diver’. Great song.”
“Not yours?”
“I wish. Maybe one day I’ll be worthy of licking the dust from Ronnie James Dio’s boots. Most of the rest was ours, though.”
She nodded slowly and accepted the cigarette when he offered it to her. “You guys are good.”
“Hmmm . . .”
“I’m serious!”
They meandered a little way down the sidewalk, passing the cigarette back and forth while Eddie talked about some of the other songs they covered sometimes and Chrissy watched the occasional car roll past. The next bus came and went.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” Eddie asked abruptly.
Chrissy glanced back the way they’d come. “What, at The Hideout?”
“Fuck no. Jesus.” His body rocked with an emphatic shudder. “Not unless you want a basket of bar nuts that’s been sitting out since the place opened thirty years ago. And possibly a staph infection.”
“Okay, wow. No thanks.”
He considered. “What about the new diner?”
Chrissy shook her head. “Mm-mm, no. People will be heading there after prom.”
“Can’t be caught with the Freak, eh?” He asked it in a way that sounded mostly like a joke, though she sensed there was a part of him that meant it and might even have been hurt by the possibility.
“No, not that, just . . . Jason’s going to have missed me by now. He’ll be worried, and if he’s there looking for me or anyone else we know is there, I don’t really want to have to explain”—she waved a hand broadly—“anything I’ve done over the last two hours to him. Not yet.”
“Need time to formulate that perfect cover story.”
“Right.”
“Got it. Well, we got some pizzas before the show. There was still most of one left last I checked. We can go back to the van and drive somewhere a while.”
If anyone else had been making this suggestion, Chrissy would have been on high alert. It was, by all accounts, the sort of offer that ought to set alarm bells ringing. But since it was just Eddie—when had he become “just Eddie” anyway?—it sounded like a good plan. They headed down a narrow alleyway to the parking lot behind The Hideout, where Eddie’s van hulked beside a sagging dumpster.
She hadn’t been inside his van before; the handful of times they’d met for deals over the last month, they only ever stuck to the usual spot in the woods behind the school. She also hadn’t really been in such close quarters with him, which she only noticed when he settled into the driver’s seat beside her and turned the key in the ignition. Her first thought was that he didn’t really smell that great, but that she didn’t mind it. Eddie after a show smelled like stale smoke and drying sweat, cheap beer and old weed. But there was something else there too, just a hint, that Chrissy liked—leather, a little bit of metal, and what she thought might be cheap cologne or soap. The van sort of smelled the same.
In the back, the drum kit rattled around, and she stole a look over her shoulder at the assortment of musical instruments, food containers, clothing, and other paraphernalia, all an array of ordered chaos.
“I should have asked before—I hope you didn’t have any other plans tonight that I just crashed,” she said, as if there was anything to be done for it now and he hadn’t already made it apparent he preferred this—whatever this was—with her.
“No plans. Unless you count ushering my lady Varda back home for some one-on-one time. She’ll forgive me though; I worked her pretty hard earlier.”
“Your . . .”
Chrissy trailed off, neck hot. For an instant she worried that she’d derailed a date night or whatever “one-on-one” activities a guy like Eddie might get up to with girls who had names like Varda. But then her brain caught up, and she couldn’t believe she’d almost been jealous of—
“Oh, that’s what you call your guitar, isn’t it? Varda?”
“My very own Queen of the Stars.”
“That’s some . . . nerd thing, right?” She didn’t mean it as an insult and trusted he wouldn’t take it as one. More than that, she hoped he didn’t notice the relief in her voice.
“It is indeed some nerd thing.”
“Sounds about right. I wouldn’t have expected you to name it something like . . . Susan.”
“Susan?” He laughed. “You ever read Tolkien?”
She shook her head.
“No one’s perfect, I guess,” he said.
Chrissy certainly was not perfect—they were both far from it—but for once it felt good to be reminded of it. She didn’t think Eddie cared if she was. Might even like that she wasn’t. It was a strange concept to wrestle with, and they drove, and they talked, and when they reached the edge of a park he pulled over. They took the leftover pizza up to the roof of the van—she was grateful for a leg up from Eddie, because despite her nimbleness, her dress was cumbersome—along with a few cans of pop he’d unearthed and a couple of joints.
She let her feet dangle over the back, her voluminous skirt hitched up around her knees. The leather jacket she still had not given back enveloped her comfortably. She guessed she and Eddie were beyond the possibility of this being awkward. It was a familiar enough scenario by now (at least, being alone with him was), and everything else felt like something she would have speculated about but never actually done.
But why not? She was here, and she hadn’t burst into flames. She was still herself, just more comfortable than she’d been in weeks. Chrissy picked at the crust of her pizza, contemplating a second slice. When she looked up to ask Eddie a question, she caught him staring at her with his mouth slightly ajar.
“What is it?” she asked, her original question already forgotten, and decided to have the second slice after all. It was gross and greasy and cold, and for all those reasons it was also perfect.
His eyebrows rose and he looked away with a broad, close-lipped smile. “Nothing. I just can’t believe you ditched prom. Like all-in, left-your-date, changed-your-shoes, took-a-bus-downtown-to-The-Hideout ditched prom. My god!” He heaved a long, wistful sigh. “It's beautiful, is what it is. Maybe there’s hope for the kids yet.”
She huffed a laugh and pointedly ignored the way it sent a chunk of congealed cheese flying into the night. “If it helps, I can’t believe it either.”
“I’m very proud of you, of course, but what’s gotten into you, Miss Cunningham? Inquiring minds want to know.”
The question provoked a defensive twinge in her chest. She shrugged, chewing longer than she needed to buy time.
“I think,” she said, “it’s the same thing as when I came up to you last month and asked if we could meet in the woods.”
“Okay. Sure.” Eddie shifted, leaning his weight back on his hands and letting his legs drop over the edge of the van to match hers. “Which is?”
Now she was quiet. She flicked a manicured fingernail against the side of her soda can.
“You can also totally ignore that question,” he said quickly, “and we can just go back to shooting the shit. Which is fine. Absolutely fine. I’m probably better at that.”
Chrissy thought back to that day in March. She’d been so nervous to approach Eddie at all, felt like a criminal as she’d quietly cornered him in the hall after first period and asked him if he was selling and he’d told her, casual as anything, where to meet him and when. She’d still been an anxious mess later that day, waiting in the woods by a decrepit picnic table, catastrophizing. He’d be disinterested at best, she’d figured. More likely, he’d be mean and dismissive, and he’d probably make fun of her, even though he was the one selling baggies of weed out of an old factory lunchbox and she was the one paying for them.
But that wasn’t how it had gone at all. He’d been weird, but funny and kind—completely disarming in the end, almost too easy to talk to. She’d left that day feeling lighter and better, and she hadn’t even smoked what she’d bought until later that week. It was like that when she went back the next few times too; he clearly hadn’t believed her when she’d told him she already finished the previous supply, but he never questioned it. It had become an excuse to see him. And now she was doing things like this, so . . .
“No,” she said. “It’s okay, it’s just . . .” She stopped herself from telling him that what she was about to say was stupid, though she still half believed it was. “I want to make people happy. That’s all. And my mom is never happy with me, whatever I do. I try so hard but—” Chrissy took a breath and stared at her knees. There was a run in one of her thigh highs. “She’s . . . difficult. She caught me in the bathroom one night after dinner—um. Making myself throw up. I thought she already knew but I guess she didn’t, and I was pretty humiliated, but I was relieved too, you know? Because I thought if she saw what I’d been doing—then maybe she’d understand. She’d feel bad and she’d say she was sorry and just . . . she’d help.” She was picking at the run, which was now a hole, unspooling one tiny silken thread after another over her kneecap. “But she just fucking sighed, like I was an annoying little kid. And she told me that I wouldn’t need to do that if I had more self control, and if I kept this up I was going to ruin my teeth. And then she closed the door and went back to doing the dishes.”
Eddie had not been asking for all of that, she knew. She stopped wrecking her hosiery and looked over at him, fearing he’d look bored or, worse, like he pitied her and found her confession disgusting. He stared at her for a few moments, though, lips pressed in a tight little line, then tossed his head back and said, “Well, Jesus H. Christ—fuck that and fuck her.”
Chrissy laughed ruefully. The tension in her throat and shoulders melted. She hadn’t even told Ms. Kelly that story. It felt good to say, and it felt even better to have someone else give voice to what she’d been too afraid to feel.
“You asked what’s gotten into me lately, and I guess that was it,” she said. “Or where it started. It hurt so much, but then I was so pissed off, and I couldn’t stop being pissed off. I’m sick of her getting into my head. Plus all of this would make her furious if she knew. And I . . . it’s been good, getting to know you.” She drew a deep breath and released it, then frowned and said, “I think I need better coping mechanisms.”
“You could do worse than a marijuana discount and skipping out on lame antiquated social rituals. Besides, another month and you’re done with high school. Done. The end. They can’t make you do anything then. Not legally.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way, nor was she convinced it was true—but it seemed as good an opportunity as any for a change of subject. “I heard a rumor you’re finally graduating.”
“Every now and then rumors are true.” A slow, blissful smile spread across his face until a dimple formed on his cheek. “Goddamn finally. Third time’s a charm, as they say.”
“In that case, let me be the first to congratulate you, Edward Munson.”
He made a strangled sound and flopped heavily backward, gagging, convulsing, performing for an audience of only one sad girl. “Oh jeez, not Edward, you little monstress.”
“You can’t gag like that when they announce you to walk, and they are going to announce you.” She gave him a coy look, then her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, oh my god, wait, you’re going to have to go to the ceremony. In a cap and gown! How will you survive?”
“You laugh now, but wait and see, Cunningham, wait and see. They can call me whatever they want. Just glad to have it all behind me.”
“All I know is someone, somewhere, is going to take a photo of you like that, and I want it,” she said.
“For what? Blackmailing purposes?”
“I have to have some way to make sure you’ll still talk to me after we all graduate, don’t I?”
His mouth dropped open like he’d forgotten what he was going to say—for a second he was fully slack-jawed speechless—and then he just laughed. She could swear his cheeks had darkened, though, enough that she could see it under the flickering streetlights. In the spirit of the moment she was tempted to tease him. But when he made a show of turning to find a match and his hair obscured his face once again, she let it alone.
Between them, they finished the pizza and sodas, then passed a joint back and forth like they had the whole night to kill. She asked him what he wanted to do after school. It came as no surprise when he said whatever got him out of Hawkins, even if it wasn’t his music; she was surprised, though, when he told her he’d be sad to leave his uncle Wayne behind. He said it felt like a raw deal to the man who’d never asked to be saddled with his shitty brother’s shitty brat but had raised him the best he could anyway, and who Eddie knew would be lonely without him even if it was how things were supposed to work.
Even so, Chrissy envied Eddie’s certainty and momentum. People thought he was a slacker and a freak, but he knew himself and what he wanted. It was attractive. Her idea of the future was less concrete. She’d been applying to colleges despite, or maybe because of, her mother’s implying that it was a waste: Chrissy was too pretty to bother with a degree when she and Jason would probably get married and have babies in a few years anyway, and it wouldn’t do any good for them to go to different cities for college beforehand, god forbid.
She didn’t tell Eddie that. But she did tell him she was thinking about getting a degree in history or art or something, out on one of the coasts, hopefully, it didn’t matter which—her grades this year had been suffering, but it didn’t need to be one of the best schools. Just a degree, because that was what people did after high school; just a reason to go away, because lately that was all she could think about.
Going away, getting gone. There was just something about Hawkins, she thought, that made a person want to leave it behind.
“The whole town feels like a . . .” She shook her head, watching the faint glow at the end of the joint between Eddie’s lips. A cloud slipped over the half moon above. “Like a warning. Some days. Does that sound weird?”
“Totally weird. Though you’re talking to me, here, so . . .”
“Weird is good.”
The corner of Eddie’s mouth ticked upward. “My uncle says it’s cursed. I used to think that sounded badass, but I dunno. Cursed with boredom, maybe. Boredom is the mind-killer. Get the fuck away or perish.” He waited for her to accept the joint, then said, “Hey, maybe we’ll end up in the same city for a while and you can turn up to another one of our shows.”
“I’ll need to find a better outfit first.”
“No, no, no, you’ve gotta be completely overdressed the way you are right now. It’ll make it easier for me to see you out there.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Because by then Corroded Coffin’ll be playing sold out venues.”
“Exactly. Absolutely. No question. And then we can find someplace better to eat afterward.”
Chrissy smiled. “Yeah, okay. I like that idea. Let’s do it.”
It was easy to say. It sounded too much like a pipe dream, and those sorts of things never actually came true.
They didn’t bother with the second joint. It was getting late, and the first had done enough to quiet her nerves about getting home and facing her parents, who Jason would no doubt have contacted by now about her disappearing act. She’d have Eddie drop her off far enough away from her house that they’d have no idea she’d been with him. There was little to be done for the telltale scents her night out had baked into her dress and hair. No matter what way she cut it, she was in trouble, but she just didn’t care.
Eddie slid off the roof first, then reached a hand up to help her down, though she could have managed well enough on her own. It wasn’t her fault that she got distracted by the feeling of his callused fingers pressing hers, or that part of her skirt snagged on the open door and made her tilt awkwardly in a reflexive attempt to preserve her dignity. His hand tightened around hers as she tumbled down. She landed, just barely, on her feet, pinned between his body and the side of the van.
It was like something out of a movie. So stupid. But after how the rest of the night had passed, all she could do was laugh, leaning her weight against him and pulling him closer to her even though there was barely space between them to begin with. He gave a huff of surprise, but his free hand slid to her waist. It was the same place Jason had touched her earlier that had set this whole night in motion, but the last thing she wanted to do was pull away.
“Uhh, Chrissy?”
“Eddie?”
“You okay there?”
“I’m great.” She was speaking into his chest, so she tilted her head back to look him in the eye. He had very pretty eyes. Very dark, very warm. All of him felt very warm right now. “I’m great,” she said again, and bit her lip. “Thanks for the help down.”
Eddie smiled down at her uncertainly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Not quite an invitation, but a door left half-open.
“Should we . . .”
“Shh-shh-shh,” she stuttered, giggling again as she drew herself up, looped her arms behind his neck, and kissed him on the lips.
He was half a step behind her, but once he caught up, it was heaven. His mouth was far softer than she’d expected, and his hands—both of them now—tightened at her waist, lifting her to her toes and keeping her in place against the van. She dragged her hands, perhaps too quickly, too eagerly, up into his hair. There was nothing to keep Chrissy from burying them in it now, and there was no hiding the fact that she had been wanting to touch it all night. It was soft and there was so much of it to tangle her fingers in and comb through and tug —
Eddie groaned a little when she did that, but it was an encouraging sound, so she drew her nails over his scalp and did it again.
He wasn’t a bad kisser—maybe a little intense, but not aggressive, not too forward with his tongue but eager and obliging when she made it clear she liked that too. Her updo was already beyond saving, the jacket sliding off her bare shoulders, and now he was cupping her face like it was the most amazing thing he’d ever held. How long had he been waiting to do this? Because this wasn’t—this didn’t feel—like kissing someone who was just taking advantage of a casual opportunity. Eddie was kissing her like the skies had opened up and he knew that at any moment she would come to her senses and flee the storm.
What senses, though? She’d left those in her locker, tucked away with her heels and corsage, right?
He drove more firmly against her, enough to make the van rock and send an empty soda can rolling off the roof, one arm braced behind her back. She gasped and hitched one leg up, near his hip, until he could slip his other arm beneath and lift it higher. There was still way too much skirt between them, tulle and lace catching at rings and chains, but he wasn’t deterred. His hand sought, frantic and desperate. Fingers dug against the back of her thigh, kneading, groping, then brushed upward to bare skin.
“Oh my Christ, you’re wearing thigh highs, what the fuck, Chrissy,” he rambled where his mouth had moved from her lips to a spot beneath her ear. She felt fingers slide between the sheer fabric and her skin and pull it downward, just a few inches. “Why would— What the fuck, that is not fair.”
That was not a reaction she’d been prepared for, she hadn’t even been thinking about the thigh highs anymore, and she couldn’t help the short, gasping laugh that escaped her throat in lieu of a real reply. She wouldn’t have minded hearing more about what Eddie thought of her choice in underwear tonight.
God. Shit.
She’d worn them for Jason.
For Jason, because they were supposed to go to a hotel after prom. How in the world had she forgotten? Not that it would have been their first time together—that ship had sailed the summer between sophomore and junior year—but because it was a special night. Which she had ruined. Because she was out here, with Eddie, letting him stroke her thigh and kiss her throat and make her laugh.
Chrissy wasn’t even regretting it. She really, really did not want to stop. She wanted to hear what other ridiculous, sexy things Eddie would say if this continued. She wanted to know how else he would touch her and what it would be like to stay out all night and wake up with him and go home, for once, thoroughly, unrepentantly pleased with herself.
But she was still the one to disengage and dip her face away from Eddie’s questing mouth to say,
“Shit. Shitshitshit. Eddie, wait, I’m sorry. Can we—”
He stopped kissing her immediately, though his face lingered against her cheek. She felt the small puff of a sigh on her skin as he pulled back.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured.
He loosened his arms around her but stayed close, like he worried she might bolt.
“No, really, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”
“Look, I get it.” He held his hands up, palms facing toward her in surrender. “Don’t worry. I can get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.”
Chrissy frowned, baffled to the point of momentary distraction, and choked back a laugh. “Okay, I did . . . not have you down for a Murray Head fan.”
“Fan is such a strong word.”
Eddie cleared his throat and reached forward to pull her dress strap back up her shoulder, and the jacket over that. He rested his hand on her upper arm, watching her face as she chuckled and tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“Not that I feel bad about cuckolding King Carver, or anything,” Eddie went on. “Full disclosure.”
Whatever tension was left dissolved as Chrissy once again tried her best not to laugh and finally failed. “Be serious!”
She playfully shoved him away from her, regretted it, and pulled him back by the front of his shirt to keep her hands curled against his chest.
“I am,” he said. He was fussing with the ends of his hair again. “And you’re . . . still with him.”
“Yeah.”
“So if this is something that you’re going to feel bad about, even if I don’t, then maybe we shouldn’t. That’s all.”
For someone as theatrical and borderline unhinged as Eddie could be, these sober moments knocked her off balance.
“I . . . don’t. Feel that bad,” she admitted.
“Really.”
She looked down.
“Interesting.”
“I should,” she said. “I do, I mean, I do. Because it’s not fair to him, but—”
Shit.
That was the other thing she hadn’t mentioned to Eddie as they exchanged post–high school plans. She’d been trying, since February, to work up the courage to tell Jason she thought they should take a break when they went off to college. At first, in her head, she’d framed it as something for him—he should be able to be unattached and not worry about her, and when they decided to get back together they’d be all the stronger for it because they’d know they really wanted each other.
That was such bullshit. It was about her, and the fact that when she thought about their future, she felt nothing.
Jason was good to her. They were good together. They were exactly the sort of people that were supposed to be together and . . . apparently, at some point that had become something she no longer liked the idea of. He loved her; she’d loved him. She had, for years, and it killed her that she couldn’t figure out when that had changed. Maybe that was a sign. She just couldn’t bear the idea of making him unhappy.
Except, after tonight—even if she hadn’t just made out with Eddie Munson at almost midnight in the middle of nowhere and loved every second of it—she and Jason were going to have to have that conversation. There was no way they weren’t going to fight about it, and she and Jason did not fight, she hated fighting, and she’d never been argumentative or contrary or—
“Hey, Earth to Chrissy.”
Eddie shook her shoulders gently, then dipped his head to look her in the eye. His palm rested on her cheek.
“Ugh,” she uttered.
“Sorry?”
“Not you. I just . . . I don’t think I can do this. I want— If you could—” She covered her face with her hands, sighed, and dropped them to her sides. “I need to figure a few things out.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sounds that way.” He pressed a quick, almost distracted kiss to the top of her head and shifted to lean against the van beside her. “Anyway, looks like my cards are on the table now. Make of that what you will.”
Chrissy nodded. Maybe this had all been a long time coming, whether Eddie had been involved or not. She could push through to graduation and avoid making the next month and a half of Hawkins High a living hell for herself, maybe spare Jason a little bit of pain. Or she could say “fuck it all” when she got home tonight and see what the next six weeks brought—because it would be anything but boring, at least—and breathe a sigh of relief when it was over.
In a perverse sort of way, she was happy about it. The terror and the thrill. She’d forced herself into a corner. Would finding her way out be worth it?
“I won’t tell anyone,” Eddie said. “If you’re worried about that. My client confidentiality policies also cover ill-advised makeouts. Very discreet services across the board.”
“I know. I wasn’t worried.” Despite herself, she smiled. “Though I was thinking that instead of me being your client, we might be friends by now.”
“Oh, we are. We are. There’s no getting around that fact.”
“Good.”
“Pretty scandalous stuff.” Eddie stayed near, indecisive, then wrapped his arms around her and held her for a few moments. His chin rested on top of her head. “You’re okay, you know.”
Chrissy let herself melt against him and hugged him back. Whether he knew it or not—she hadn’t even known until he’d gone and done it—this was all she needed right now. In fact, if he held her any longer she thought she might cry, so she was glad when he let her go and ambled them both toward the passenger door with an arm slung over her shoulders.
“Let’s get you home, Cinderella.”