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Chapter Text

July 1994

You sit your daughter down on the brown leather couch that’s flaking in some areas. You both know the drill, but you still run it by her anyway.

“Okay Lucy, I need you to sit here and quietly color. Quietly. Stay here, seated, color, quiet, leaving everyone alone.” You look in her eyes, searching for some understanding. When you think you see it, you pull back and sigh. “I love you, Luck.”

“Love you too,” she mumbles, immediately going back to the coloring sheets on the beat up coffee table.

You look around the small front area of Hawkins Motor. On the front counter, there’s a phone, some miscellaneous office supplies, and no one sat at it. The coffee machine hums in the corner. Dusty frames of classic cars hang on exposed brick. There’s two windows on the far wall. The larger one overlooks the garage. The other is smaller and looks into the owner's office. The owner, Frank Wade, is looking at you through yellowed blinds. He’s handsome for a middle aged blue collar man, with salt and pepper hair, thick brows, and a thicker stache. Even from across the shop you can see the motor grime on his face and neck. You give him a smile, swallowing the anxiety building in your stomach. It’s just you and your daughter’s livelihood on the line if you screw this up. He tilts his head toward the door of the office. You nod, still smiling, and give a silent plea towards the universe to get you this job.

It starts like most job interviews, though Mr. Wade uses half as many words as some of the friendlier interviewers you’ve sat in front of before. Previous jobs? He asks. Waitress for a few years, then receptionist at a law firm in Chicago. You reply. It goes on like that for a bit about your skills and your strengths. You have no idea how you’re doing from his face, but you sound competent to yourself. By the time he’s asked all the regular job interview questions, he looks over your shoulder to the main lobby and you know he’s looking at the adorable 7 year old that has accompanied you to every job interview since she’s been born. You catch him glance down at your naked ring finger. Then he asks the questions that they don’t always ask, but you always know they want to.

“She your kid?” He asks, voice gravely and you wonder if it's because he rarely uses it.

“Yes sir,” you reply, fists clenched in your lap.

“Her dad in the picture?”

“No sir,” You bite your lip. He raises an expectant brow. “Her father left before she was born.”

“Mhm,” is all he answers. He’s watching you, brows pulled tight together. The silence is so thick you feel as though you’re choking on it. You know what he’s thinking, all the words he’s throwing at you with his silence, because not everyone has left them unspoken. You know the assumptions about you, your ability to raise your child, your character, and your values. Your heart is pounding and your cheeks are warm. You’re seconds away from storming out of there and out of this small, stuffy town.

Then he speaks, “she can come to work with you until school starts next month. As long as she stays out of the garage. Ain't no place for a kid.” His eyes meet yours, searching.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” you squeak out, surprise stifling your words.

He nods and turns to search momentarily through a stuffed drawer. He pulls an A4 manila envelope from under a stack of loose papers. Its edges are worn and it's lightly bent in multiple places. He hands it to you, “here’s the information from our last office worker. Sally’s good people and she wrote it all out to help her replacement.” He stands up from the desk with you following suit. He offers his hand for a shake and you graciously accept.

“Thank you for this opportunity Mr. Wade. I won’t let you down,” you give him a megawatt smile. In just a few short minutes, the weight on your shoulders has significantly lightened.

He offers you a small, but warm smile in return, crows feet appearing by his eyes, “I know you won’t kiddo. And call me Frank.”

As you both move to leave the office, you catch a glimpse through the dusty blinds to the couch where you left your daughter. But instead of her seeing her little yellow dress, you spot a mop of dark curly hair sitting where she was. Panic jolts through you until you see her mismatch socks kicking behind him on the far side of the cushions.

Frank leads you back into the main room and gestures to the curly-haired man “This here is Eddie Munson, youngest of the guys in the back.”

“Not like it's a hard target to beat, old man,” Eddie teases, jumping up from the couch. He shakes your hand with gusto. Laughing, you shake his hand in return, giving him your name.

“I was just meeting this wild thing. Says she’s with you. Told her I’d need proof or out on the street she’d go,” he says ending on a little tune, moving to push Lucy out the door.

Lucy can barely get the words out with how much she’s laughing and wiggling to get around him, “she’s my mom! Tell him!”

“I’ll claim her today,” you laugh too, your daughters giggles too contagious to not join. Eddie freezes mid-movement, giving Lucy enough time to run around him and crash into your legs. She buries her face into your stomach, still giggling. You wrap your arms around her and plant a big kiss on the top of her head, “Okay, I’ll claim her everyday.”

Eddie whips around, his movements still exaggerated and playful, but you see him look between the two of you, doing the mental math. “Then, I guess she’s free to stay, as long as you’re here,” he wriggles his finger at her and she squeals, pushing her face back into your shirt.

“She’ll be here starting Monday,” Frank tells them, and identical smiles erupt on their faces.

“You got the job, mom?!” Lucy says, looking up at you.

“Yup, so say hi to Mr. Wade and then we gotta go unpack. Lots to do before Monday.”

Lucy groans good-naturely to all the unpacking ahead of you two, but lets you go. Lucy turns to Frank, a bright smile on her face, and sticks out her hand, “Hi, I’m Lucy, but my mom calls me Lucky.”

Hand in hand, you and your daughter leave the shop and head out onto the main street. The mid-morning sunlight warms your face and birds chirp in the nearby trees. You inhale fresh air and squeeze your daughter’s hand. As you approach the beige ‘86 Honda Accord filled to the brim with moving boxes, for the first time in a long time, you feel as though things are looking up.

Almost four weeks later, you feel settled into your new small-town routine. If someone asked, you still wouldn't be able to tell them how to change oil, but you could tell them what it sounds like when a mechanic knocks over the catch bucket. You had to cover Lucy’s ears for that one.

There’s a rhythm to your life in Hawkins. It’s become a symphony of the dripping of the ancient coffee maker, Lucy’s giggles, the Metallica vs Buddy Holly showdown coming from the stereo in the garage, and the jingle of the front door. Lucy, meanwhile, is thriving at this new pace of life. In Chicago, you barely let go of her hand unless inside the relative safety of school or apartment. Here, she can play in the yard, race you to the car, and make a mess that doesn’t end in a noise complaint.

Summer ends in two days and Lucy starts second grade on Monday. At her insistence, her packed backpack sits ready by the front door, and almost every quiet moment is filled with discussion about the games she plans on playing with her new classmates during recess.

You’re just reaching for your coffee mug, when the bell above the office door jangles and the door flies open with the force of someone trying to knock it off its hinges.

“Eddie!” the stranger calls before their body even crosses the threshold. “My car is making that crr-chk-chk noise again! I’ve got school on Monday, man! You said it was fixed, so if I get stranded in the middle of Elm-”

He stops.

He wasn’t expecting you. It’s obvious in the way his eyes widen and flicker from your face to your collarbone to where the counter cuts off the rest. You take the chance to look at him too. If you had to guess, he’s probably around your age. His strong jawline perfectly complimented by his effortlessly cool and messy dark hair that’s just long enough to curl enticingly at the nape of his neck. For a second, you wonder how it would feel to run your fingers through it and if it’s as soft as it appears.

Then your eyes meet warm, brown ones. You can’t help but to smirk in amusement at him.

He blinks at you, a dusting of pink overtaking his cheeks. “Um,” he clears his throat and gestures vaguely to the back, “Eddie?”

“Under a car, probably,” you reply. “But just to make sure, your car’s not actively on fire, right? Cause they way you flew in here…” you trail off.

He lets out a surprised laugh, “are you calling me dramatic?”

“Your words,” you smirk, leaning forward into the counter.

He takes a step towards you. Despite the counter between you, his smell permeates the air around you, filling your lungs with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood. It leaves you a little lightheaded.

He grins at you and you swear your stomach does a somersault. “I’m Steve,” he starts.

There’s a metallic clank from the garage, then Eddie’s voice bellows, “Harrington! I thought we banned your sorry ass!” He emerges with a shit-eating grin, wiping his hands on a grease rag.

Steve laughs and looks at you, “it was more of a probation period,” he clarifies, amusement in his eyes.

“What brings you in, dude?”

“My car is making that noise again”

“Steve, is it?” You smile innocently, “I think you should make the noise, like you did when you came in, otherwise how is Eddie gonna know if it's the same one?”

Eddie beams, “go on, make the noise, pretty boy”

“You two are sick” Steve grumbles, but does it anyway, “crr-chk-chk.” You and Eddie laugh.

“Yeah, yeah laugh it up.” Steve flips Eddie off. “Seriously though, I need it back by Sunday.”

“You sure are demanding for a guy who pays late,” Eddie chastizes.

“I pay fashionably late, thank you.”

“I’ll do my best” Eddie replies, “no promises,” and you know from the short month you’ve known him, it’ll be done Saturday night.

“That’s all I ask, really, thank you man.”

Eddie just waves him off, “yeah, okay, leave your keys up front and I’ll take a look,” before turning and heading to the back.

Steve turns back to you, he opens his mouth, you think it's to ask your name, but he gets cut off by the bell jingling.

A woman pops her head in, “Steve! Let’s go. I’m double parked and I still have to pick up my dry cleaning before they close.”

She glances your way and raises her eyebrows. Then looks at Steve. And smirks.

Steve sighs, “right, right, gotta get the dry cleaning. You’ll… uh… give these to Eddie?” He holds out his keys for you to take them, and when you do your fingers brush.

“Will do,” you reply.

“Thanks,” he points at you on his way out. “You’re cool.”

You just give a faint, off-center smile as you watch Steve leave with the woman. His girlfriend or wife, you guess. You push down the disappointment bubbling up in your chest. You watch them as they pass on the sidewalk outside the front window. Steve looks back at you and gives a startled half-salute when he realizes you caught him. You answer with a small smile before they’re too far down the street to be seen.

You don’t hear that Eddie has returned to the front until he speaks.

“He’s toast,” he mutters.

“He’s charming,” you reply, still looking out the window. You take a sip of your lukewarm coffee in the stained Hawkins Motor mug.

Then, a familiar girl and an older man walk into view. She’s holding two ice cream cones, both melting on her hands. You don't think she minds though based on the ecstatic grin on her face. She comes barreling into the shop, Frank just behind her.

“Mom! Frankie and I got you ice cream!” She shouts, dashing across the shop. Sticky drips fly from both cones as she nearly slips coming around the counter.

“Thank you, Lucky! And Frankie. That's so sweet,” you coo as you take the cone. It's just as sticky as you knew it would be. Although, you find you don’t care because your heart swells with love and affection for your daughter. Overwhelmed with emotion, you kiss the top of her head.

Holding the one thing you love most in this world, you glance one last time out the window, onto the street, in the direction where Steve went. Ice cream cone in hand, you shake yourself of whatever you might have felt, and remember why you swore off romance 7 years ago. You’ve got Lucy, a job that matters, and enough money to keep the lights on. That’s all you need.

You remind yourself of that, even as your hand still tingles from where his fingers brushed yours.

Steve clicks his seatbelt, but his eyes stay trained on the rearview mirror as Robin pulls away from Hawkins Motor.

Robin doesn’t bother hiding her smirk.

“She’s cute,” she says, popping a grape into her mouth from the bag wedged between the seat and the console.

“I didn’t say anything,” Steve replies.

“You didn’t have to, dingus. You were practically wagging your tail.”

“Maybe she’s into that,” Steve mutters, not sounding too hopeful.

Robin cackles. “I guess we’ll see.”

Steve sighs and lets his head thump gently against the window.

Robin takes pity on him. “Eddie told me a while ago they hired someone who just moved here. I figured it’d be some guy named Mitch or Dale or something.”

“Mitch or Dale?” Steve perks up.

“Yeah, like mechanic names,” Robin says, doubling down.

“Mechanic names?” Steve grins. “Like Mitch or Dale—”

“Or Frank. Or Eddie,” Robin laughs, and Steve joins in.

As the conversation drifts to other things, Steve realizes something:

He doesn’t know who you are.

But he really wants to.

Chapter Text

August 1994

The morning starts with an annoyingly early alarm and tiny limbs wrapped around you like an octopus with bed-head. You both need to get up so you’re not late on Lucy’s first day, but the nights where she sleeps in your bed are dwindling. Last night she stumbled in after a nightmare, clutching her stuffed animal and crying.You rubbed her back until she drifted off again. Now, even as birds begin to chirp, you hold her for a few minutes longer, reluctant to let go.

Eventually you wrangle her out of bed. Lucy sits in front of a plate of warm Eggo waffles, a strip of bacon, and a banana. Her hair sticks up in odd places, her favorite pajama set rumpled. She yawns and stares blankly at the peeling green paint of your little kitchen table, picking at it with a finger.

“Eat Lucy,” you say, muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth. She gives you a sleepy smile before taking a bite. 

You spit in the sink and dart back to your room, stealing a few minutes of breakfast peace to get yourself ready. You try to look presentable, knowing you’ll be meeting Lucy’s teacher and other parents today. You set the bar at no stains and no holes.  

“Mom! I’m done!” Lucy yells from the kitchen. 

You sigh. “Plate in the sink and get changed!” You shout back, running the mascara wand through your lashes. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth!” 

You jab yourself in the nose while switching hands, smearing black across your skin. “Shit.” You dab frantically with a tissue until the damage is mostly undone.

By the time you’re both ready, you’re really cutting it close. Still, you grab the Polaroid, refusing to skip the first-day ritual.

Lucy stands by the door, looking impossibly small and impossibly grown at once. She’s in the outfit that took forty minutes and a mini fashion show last night to settle on. This morning you tamed her wild hair into something neat enough, slipping on the headband that matches her shirt.

She grins wide and you snap the picture. You tuck the developing photo into your purse, along with a banana for yourself. You double check that Lucy has her backpack and usher her out the door.

The late-summer morning is warm, and although not hot yet, by noon the black-top will shimmer with heat. The humidity wraps around your ankles as the dew doting the grass evaporates. Some crickets are still out, adding their sound to the morning birdsong. They seem to be taunting the students who have to return to school today, no longer experiencing the freedom of summer. 

The short drive to the school is quiet, only the low sounds from the car’s stereo break the silence. 

When you arrive, you and Lucy get out of the car and together you cross the parking lot to the low brick building with Hawkins Elementary School written in big white letters. Lucy clutches your hand tightly. With your free hand, you smooth the wrinkles from your outfit, as if that will steady the flutter in your stomach.

“Mommy?” 

“Yeah, Lucky?”

“I’m scared,” Her voice wobbles, bottom lip trembling, and the sight of it nearly undoes you. For a split second, you imagine scooping her back into the car, driving away, figuring out homeschooling somehow. Anything but this. But you shove the thought down. She’s strong. You’re strong. You both can do this. 

You kneel in front of her and rub her arms, “I know, baby. A new school is scary, but remember kindergarten. At first, you were scared but then you ended up loving it.” 

“Yeah,” she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes. “But what if… what if my new teacher is mean? Or… or nobody wants to be my friend?”

“You’re kind and smart and funny, Lucky. Sometimes people don’t see that right away, but they always do eventually. And if they don’t, that’s their loss, not yours,” you reply. “And if your teacher is mean, you can just put a newt in her water.”

Your daughter smiles, despite the tears wetting her cheek. “Where do you even get newts?” 

You laugh, “I’m not sure, actually, but let's see how today goes before we cross that bridge.”

You use the hem of your shirt to dry her face.

“You ready to face the day?” you ask.

Lucy nods, not quite back to her cheerful self, but seems more bolstered than before. You stand, grabbing her hand once more and continue towards the front entrance.

Together you pass through the open front doors and under a slightly crooked Welcome Back banner. You pause just past the threshold, immediately overwhelmed with the mayhem before you. The hallway is overflowing with parents and students, all moving in conflicting directions. The yellow brick walls lined with green lockers seem to stretch endlessly before you. 

Lucy’s grip on your hand tightens. You glance down and try to smile reassuringly, though your own stomach twists. You start forward, slow and cautious, to the second grade classroom.

Making any headway quickly proves impossible and you realize that you don’t know what classroom you’re supposed to be heading to. 

After a kid shoulder checks you as they run past, you guide Lucy to the side of the hall for a moment of refuge. You didn’t think an elementary school could be so cutthroat and confusing.

From your purse, you pull out the crumpled info sheet you got when you enrolled your daughter, smoothing it out against your palm.

“Alright, Lucky,” you scan the page, “we’re looking for room 2A.” 

“Did I hear you’re looking for 2A?” a woman asks, sidling up beside you and Lucy. There isn’t a hair out of place on her head, but her smile is warm. A girl about Lucy’s age clings to her leg like a lifeline. 

“That’s where we’re headed,” she nods to the girl. “The first-day chaos gets real old real fast. She’s my third, and last, mind you.” She leans in like she’s about to share a secret, “my husband wants four, but I told him, if he really wants another one, he can carry them for nine months and push ‘em out.” 

She lets out a bright, genuine laugh, and you can’t help laughing too. Some of the weight pressing on your chest lifts just a little. 

“I completely understand, she’s my only, and I can’t imagine going through it 3 more times,” you say, smiling.

“Exactly,” she winks, and starts down the hall. “Here, I’ll show you where the classroom is.” She moves with practiced ease, expertly weaving between overstuffed backpacks and errant elbows like she’s done this a hundred times. You and Lucy fall in behind her, your daughter walking a little lighter now.

You somehow make it down the hall with all limbs securely attached, all thanks to your guide.

“This is Mr. H’s classroom.” She gestures to a door, propped open and decorated with paper apples. “He’s pretty young, but I heard from Sandy Meadows, who’s daughter was in his class last year, that he is just a gem.” She grins at you and pats your arm, “well, anyway, I won’t chat your ear off, but if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Then she guides her daughter into the classroom, leaving you and Lucy out in the hall. 

“Phew, that was a close one,” you say, crouching in front of her, and making a big show of checking her for injuries until she’s giggling. 

“Are you ready to go inside?” you ask, straightening her little headband and then the straps of her too-big backpack.

She looks at the ceiling over your head, eyes a little misty. She gives a short nod and bites her lip. 

“Oh Lucky,” you pull her into a tight hug, “you’re gonna have such a great day.” 

After a moment, she wriggles out of your hug. “I know,” she says, resolute. “Can we go inside now?” 

You swallow the lump rising in your own throat, wondering just how the tiny thing you brought home from the hospital is this grown. 

“Let’s do it,” you reply, standing up and taking her hand once more before stepping into her new classroom.

The classroom is already half full when you enter. Muted yellow walls are covered in laminated posters, numbers, and alphabet letters. The smell of pencil shavings, chalk, and lemon floor cleaner permeates the air. Parents hover around students, helping them put things in cubbies and find their desks. The chalkboard at the front has Mr. Harrington written in big letters. The name sets off a ping of familiarity in the back of your mind but you can’t place it.

Lucy hesitates by the door, hands tight on her backpack straps. It’s filled to the brim with themed folders and other supplies she swore she needed. 

She’s especially proud of the Lion King folder. It was the last movie you saw in theatres before leaving Chicago and Lucy was instantly obsessed. She wanted to see it again, so you promised she could rent it to her heart's content as soon as it's released to VHS. 

You glance around for the teacher. 

And then you spot him. 

He looks up from where he’s kneeling by a desk, helping a kid tie their shoes, and your brain stutters to a halt. Hair a little messy, sleeves rolled up, that same open expression you remember. It’s the guy from the mechanic shop.

He straightens, blinking at you, squinting like he can’t quite trust his eyes. Not that you can blame him, you don’t believe yours either. For a moment, you just stare at each other. 

“Wait,” he says, mouth twitching into a grin, “it’s you.”

You feel your face go warm. “Me?”

“What are you do- I mean, you’re a parent?” he asks, and without leaving any room to answer, he fumbles on, “Sorry. I’m the second grade teacher, Steve Harrington, who is this?” He gives you both a sheepish smile. 

“Um, this is Lucy,” you put your hands on your daughter’s shoulders and guide her forward. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt.

“Hi Lucy,” he gives her a bright smile. You swear you feel her shoulders relax a smidge. “I believe your desk is right over here,” he points to a spot by the window. 

Lucy trails after him, and you follow, still a little caught up in the fact that Mr. Harrington, your daughter’s teacher, is Steve from the garage. 

He shows Lucy the desk and points out things in the room. Her desk is small and has an open space to put her stuff in. There’s a green notecard taped to the top of the desk with Lucy’s name in uneven handwriting. He compliments her backpack, and she beams. When he tells her about art class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the last of her nerves vanish. 

While they’re talking, you take the time to look at Steve - Mr. Harrington. He’s dressed a little more formally than he was when you met him. His jeans and Members Only jacket were replaced with khakis and a polo shirt. He talks to Lucy like she’s an equal, asking her what she did over the summer, and then casually mentions he’s been to the garage too and even knows Eddie. Lucy’s eyes go wide, pure adoration sparking in them.

The spell breaks quickly when another girl bounces over and introduces herself. Soon, they’re both giggling over some private joke, excluding both you and Mr. Harrington.

There’s a moment of awkward silence as you and Mr. Harrington stand next to each other without the buffer of your child. You look around the classroom again, looking for something to say, ask about, anything. Your fingers absently picking at a loose string. Your eyes land on the bookshelf in the back of the room. It's filled with books of varying widths, all with tattered covers. From this far you can’t make out any of the titles.

You feel the air shift as he turns to face you. You keep your eyes on Lucy, exploring the classroom with her new friend, only looking at him with your peripheral vision. You see him start to speak, then stopping, raking a hand through his hair. When he tries again, his grin is a touch too casual.  

“I don’t think I caught your name before at the shop.”

“You’re right, I don’t think you did,” you reply and give him your name. He’s close enough now that you notice the rich brown color of his eyes. 

“Hi,” he says softly, testing your name out like it’s a precious thing.

Your cheeks heat. “Hi Mr. Harrington,” you answer, biting your cheek to hold back a bigger smile.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing more of each other,” he says, warm gaze searching yours. 

Your stomach flips, “I guess we will.” 

A small hand tug on your shirt startles you and immediately dissipates the something between you two. 

“Mom,” Lucy pipes up, eager to introduce her new friend. You focus on her, clearing your head as the kids chatter. When you glance back, the space beside you is empty. Mr. Harrington already pulled into another conversation.

The next ten minutes blur past in introductions and various hand-outs. You skim the school calendar, noting that parent-teacher conferences are coming soon.

By the time Lucy is settled at her desk and you’re kneeling to help tuck her supplies away, half the parents have left. A glance at the clock squeezes your chest. It’s almost time to go.

Lucy huffs, as you try to run through the contents of her backpack and lunch box again. She’s too busy admiring her brand-new supplies, still pristine after weeks of waiting.

“Okay Lucky, if that’s everything,” you begin, and hearing the goodbye in your voice, her head shoots up. 

“You’re leaving?” she asks, all the confidence and excitement momentarily gone. Your eyes sting in sympathy.

“Yeah, I have to go to work, and I’m sure Mr. Harrington would eventually like to start your actual class,” you murmur. You’re not the last parent here and he’s still talking to the mom that helped you earlier.

“You’re gonna have such a good day, Lucky. You already made a friend, and Mr. Harrington’s really nice.” You brush away a tear before it can slip down her cheek. She nods and folds herself into your arms for one last hug. 

“Is that Simba on your folder? I saw the lion movie with my mom and brother,” says the boy at the next desk, pointing to the folder lying proudly on your daughter’s desktop. “My folder has an iguana playing volleyball on the beach.”

Lucy lights up, jumping deep in conversation with him. You kiss her hair one last time and stand.

Mr. Harrington is busy across the room. So, with one last look at your daughter, and her teacher, you leave.

Leaving the school, you feel off kilter. You tell yourself it's the sudden lack of an adorable but chatty shadow with the added fact that your baby is growing up. But, it's more than the lingering bittersweet feeling that permeates the start of every school year. 

When you get back to the autoshop, it’s later than your usual arrival time. You walk in through the employee entrance in the back. The garage is already loud with lifts, motors, and whatever else they do back there. As you make your way down the narrow hallway with ratty carpet and fluorescent light, you mentally write your to-do list and say a quick hi to any of the guys you pass. 

You peek your head into Frank’s office to say good morning, like every morning, and thank him for letting you come in late today. He just nods and grumbles something that sounds like “anytime.” Smiling to yourself, you continue on.

Entering the front of the shop, you get the sudden feeling that something’s not right, like you’re Mama Bear about to find Goldilocks in your bed. Things have been moved since you locked up on Friday afternoon. The coffee station you so meticulously organized is in disarray. Filters and grounds lay scattered around the ancient coffee maker. And, worst of all, your desk has been messed with and your swivel chair is turned away.

And then as if hearing your thoughts, the chair turns towards you.

“And where have you been, young lady-” says a man with a mop of dark curls sitting in your chair.

You jump back, startled, and your heel catches on a tear in the carpet, sending you falling back and landing on your ass. 

“Oh shit!” Eddie leaps up from your chair and rushes to help you, “I am so sorry! I was just trying to be funny!”

Speechless, you remain on the floor, trying to catch your breath and let your heart rate return to normal. Then, the ridiculousness of the situation and the ridiculousness of it hits you and a laugh bubbles up from deep inside you. Soon, you’re laughing so hard you’re crying and Eddie, laughing too, plops down on the floor next to you.

“I needed that,” you say, catching your breath, “thank you.”

“Rough morning?” He asks.

“First day of school always is,” you run your hand down your face. 

“What makes it hard?”

“Oh, um,” you sigh, “I guess it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that my baby is already in second grade and I’m sad that summer is over and I don’t get to see her all day anymore. 

 “Then there’s being in a new place, and I feel like everyone knows that I’m a single mom who had her kid way too young and is just trying to keep her head above water but I know I’m so so lucky cause she’s such a great kid. But yeah…” you trail off, surprised at how the words just tumbled out once you started.

“How old were you?” Eddie whispers.

“When she was born?” you clarify, and Eddie nods. 

You swallow, focusing on a stain on the carpet, “I got pregnant at 18, had her at 19. Let me tell you, my parents were not happy. And it’s been me and her ever since.” You let out a nervous chuckle.

A moment passes where Eddie is quiet. 

Then, bumping his shoulder against yours, he says, “You know, I repeated senior year three times.” 

“That’s a lot of senior years, Eddie,” you tease, toeing the line between the humor and the earnestness of this conversation.

“Third times the charm, right?” He smiles at you. You don’t stop yourself from smiling back.

Eddie stands up, and then holds out his hand to help you up, which you accept. He uses the momentum to hug you.

You freeze, unsure of how to respond. 

“I’m a hugger, so you better get used to it,” he says. 

You feel yourself thaw, and put your arms around him. It feels nice and familial.

You realize you don’t know the last time you hugged someone who wasn’t your daughter.

Eddie pulls back and pats your head a couple times. 

“Hey!” you smack Eddie’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me that Steve Harrington was going to be my daughter’s teacher?” You demand, remembering that Mr. Harrington and Eddie are friends.

“Steve teaches second grade?” He asks, eyebrows crinkled together. “Honestly, I don’t really think about what Steve does at work.” 

You roll your eyes at him.

Eddie gives you an indecipherable look, “why are you upset that I didn’t? Did something happen?”

For the hundredth time today, your face warms, “What, no? I was just surprised to see the guy that came in on Friday.”

Eddie’s mouth morphs into a shit-eating grin, “the charming guy?”

“Whatever,” you mumble, distracting yourself by moving to clean up.

“Hey, let me do that,” Eddie slides in front of you before you can even get the coffee mess. “I might have tried to make coffee before you got here. It did not go well.” 

You snort, “I can see that.” For the next few minutes, you and Eddie tidy up.

“Hey,” Eddie breaks the silence, “if you ever need a babysitter, let me know.” 

Gratitude washes over you, even if you don’t take him up on his offer. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“Oh but Friday’s are a no-go. That’s when my band plays at the Hideout, a local dive bar.”

“And here I was thinking you reserved your weekends for your ritualistic sacrifices. But really, you’re in a band?” 

Eddie laughs, “Sacrifices are on Wednesday, helps me get through the rest of the week. But, yeah, Corroded Coffins,” he holds out the rocker symbol and gives a couple head bangs. He definitely hits you with his hair. “Best metal band in Hawkins.”

“Only metal band in Hawkins?” You grin.

“Hey, two things can be true! You should come sometime though. My friends, including Steve,” he wiggles his eyebrows, you ignore it, “show up when they can and it's fun with a group, I’m sure they would love for you to join!” His big eyes are so earnest that for a moment you get caught up in the possibility of spending a Friday night at a bar with a group of friends. Then your stomach drops.

“I would love to,” you smile sadly, “but I think my new babysitter is in the band, so I’m not sure that would work.” 

“You can bring her,” Eddie replies.

“Eddie, I’m not bringing my 7 year old to a dive bar. I’m trying not to win ‘worst mom of the year.” You force a laugh. 

Eddie looks disappointed but not surprised, “fair enough, but I’ll make sure you can come at some point.”

You just smile and nod, trying not to let hope unfurl in your chest.

“I should get to work,” you say, moving to your desk, “and I’m sure there’s things you need to be doing, but thanks for cheering me up, Eddie.”

Eddie bows with a flourish, “My pleasure, m’lady.” 

On his way back to the garage, he pauses by the door, “hey, for what it’s worth,” his voice is serious, “I think you’re a good mom.” Without waiting for your reply, he walks out the door.

You take a moment to let the emotional rollercoaster of today settle in you. God, it’s been a day, and it’s only, you check the clock, 10 am.

Steve looks around the high school parking lot, mostly empty after the initial end of day rush.  There are only a handful of cars remaining, including Steve’s BMW. 

Robin slides into the passenger seat and she’s already talking even before Steve can hear her. 

“- And this kid is such an ass, I know I shouldn’t say that about my students, but like he’s actually an ass. I mean who even says that to their teacher? Like it’s one thing to think it, but it’s another to say it. So, I told him that there’s no English in the classroom, and you should’ve seen him try to translate. Ugh I was really hoping he picked a different language this year. You’d think if you fail Spanish twice, you’d move on.” 

Robin’s bag at her feet threatens to spill out the mess of papers haphazardly thrown in there. 

Steve notices the ‘Application’ in big bold letters on one of the sheets. He taps his fingers on his steering wheel, waiting for his best friend to settle and buckle in before he pulls out of the high school parking lot.

“Yeah, but other than that one kid, all of my other students seem great,” Robin continues. 

“So besides the Spanish double repeat, good day?” He asks.

“Yeah, good first day. What about you and the ankle-biters?” 

“I would hardly call second graders ankle-biters.”

Robin waves her hand dismissively, “how was your first day?”

“Good, they just keep getting cuter and cuter every year I teach. But then, I did get snot wiped on my pants, which kinda off-set their cuteness.”

Robin shivers, “ugh, I don’t know how you teach elementary school.” 

Steve ignores that comment, they’ve had the teaching high school vs. elementary school debate too many times. 

Steve nods to Robin’s bag at her feet, “how are grad school applications going?” 

Robin sighs, “why can’t they just let me in? I’m so tired of trying to find the perfect answer for ‘Why do you want to pursue a PhD?’ or ‘What qualities make you a good candidate?’ If I have to work as an elective language teacher for one more year, I’ll scream.”

Steve pats his friend's shoulder, “if anyone can convince a board of admissions that they’re the ideal candidate, it's you.”

“Okay enough about applications and Spanish class, those are the two things I’m literally always thinking about.” Robin sits up in her seat, “tell me about something new, like your love life or something.”

“Um, well,” Steve fidgets with the AC dial, “I saw that woman from Hawkins Motor again today.”

After a couple weeks, you and Lucy finally get your new routine down. Weekday afternoons are filled with homework, putting coloring pages on the fridge, and bed-time stories. 

You’re cuddling with Lucy in her bed, finishing up another chapter in the book you’re reading together.

Lucy is so close to nodding off. She can barely keep her little eyes open. You close the book.

Lucy giggles sleepily, “Mr. H does voices when he reads to us. He did this really silly voice today that was really high. He is so silly.”

Your pulse jumps at the mention of the teacher. You hate that it does. You’ve been doing your best to keep him out of your head, but Lucy brings him home in little ways each day.

“Oh? I’m glad that you like him,” you whisper, tucking the covers up around her shoulders.

“Yeah, I like him a lot,” Lucy yawns again.

“Then you better get to sleep so you can see him sooner.” 

“Yeah,” Lucy melts back into her pillow, closing her eyes again.

“Love you, Lucky,” you say softly, kissing her hair.

As you leave the door open just a crack, you hear her sleepy echo: “Love you too.”