"Ah, I wouldn't say that. I mean, how many kids who need it the most actually go to the guidance counselor willingly? I know I sure as hell didn't. And look at me. Not in prison. Which means, knock on wood, I've broken the Munson family curse. Well, at least part of it. Staying in Hawkins is another piece of it that I need to vanquish somehow," he admitted, crossing his arms as his eyes shifted to the other patrons to make sure they didn't need anything.
He nodded, offering a bit of understanding to her choice in coming back to Hawkins. "You know, that's something that misfits do, actually. I mean, yeah, you were popular in school, but you still have this compulsion to help kids not go through what we went through. That's sort of why I started Hellfire. It helped bridge a social gap for us freaks. Your heart's in the right place, but maybe just...let it happen more organically? You haven't failed here. You're just getting started. Promise," he encouraged, smile flashing with a confident hue.
Eddie rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, considering Chrissy's question. "Yeah, I still do it, I just don't have the time for it like I used to. Since I started running the bar, I have to have someone handle the drinks when I'm playing. Didn't used to be an issue, really, but once that factory opened up this place stays busy. The owner doesn't really have the finances to hire additional staff, so I'm usually able to play some if a couple of my barbacks are here. By the way, you've never taken me up on my offer to come watch me play. As it happens, that invitation still stands." Eddie studied her pensively, silent for a few beats before continuing. "I just meant that I was dumb enough to believe my band would take off and I'd be some famous rockstar or something. Clearly, that is not happening," he laughed to soften the blow of admitting the obvious. "What was life like outside of Hawkins? Was it really so terrible that coming back was the lesser of two evils?" Eddie realized he was prying, but returning to Hawkins when you weren't forced to just didn't compute in Eddie's brain. Not when he was a caged animal gnawing at the bars of his enclosure.
Chrissy let the paper umbrella spin a few more lazy circles between her fingers like it might buy her a second longer to answer. "You know, I think that was a really great pep talk," she admitted as she shook her head. "Everyone else tells me I'm fine, or that it'll get better, or that I just need to 'stick with it.' But you, you say maybe I should stop trying so hard. Which..." she trailed off, letting out a huff of a breath, "yeah, might be the exact thing I needed to hear."
Condensation dripped onto a thin cocktail napkin and she traced the water stain with her nail while she listened to him. There was something easy in the way he spoke. "It doesn’t sound dumb," she told him when he laughed off his band. "The whole rockstar dream. It sounds like wanting something big enough to believe in which I think is kinda rare for people."
When he asked about life outside Hawkins, her gaze faltered, dropping to the sticky floorboards again. "Life outside?" Chrissy echoed, buying herself a beat. "It wasn’t terrible. It was... freeing, actually." Weirdly enough, Chrissy had thrived on the outside. She decided her own way of living, without the peering eyes of her mother or ex-boyfriend. "No one knew me there. I made new friends, people I actually liked being around. Go Alpha Phi," she raised one little hand up in the hand and waved it around.
"But it was still lonely. Hawkins might be," she waved a hand vaguely at the bar, at the town beyond it, "this. But it's... it's home, you know?" And as much as she wanted to pretend like she hated it, there was always a special place in her heart for it. It wasn't the town that ever treated her poorly, it was the people in it.
Chrissy took another cherry by the stem, turned it between her teeth before popping it into her mouth and gave him a sheepish smile. "I might take you up on that invitation. Do you think I'll need headphones?" The most adventurous music Chrissy had ever listened to was probably Jump by Van Halen.
tommy watched the paper: the torn edges, the way her fingers moved with so much care it made something tighten in his chest. he wasn’t used to people treating broken things like they were worth handling gently, most people just swept them into the trash and moved on but he could feel her words settle in, heavier than they sounded. i’m really proud of you. that kind of thing didn’t land easy, not when you were used to pity disguised as praise.
his first instinct was to push back, to make a joke, twist it, dull it into something he could carry without choking on it. he could already hear the version of himself that would’ve said something like, guess that makes one of us. he would’ve smirked. she would’ve smiled politely. they’d both move on, nothing deeper shared, no risk taken.
but he didn’t do that. he sat with it instead and let the quiet stretch between them as his eyes dropped to the sticky note on the desk - ripped, rearranged, imperfect. it wasn’t whole but it was still a piece of something, still recognisable. “i think,” he said slowly, like the words were being dragged out of him, “part of me always figured... if i fucked up enough, people would just stop expecting anything from me.. and then i wouldn’t have to keep disappointing them.”
he didn’t look up, but the tension in his jaw eased, like saying it out loud loosened something. “but you didn’t do that,” he added, after a second. “you didn’t sit there and remind me who i used to be. you just... listened. and i didn’t think that would matter as much as it does.”
his foot tapped once, then stopped - nervous energy with nowhere left to hide. “i don’t know how to be proud of myself yet,” he admitted, fingers pressing into the seam of his jeans. “but… i can try to believe you mean it.” it wasn’t a big, sweeping thing, just a line dropped into the quiet between them, like he wasn’t sure he’d even meant to say it out loud once again. his eyes drifted back to the sticky note, the torn edges pushed together into something recognisable, even if it would never be whole again. his mouth pulled into that half-smirk he used when he didn’t want to admit something was getting to him. “that thing’s probably a better metaphor for me than i wanna admit,” he muttered. “busted up, but… still kinda works.”
he leaned back a little, gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “most people wouldn’t bother having this conversation with me but you did.”
and that was the part that stuck - because he hadn’t made it easy back then. he’d been sharp with her, dismissive, they’d circled the same parties, the same people but never really each other. maybe they could’ve got along, if he hadn’t been so determined to hate her by association. if he hadn’t despised jason so much he couldn’t see past the company she kept.
“guess it’s… nice, having someone actually hear you out… are you sure these kids don’t trust you, cunningham?”
Chrissy's sticky note sat torn between them, jagged edges pressed back into place. "Tommy..." she started, a little shake of her head. Her hand hovered near the paper but didn't touch it. Like reaching for it might break the moment somehow. "You've been living with this idea of yourself for so long that it can feel safer to stay broken than to risk someone seeing you try."
This was the part of the job she loved. What made her apply in the first place. Helping people. Helping kids. And as much as Tommy was an adult, there were those cracks that reminded her that he was still someone's kid in there.
She leaned back just a little to give him some breathing room. "I know you don’t believe me yet and that's okay. You don't really have to. That's the thing with pride, it's not something someone can hand you like a gold star sticker and make it stick. It takes time. But trying to believe it?" She gave him the tiniest bit of a smile, "That’s the start. It'll come in time."
Her fingers pressed to the sticky note finally, sliding it toward him. "This isn't a better metaphor for you. It is you. You've put yourself back together, even when people thought you wouldn't. Couldn't," she corrected herself with another shake of her head. "You're not trash to be swept up and tossed out, Tommy. You're worth something. We all are."
Chrissy's eyes softened, but she didn't look away from meeting his gaze when he glanced back. "And I think people do want to bother. They just don't always know how. Or they don't have the patience." Which is probably why Chrissy would recommend therapy and everyone. It was never a one size fits all kind of thing.
"I have the patience. And if the kids don’t trust me yet..." she exhaled, a little shaky laugh at her own expense. It scared her. Not being able to connect with them, but she hoped time would reveal all. "Then maybe I'm still figuring out how to earn it. That doesn't mean I give up."
Eddie's brow furrowed as Chrissy's consistent drip of information switched to a running faucet. He noticed the shift of her body language; poised and composed despite the obvious trembling anxiety resting just below the surface. Before commenting on Lucas, Eddie returned an affirmative nod and soft smile when she mentioned the Shirley Temple. "Absolutely, comin' right up," he replied, turning away from her to prepare the drink.
After adding a special flair (two pink umbrellas and extra cherries with a heavier splash of grenadine) he set the drink in front of her. "One Shirley Temple. You know, rumor has it this is really the liquid courage they talk about. I'm just sayin'. " He rested a beat, with an awkward tap of his knuckles on the worn wooden bar top. "Just keep at it. It takes time for kids to open up and trust. Believe me, I was one of them. I didn't exactly enjoy my trips to the guidance counselor either. But eventually, I opened up a little more. Learned she was just doing her job, and that she actually cared. Just like you do. They'll come around. I promise." Still curious, he inquired "I know you probably can't share exactly what went on during your meeting with Lucas, but if it's something I could help with just let me know." Eddie had a permanently etched spot in his heart for each member of Hellfire, and he felt an allegiance to them. Not to mention his own lack of mentors growing up burdened him with the need to be one himself. Even if his life choices didn't exactly model excellence.
"It's alright, Chrissy. It kind of comes with this job. Plus, I don't mind listening and it's clear you needed to get this all out. Maybe it'll help the next school week go a bit better, anyway."
He exhaled a dry chuckle when she asked if he worked at The Hideout. "Yep, going on a year now. Owner got sick and by that point I'd been playing near weekly shows here for a couple of years. Said he didn't trust anyone else to take it over, and that no one would take care of it like I could. I'm not sure I trust his judgement, but here I stand, and regretfully will most likely remain." Eddie's face spoke contemplation, silent as he considered Chrissy's question. "Let's just say I really didn't expect to still be here four years after graduating. I probably should've known, but I had this Peter Pan naivety that my music would take me far away from here. School was never really my thing. Hawkins is sort of oversaturated with mechanics at this point, though I do some work on the side. I don't know. Maybe I should've left without a plan as soon as I graduated. Maybe that was the key to escaping. Now I'm in the quicksand of sticky bar floors, drunks fighting to be overserved, and peanut shells," he ended, picking up a dish that held discarded shells and emptying it into the trash.
"Which is why the burning question I've had in my mind since you walked into this bar is 'Why the hell did you come back to Hawkins?'" Eddie wasn't trying to be rude. His directness could sometimes come across as brash, which was the furthest from his intentions.
Chrissy took the glass with both hands, her fingers holding the glass so loosely almost as if she held it too tight, it might dissolve. "You really didn't hold back on the cherries, did you?" she asked, the smallest hint of a tease as she laughed at the presentation of the drink. She plucked one by the stem, let it dangle for a second, then popped it into her mouth.
She chewed slowly on the cherry and listened to him. There was something about the way Eddie spoke that made her want to listen. Maybe it was because he didn’t talk like he had something to prove. He never really had, even in high school. Loud, sure, but there had always been a kind of truth to him, even back then, even behind the theatrics. She envied it, secretly.
Now, she let herself really look at him. He was no longer some cautionary tale, but a man behind the bar who had become something like worn in, like a good leather jacket. "God, it wasn't even in a meeting which is, you know, arguably worse," she explained. "It was just... a really weird feeling. If I can't even get them to my office, that's a problem." She figured it was just bar talk that kept this going. Maybe a better tip or something if he kept entertaining her in conversation. But, there was a level of sincerity to it. "But thanks. Really."
And then, the question. The one that had been blooming in her own head since the day she unpacked the last box back into her apartment. Why the hell did you come back to Hawkins? "I wish I had a good answer," she shrugged, eyes flicking toward the bar's sticky floor. "I think I told myself it was because I wanted to help. You know, give the town a guidance counselor who actually cared. Someone who wouldn't just call home when a kid missed class, but actually sit with them. Listen.”
Her fingers found the paper umbrella in her drink, spinning it absentmindedly. "But I guess maybe a part of me thought I needed to come back to prove something. To who, I don't even know. Maybe just to myself. That I could make it out of here and be, I don't know, better."
She leaned forward a little, her thumb tracing a line of moisture down the glass. Her gaze caught his again, a little more focused this time. "I think it still could, the music," she pointed out, point the stem of her umbrella at him. "I mean, I still think this is really cool, sticky floors and all," Chrissy admitted. "But do you still do it? The music thing?"
Nancy could feel she wasn’t done; words still lingered on Chrissy’s tongue that she knew couldn’t be left unsaid. Had it been any day before the party that had put her family in the headlines, maybe Nancy could get away with small talk about high school, or some quip about the article she’d written in the paper.
It hung between them, the silent condolence Chrissy offered, until it dropped in one fell swoop, one sorry that spoke a thousand words. It wasn’t the first apology she’d heard in the past few days, but the one coming from Chrissy felt strangely sincere, without the trace of judgement she’d expected from someone who tended to turn her nose up at anything less than perfection.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “they are.” Maybe that was part of her problem, theirs, that Nancy assumed that Chrissy was still the same as she had been five years ago. But, the girl in the cheer uniform would have never stopped in the parking lot after school to apologize for how the public opinion of the Wheelers had shifted.
Between the lines, Nancy could read a subtle offer of friendship. Friends talked to each other when their family was being interrogated for murder. Being friends again with Chrissy Cunningham, though, meant forgiveness for all the events that led up to them not being friends anymore.
Nancy paused, leaving the offer on the table for a moment. “It is,” she admitted, “lonely. Though, I’ve been spending a lot more time with Chief Powell, so, at least I’m not alone.” A smile cracked through, the same shape as the one she dug the tip of her shoe into. “Anywhere but my house, though,” Nancy added, the grin remaining.
“Try summoning him during class, if he won’t come on his own.” She stifled a laugh at the thought. “Mike just takes a little work to crack, I think, but he—he’ll come around. He likes feeling like something's his idea."
Chrissy nodded a little too quickly like she was agreeing to more than that. She felt it too, even if it came in different shapes and fonts. For Nancy, it was the headlines and whispers and the suffocating press of a whole town. For Chrissy, it was the kind of loneliness that wore a smile and said, 'let me know if there's anything I can do', while never really meaning it.
"I figured as much," a pause, "About Mike, I mean," she was quick to clarify, her fingers tugging at the strap of her bag. She always hated that about herself, that she always had to be tugging or fidgeting with something — a bag, a bow, a pen. "I guess I just hate that you have to go through all this with everyone watching. It's not fair to your family." And because if she was being honest, she didn't believe that any of the Wheeler's were involved with what happened.
"I wasn’t a very good friend to you back then," Chrissy said quietly, almost like it hurt to say. Because it did. And she could have given Nancy every excuse in the book, that it was Jason, or her so-called friends, or the pressure of being Chrissy Cunningham, but the truth was that Chrissy did it. She iced Nancy out, and there was no amount of excuses that could excuse it.
Chrissy thought about walking away. About the dozen other things she should be doing right now. But she stayed put. "I don't expect us to be friends again just because I said sorry, but I'd like to try and make it right," she added with a small nod of her head. "I wasn't there when I should have been and I know it's like, my karmic retribution for the rest of eternity," a small chuckle slipped through, "But seriously, I have this little place past Main Street, if you need to crash or like, talk or just get tired of Powell."
She gave a soft laugh and tilted her head, a hand reaching to scratch above her ear. "Or to brainstorm how to make Mike think showing up was his idea. Reverse psychology works best on the dramatic ones. Trust."
Chrissy's voice was a little lighter now, a kind of hopeful she didn't let herself feel too often. She wasn't sure what she expected Nancy to say in return, but for the first time in a long time, she didn't need an answer right away.
he heard the question: you are doing better, aren’t you? and it landed like most things did lately: quiet, direct, impossible to ignore. it wasn’t judgemental, it wasn’t pitying and that almost made it worse. she meant it, or at least, she was trying to. he stared down at the stack of flyers on the desk, one of the corners creased where he’d pressed his thumb too hard. he smoothed it out again, just for something to do with his hands. anything to avoid letting them shake.
“yeah,” he said finally, the word sitting rough in his throat. “i’m… trying.” it wasn’t said like a performance, it wasn’t clean or polished or deflective. just quiet. honest in a way he didn’t mean for it to be. he rubbed a hand down his thigh, slow. not nervous. just restless. he paused. considered leaving it at that. but then, like it slipped out before he could stop it: “the rumours were true, by the way.”
tommy didn’t clarify. didn’t say rehab. didn’t say detox or facility or programme. he knew he didn’t need to, hawkins was small and people liked to talk. the kind of absence he’d had, long and quiet, didn’t go unnoticed. all he'd ever really wondered was which version of the story stuck. “it wasn’t my choice,” he added, almost under his breath. “not at first, anyway.”
his eyes flicked up to meet chrissy’s, then away again. never long. like he was still figuring out how much he could bear being seen. she was giving him the space to talk - and opening up to someone who knew how much of an asshole he was previously was weirdly something he needed. “everything kind of… blew up,” tommy went on, slower now, like each word had to earn its way out. “carol left me - not that i blame her. she waited longer than most people would’ve. she saw the worst of it and still stuck around longer than i ever deserved.” he shifted in the chair, shoulders rolling back like he could shake the weight of it off. but it didn’t move.
it settled in deeper, if anything - the quiet grief of losing something that had once felt inevitable. carol had been so tightly woven into the idea of his future that, for a long time, he didn’t know how to picture one without her. she’d been chaos, sure, but she’d also been there. someone to come home to, someone who knew how to read the silence in him without asking questions. he didn’t miss the yelling, or the walking on eggshells, or the way they both brought out the worst in each other near the end. but he missed the companionship. the feeling of not being alone in the world. he missed the version of himself that had believed, even through the wreckage, that she’d always be around. that no matter how bad he got, she’d come back. now she was just gone. and he was still learning how to carry the space she left behind.
“so yeah,” he said, eyes back on the flyers. “i’m better. maybe not fixed - whatever that even means - but i’m not falling over drunk in someone’s front yard anymore. and i’m showing up. which is more than i used to do.” his fingers drummed once against the armrest, then stilled.
“and i meant what i said, before,” tommy added, voice lower now. “i didn’t treat you right. not then. i lumped you in with people who never really saw me and didn’t give you a chance to be different. that’s on me but you’re here now. doing this job. being the person you are. and… i don’t know. it’s good."
Chrissy processed each word Tommy said with some kind of professional grace. She didn't want to seem like some uppity counselor, unable to process her own emotions, but she just wanted to listen. She didn't need to fill the space with hums and nods. That was the thing about silence, it would say it all for you.
Her hands stilled against the desk, fingertips pressing lightly to the corner of her sticky note pad where she had been peeling it earlier. A soft, repetitive motion that grounded her. Now, she wasn’t sure she could keep doing it without feeling like it undermined what he had just shared with her.
The rumors were true. She nodded like she already knew. Not in the gossipy way, not in the Hawkins can't mind its own business way, but in the quiet way people know things when they've lived through different shades of it. Hurt had a language. And Tommy's didn't seem all that different.
"Thank you," she said. Not just for telling her, though that was part of it, but for staying. For trying. For letting her into a small subsection of his mind. "You didn't have to tell me any of that. I mean, you did, but not to me." Maybe Carol or his parents or a licensed therapist.
Her smile twitched then. It wasn't the performative one she gave teachers in the hallway or parents at open house night. It was the version of her that cracked through when she didn't have to try so hard to be a million perfect things all at once. The version that got to just be Chrissy Cunningham.
"I don’t think people need to be fixed,' Chrissy said it more to the room than directly to him. "It's sort of like paper," a hand grasped around one of the sticky notes, pulling it off the pad, and laying it in front of Tommy. She ripped an edge off, "See? Pieces can be ripped off," she ripped another piece off, "But, when you put them back together, you see all those little ridges?" She asked, but awaited no answer as she continued with her little analogy as she pushed the ripped edges back to the sticky note like a puzzle piece. A finger ran across the ridges as she looked at him. "It's never quite the same, but they can be put back together. A little messy, sure, but the foundation is still there."
Chrissy leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk. "And I don't need any apology," she added after a moment, waving her hand around vaguely. "Not because you don't owe me one. You probably do. But mostly because this?" She motioned between them, to the conversation, to the flyers, to the ripped up sticky note. "This is better than an apology. Actions speak louder than words, and all that."
She swallowed. "You're not who you were in high school, Tommy and that's the real growth. That counts for something. It counts for a lot, actually." And she meant that. Chrissy may have given compliments out like candy, but when she gave them, she meant them. "I'm really proud of you."
who: nancy & @thequeenofhawkins
where: hawkins high school parking lot
Nancy preferred to stay as far away from her alma mater as she could, but when her mother had asked for her help picking up and dropping off her siblings at school in the midst of the police's ongoing investigation into the house on Maple Street, she couldn't say no. She'd heard the whispers around the office and downtown, the other housewives and former partygoers nitpicking every one of the Wheelers' actions the night their lives had flipped on its end, again.
She stood against her car in the parking lot as the last bell rung. Nancy preferred to hear the chatter amongst the students while her notepad laid in the passengers' seat. Amongst the students came teachers toward their rides, some of her old ones offering hints of silent condolence in the glances they gave her from across the parking lot.
She'd hardly noticed the first-year counselor, who looked like she belonged amongst her students rather than her colleagues. Chrissy had hardly changed since she'd donned the same green and gold uniform a pack of girls walked out of the doors with, headed toward the football field while her former classmate headed home. Nancy nearly found herself ducked in the driver's seat, desperate to avoid whatever quip she had to give about her mother being Hawkins' most wanted.
Instead, Chrissy's eyes had caught hers, and Nancy's window of opportunity to hide had slammed shut. "Hey," she greeted quietly, hoping the interaction would just be quick, in passing. Nancy should've known better than to think anything with Chrissy Cunningham would be quick, as she now stood prisoner to conversation with one of the most talkative girls in town. "I'm just, uh, here to get Mike." She paused, grasping for a subject besides the one that involved a certain sergeant. "Work's ... going good for you?"
Chrissy had been halfway through sorting the stack of leftover permission slips in her bucket bag when she caught sight of her. And really, she didn't mean to stare, but she definitely didn't expect Nancy to take notice and greet her. Chrissy smiled the way she always did, soft and obliging.
"Oh... yeah," she answered, pushing a strand of hair behind one ear with a hand that felt too visible all of a sudden. "Work's fine. Good. Busy, I guess." Liar. Turns out, being guidance counselor of the year wasn't going to be easy and she had gotten mistaken for a student at least thrice by students and faculty.
She could feel Nancy’s reluctance hanging there and for a second, Chrissy nearly let it pass. Nearly just nodded and said something polite about the weather, and move on with her day. But she couldn’t quite let herself.
"I'm really sorry, Nancy," she said and for what? The murder investigation? High school? Chrissy shifted her weight from one foot to the other while she gripped the handle of her bucket bag like a lifeline. "People in this town have always been fantastic at assuming things. Or twisting them."
Her tone wasn't accusatory. If anything, it was empathetic towards Nancy. Hawkins did always have a way with loving people one minute and devouring them the next. And Chrissy had been interrogated too. Surely not to the same extent as the Wheeler's and any subsequent metaphorical beheadings they were getting from the town, but there was a level of everything that she could understand.
Chrissy hesitated, glancing toward the front doors of the school before looking back at Nancy. "You know, if you ever want to talk. Not, like, professionally, um, I just mean... I don't know, I'm sure it might be pretty lonely right now," and before she could fully word vomit, Chrissy followed up with, "I know I would be."
She offered a tentative smile. "And maybe you could give me some pointers on how to round your brother up into my office. I would like to talk to him, professionally."
It wasn’t that Eddie didn’t feel that familiar tug of nostalgia every time he walked through the front doors of the Hideout. He did. The place still smelled like cheap beer and half-spilled dreams, and despite the fact that he now stood behind the bar instead of on stage, the memories of Corroded Coffin playing to half-interested drunks clung to the walls like smoke.
These days, the Hideout had changed, just a little. Ever since that factory opened on the edge of town, the once-sleepy dive had gotten louder, rowdier. Eddie didn’t mind. From his perch behind the bar, he had a perfect view of Hawkins at its weirdest—half gossip, half drama, all small-town chaos. And if the place was packed? Even better. A busy night meant the hours flew by, and for Eddie Munson, that was more than enough.
This was not such a night. He'd counted fifteen visitors, but only twelve were paying. Still, buddies who stopped by always got a free round on him. It was one of the only times he socialized these days. Between the bar and playing shows in his down time, he was lucky if he got enough functioning hours of sleep. But the less he slept, the less he had the nightmares. Seemed like a win-win situation to him.
Eddie was balancing on a chair when she walked through the front door. After tending to the other ten patrons, he set his sights on fixing the motor of the overhead fan. It hung above the bar area and prevented his workspace from turning into a sauna. He had to get it fixed by the end of the night. Wiping his brow with a black bandana, Eddie hopped down from the chair and greeted... Chrissy Cunningham? Here? Not that most of Hawkins didn't slum at The Hideout once in a while... but he'd never seen the former Queen of Hawkins High grace its presence. Though he'd only worked here for a little over a year, he'd frequented for much longer. Never running into Chrissy made him certain she made it a habit not to visit.
"Chrissy Cunningham, as I live and breathe," he greeted with his signature grin.
She ordered a pink lady and made herself as comfortable as she could. And yet comfortable enough that she began to open up to him about her job. Eddie heard muffled talks of Chrissy taking the open guidance counselor position at Hawkins, but he didn't much follow after that. Not for lack of curiosity.
Eddie breathed a laugh, glancing down at the glass that Chrissy pushed toward him. "Oh, I usually stick to beer myself," he admitted, amused by the offer. "But you know, you can hang out at a bar without ordering anything alcoholic. I make a mean Shirley Temple if you're interested."
Pausing in consideration of what she'd shared, Eddie fell silent for a brief period. In those moments of contemplation, he noticed the faintest flicker of emotion in Chrissy's eyes. Emotion which communicated that what she was sharing bothered her more than she'd ever let on willingly.
"First of all? they don't hate you, Chrissy. They hate life. It's not always easy being that age. They're floundering and sometimes they attack the life vest instead of using it to stay afloat because they're panicking. But you gotta keep being that life vest, because when they stop freaking out? You'll be the first stability they'll need. Especially if they don't have any at home." He offered her a comforting smile. "So how about that Shirley Temple?"
Chrissy didn’t know what she expected him to say. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to say anything at all. Maybe she just needed to hear her voice bounce back at her like an echo, proof she hadn’t gone fully invisible because that was how it had started to feel. Like she was some well behaved little ghost.
She blinked when Eddie had answered her. That familiar voice cutting through like something she could tangibly hold onto. She even almost laughed when he offered her a Shirley Temple. Almost. But instead, it came out as more of a faint chuckle. "God, those used to make me feel so fancy when I was a kid," Chrissy admitted, eyes still fixed on the pink drink she had yet to touch.
"I really am trying," she said barely above a whisper, more to the glass than to Eddie himself. There was a breath — a little shaky and exhausted before she looked up. Her eyes were glassy again. Red at the rims. Chrissy knew that taking up the job wouldn't be easy, it was the part of the job description that actually appealed to her. But, it was clearly going to take more than welcoming smiles and obnoxiously pink quilted pillows in her office to create that space.
"I know that it's not about me. I know. But if I can't get through to them, then I'm no different than every other person who was in the same position." And that was the truth that sucked the most. That she wouldn't be able to do the same. Too sensitive. Too much. Too Chrissy. "You should have seen the way Lucas Sinclair looked at me. I mean, you would have thought I kicked his puppy."
She forced herself to sit back despite the urge to let her shoulders curl in tighter around her body and swiped under one eye with the palm of her hand. "I think that Shirley Temple would actually be really nice."
"I'm sorry, I keep talking about myself," Chrissy apologize, shaking her head. It was rude, in some aspects. She had a career, a salary, right out of college. She should be grateful. "You're working here?" It wasn't said like an insult, more of an intrigue. She didn't know where she imagined Eddie Munson ending up after high school, but bartender at a dive bar? Seemed... kind of on brand. "Do you like, like it?"
he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh - small, sharp, half a second too late. “depends,” he said, lingering by the drawer with a glance that didn’t match the lightness in his voice. “are we talking granola or gravel? ‘cause if it’s that one with the dried up raisins, might have to pass on principle.”
but he didn’t move toward the door. he sat down instead, like his body made the call before his brain could object. hands on his knees, jacket still zipped halfway up, like he wasn’t sure if he was staying or just taking a breather before disappearing again.
he looked around the office - not in a nosey way, more like he was taking stock. like being in that chair brought him back to a dozen others just like it, back when people only called him in when things had already gone sideways. same shitty plastic. same pitying voice across the desk. he’d hated it then. he hated that he still remembered.
“i used to hate these rooms,” he added after a moment, tone softer now. “they always smelled like dry erase markers and panic. like something bad already happened and you were the last one to find out.” he let out a quiet breath - not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “i’ve been in a few different versions of them lately. some with nicer chairs. worse coffee.”
his gaze flicked to the flyers, still sitting there untouched. like they were proof he was trying, like handing out neat stacks of printer paper could erase everything that came before. he almost laughed at the thought.
“the flyers aren’t much,” tommy mumbled, “but maybe they’re something. maybe some kid picks one up and thinks, hey - there’s a way out that doesn’t involve lighting a match and walking into the fire just to feel something.” his voice caught there. not cracked, not dramatic. just real. then, like a reflex: “or they’ll turn it into a paper plane and try to land it in your hair. which, fair. i would have done that too.”
his smile faded slowly, not all at once. just drained out of him like warmth leaving skin. he stared down at his hands again - calloused knuckles, bitten nails, the scar on the side of his finger from punching a wall he never told anyone about.
“i don’t think i was ever all that kind to you,” tommy said, quieter now. not an apology - not exactly. just a fact, offered plain. “i don’t think i was kind to anyone, really. not back then.” he shifted, sat back just enough that the chair creaked beneath him. “but i’m glad you’re here. in this room. with your dumb granola bars and your sticky notes and your soft voice. the kids might not trust you yet, but they will.” if only he had someone like chrissy cunningham in his life to look out for him back when he was in high school - maybe he would have straightened up quicker.
Chrissy drew in a breath and glanced at the drawer he had gestured to then back at him. "You're safe. No raisins," she held her hands up in defense. "I don't think teenagers care for anything that isn't covered in chocolate or artificial flavoring." And something told her she wouldn't get away with stashing Doritos and Fruit Roll Ups in her office.
The smile that followed was a soft thing, unpolished. Not because she was trying to smooth things over, but because it felt almost surreal, hearing Tommy talk about bad coffee and lighting matches. It was like they had both stepped through some weird time warp and color her crazy for wanting to get to the bottom of it.
She reached for one of the granola bars anyway and slid it across the desk toward him. Barely a peace offering, but it felt like something. An olive branch of sorts. He hadn't apologized, not really, but it was enough to bridge the gap that Chrissy didn't have to verbalize that what happened in high school was okay.
"You know..." Chrissy trailed off, her fingers picking at the corner of her sticky note pad, "when I was first applying for this job, I remember staring at the application for almost twenty minutes straight trying to answer one of those 'why do you want to work with kids?' questions. And everything I wrote sounded fake. Way too professional, and then I just deleted the whole thing and just wrote, because nobody listened when I needed it."
She didn’t know why she said it out loud. Maybe because he had. Maybe because he had given her that space, unspoken, and she felt like she owed him something real in return. Chrissy was sensitive, vulnerable — that had never been a secret to anyone and it was both her greatest superpower and weakness. But, she never allowed herself to really say the truth. She was always too worried about everyone else.
Her eyes flicked up again and met his. "The flyers aren’t for nothing, Tommy," she said, earnestly. "Even if one kid turns it into a paper plane, maybe another one folds it up and hides it in their locker. Just in case."
Her next words came out like an afterthought, but they weren’t. "And for what it’s worth... we were all just kids. And terrified." Her gaze held his. It was gentle or pitying, it was just the truth. Everyone had their own crosses to bear, and Tommy was no different. "It doesn’t excuse anything, but it explains it."
She sat back and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "We were all just trying to survive this place. Some of us were just better at hiding it than others." So, Tommy liked yelling and punching things in high school. Chrissy preferred to throw her lunch in the toilet and sob next to said toilet.
"You just have to better yourself. There's no amount of handing out flyers that will make it right, but you can move forward. Be better." And she didn’t say it, but she thought it: That’s all any of us are trying to do. Then, a little tentatively, "you are doing better, aren't you?"
"Yeah, a senior," Lucas echoed, sparing her from the barb on the edge of his tongue. That's how years work. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes flitting from Chrissy's face, to the table, to his feet, and then around the gym. Part of him was silently begging for literally anyone he knew to pass through his field of vision, give him an out.
Basketball had helped a lot with Lucas' confidence. He spent a lot of his childhood faking it and overcorrecting for the fact that he was different-- but something about dribbling a ball down a court and sinking a few three-pointers really had helped Lucas grow into himself, stand up a little straighter. Secretly, he knew it probably had something to do with the popularity that came with being good at something his peers valued-- but he'd be locked inside a Russian prison before he'd ever say that out loud.
Still, in front of Chrissie Cunningham, Lucas wavered. Old, familiar feelings of uncertainty and awkwardness flooded his chest. "That's-- uh, that's cool. Kind of different than what I would've expected, you know," he stammered, even if Lucas was still trying to put together how Jason Carver's girlfriend was somehow his guidance counselor. If you asked Lucas, Jason needed guidance more than the rest of them.
"Group B, library," Lucas repeated with a nod. He wasn't trying to be painfully awkward-- really, he wasn't-- but Hawkins had finally gotten something close to comfortable for him and his friends, what with the monsters and Jason Carvers officially banished. A small part of him bristled at Chrissy's encouragement-- a righteous disdain that was a reminder that yes, Erica's blood was his blood too. He wanted to ask just how Chrissy figured Lucas would be good at this-- what she thought she knew about him, exactly.
Instead, he settled on showing Chrissy her own words. "Someone like me?" he scoffed, shoving both hands in his pockets and nodding to her question. "Yeah. So you mean like... a jock?"
Chrissy blinked at the word — jock — like it had been some kind of personal insult between them. She kept her expression soft, but her fingers still tensed around the pen in her hand. She was still learning when to engaged and when to back off. The old Chrissy would have let it roll right past her, deflected with a pretty nod and a practiced laugh. But this version of her, knew she had hit somewhere and so sue her if she wanted to dig a little.
"Not exactly," she said with a shake of her head. "I didn’t mean it like that at all, Lucas." Chrissy glanced up at him and she saw the tightness in his jaw and the shift in his shoulders. The kind of defensiveness that didn’t just spawn from out of nowhere. She just couldn't place where it stemmed from. Lucas was a jock, Lucas was popular, and while Chrissy knew firsthand that it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows — she certainly was curious about what bit under the edge.
"People like an underdog," she explained. And she didn't even mean that as an insult. If anything, it was a compliment. "You didn't always play basketball," and she said it like it was a common fact. It's not like Chrissy knew him all that well, but if he had played before his freshman year, Chrissy was sure she would have known his name beforehand. "You got here and you found your own thing. That's... all I meant by it."
Chrissy blinked down at her notes, giving him a moment to breathe before she lifted her eyes and asked, almost tentatively, a brow raised.
"Did I like, do something to you?" It's not like she could recall a time she had scorned someone in high school, let alone a little freshman Sinclair. And yet, she had felt like she had done something to him.
𝐖𝐇𝐎: Chrissy Cunningham and @eddietheexiled
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: the hideout
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: chrissy what the hell are you doing here loca
The Hideout was the kind of place Chrissy used to pretend not to notice when she drove past it. She would always fix her eyes just a little higher, straighten her shoulders, like she couldn’t be tempted by the neon signs and parking lot cigarettes. It didn’t belong in the version of Hawkins she, and her parents, had trained her to see. The clean one. The safe one.
And now, she had been sitting at the end of the bar for maybe forty minutes. Long enough for her hair to start to frizz from the humidity and long enough for the pink drink she had ordered to soak into the napkin underneath it. She wasn’t even sure why she had ordered it. Drinking meant added sugars and added sugars meant extra calories. And maybe it was just a small rebellion. A way to say: look, I can do it too.
There was something kind of tragic about sitting here like this, she knew that. Chrissy Cunningham — high school sweetheart turned hometown counselor — curled into a barstool like she was hoping the furniture might reach around and pull her into a warm, fuzzy hug. She hadn’t cried. Yet. But the pressure behind her eyes was familiar. Buzzing. Burning. Waiting.
"They hate me," she said suddenly, her shoulders shrugging up to her ears. "And the thing is, I get it. I used to be one of them. Refusing to open up or like, I would just think the guidance counselors couldn't help me because, I mean they never do," she rambled, something resembling a scoff leaving her lips. "And they just don't trust me."
She finally looked up, eyes glassy. "Sorry," she apologized, like she had personally done something to him by word vomiting all over Eddie's proverbial bar counter. She glanced back down at her drink and pushed it a couple inches from her.
"Do you want it?" Chrissy asked, immediately feeling stupid for it. Was it even a thing to be drinking on the job? "It felt, I don't know, wrong to not order something."
𝐖𝐇𝐎: @thequeenofhawkins & tommy.
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: hawkins high school
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: free check-in session, anyone??
he’d already been through the awkward song and dance with the vice principal - dropped off a stack of flyers printed on too-thin paper, smiled through the speech he’d rehearsed in the car about 'community outreach' and 'career development opportunities.' it was all part of the hawkins post’s latest attempt at relevance. internships, mentorships, resume padding for juniors who hadn’t completely checked out yet. and tommy - well, tommy was the delivery guy. which was a cruel joke in itself, considering what school had actually done for him.
he hadn’t learned much in those hallways except how to fake attendance, how to throw a punch without getting caught and how to pass out without throwing up on his own shoes. high school hadn’t been a stepping stone. it had been a slow-motion crash, one he barely limped away from and now here he was, walking through the same halls like he was supposed to mean something.
he was heading for the exit when he passed her door. still open. light still on. ms. cunningham. of course she was still here when all the kids were gone.
he slowed before he could stop himself. just stood there for a second, tapping the edge of the flyers against his palm like that gave him a reason to linger. he could’ve kept walking - should’ve - but something about the soft hum of the office, the half-familiar tilt of her head through the door, made him knock.
“hey,” he said, leaning just slightly against the frame of the door, not all the way in, just enough to be seen. “didn’t mean to interrupt. i’ve got a few extras.” he held up the flyers like a peace offering, stapled and stacked and painfully neutral. “post stuff. internships. mentorships. real exciting, real life-changing.” his voice tilted toward sarcasm, but not all the way. there was a thread of effort underneath, even if he didn’t want it to show. “we’re pretending to help kids get ahead. which, yeah. a bit rich coming from me.”
tommy stepped just inside the doorframe and laid the flyers down on the nearest surface, smoothing the edges a little more carefully than he needed to. a tell. he glanced around - not nosey, not judging, just taking it in.
“figured you might want a few,” he added after a beat. “in case anyone lands in here freaking out about their gpa and trying to figure out how to not become a complete disaster.” he paused, then cracked the faintest grin. “they might as well learn from a guy who already did it backwards.” or... trying to learn.
he shifted back on his heels, settling his hands into the pockets of his jacket. his eyes flicked toward her, thoughtful in that way he got when he wasn’t performing for anyone.
Chrissy didn’t look up right away when he had entered, still finishing the sentence she had started scribbling on a neon pink sticky note. Something about rescheduling a session with one of the freshman girls who cried through most of their meeting. When she finally lifted her eyes, the last person she expected to see in the doorframe was Tommy Hagan.
"Oh... hi, Tommy," she greeted, easing into the conversation, a little taken by surprise. When had she last seen him? Sometime before she graduated, she was sure. "You’re not interrupting at all." Her eyes flicked to the stack of flyers as he set them down. They looked like every other thing the school handed out, but when Tommy seemed to smooth them out, she paused. Maybe he was just trying to keep his hands busy or maybe, just maybe, he cared a little bit.
"Thanks. I'm sure I've got a couple kids who might actually appreciate these," she said, smiling faintly. "The rest of 'em will just turn them into paper airplanes, but... you know. Can’t win them all." She glanced back up at him, studying the way he stood. Halfway in, like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up space here. God, did she know that feeling. The first time she walked the halls again it felt like her lungs were working into overdrive to keep her upright.
"I think I do, yeah," she said with a nod. "I don't think the kids trust me quite yet." Which she couldn't blame them. That was her entire reason for applying for the position. She could count how many people had cycled through her very position and the ones who were no help at all. Of course she would be looked at the same way.
There was a pause, the kind she didn’t mind sitting in, but before the silence turned awkward, she added with a tilt of her head and a hand reaching in front of her, "you wanna sit for a minute? I’ve got probably ten granola bars in that drawer over there. Completely untouched," a shrug. "You know, just in case you're pretending to care about nutrition now, too."
The air was heavy with bright futures ahead, and with every bout of excited laughter or wayward comments about upcoming college applications Steve could feel his stomach drop just a little lower, inch by inch, beautifully complimenting the dull ache that sat in his chest. He found it hard to pinpoint the exact moment that he'd started needing constant reassurance of how well he was doing for himself, but it played like a mantra in his head, as if he was manifesting his success. Or justifying his place here? The details were a little blurry.
With every familiar face that happened to pass through town and stop by his stall he felt an overwhelming need to draw out the conversation, just so that he could offer some explanation as to why he was still here. Tripping over his words as he tried to cram in his courses at Roane Community, his job at the YMCA, his dream of opening a basketball camp. And did he know who he was trying to impress here? Whether he was rationalizing his decision to stay in cursed Hawkins to whatever washed up classmate-turned-businessman who'd happened to stumble in front of his stall, or to himself?
By the time he was done ringing up the queue his head was spinning. And the spinning suddenly ceased somewhat when he locked eyes with Chrissy Cunningham, and Main Street faded away, replaced by someone's living room, or dingy basement, or backyard. Like magnets they'd always seemed to gravitate towards one another, exactly at that point of the party when all your friends where nowhere to be found and the music felt a little too loud and Tina's living room had gotten a little too crowded.
Steve followed her gaze, tiny tin pricks to his chest as he watched the teenagers pull each other along to the next booth. Soon enough that would be Lucas, Dustin, Max, El, Mike and Will. Not a babysitter anymore. Though he hadn't been that for a long time. "That's a ... loaded question", he managed after a moment, still none the wiser on an answer. "I guess? Parts of t, I mean. Not calc. Definitely not anything Mrs. Click ever taught." And definitely not skipping revision for the next exam to go demon hunting in a shadow dimension beneath Hawkins. Although maybe Steve wonders if he was just fucked up enough to miss exactly that. Because wasn't it the Upside Down that had plucked him from prom-king-obscurity, that had laid the foundation for the connections that would shape him into the semi-decent person he was today?
No, he had a new purpose now. And power surges definitely did not make him break out in a cold sweat. The kids skipped to another booth, and Steve turned back to Chrissy. "How about you? Is it weird being back in there?"
Chrissy’s smile was soft, a little apologetic. She looked back out at the crowd, watching the swirl of Hawkins teens with faces flushed and loud with that very specific brand of end-of-summer adrenaline. Half of them probably wouldn’t even remember this day. Chrissy couldn't.
"Yeah, definitely weird," she said after a beat, as she crossed her arms around her chest in a way to anchor herself. “I thought coming back would feel full-circle. Like closure or something. But it’s not that at all. It’s...” She trailed off, trying to piece her own thoughts together. "It’s sort of like being a part of someone else’s dream but seeing it from the inside, you know? It's like I recognize all of these pieces, but they aren't entirely mine anymore." And she had to wonder if he felt the same way. It was like a looking glass of sorts and Chrissy hadn't fully decided whether or not she liked it.
She glanced at Steve, her eyes skimming the tired corners of his face. "I don’t miss the rest, though. The pretending. How small everything felt, how scared I was to step out of place. Kinda stupid looking back on it, right?"
Sometimes she wondered about a different her. A her that wasn't afraid to speak up or a her that didn't subscribe to the politics that was the high school hierarchy. But then, she assumed that wouldn't land her right back where she was now.
Chrissy let her eyes fall to the kids skipping from booth to booth and she nudged at his shoulder. "You think they ever feel that way?" She asked, nodding her head towards them. She didn't have dogs in that fight. It's not like she had spent time with many of them, she didn't know any of them personally, but still her heart ached. High school was brutal, and even more so when so much loss had riddled the town.
Chrissy Cunningham couldn't recall a time where she had actually been in trouble. Sure, she had been questioned by Principal Higgins a time or two whenever a cheerleader had bullied someone or when Chrissy's grades had started to slip her junior year of high school, but never had she been brought into a police station. Her hands felt clammy and she couldn't help but rub them against her skirt as she sat down in a chair in the interrogation room. This was so not like what it looked like on Miami Vice.
MANDATORY PROCEDURAL QUESTIONS:
"Answer clearly and directly ... this is a standard investigative procedure and you are on record. Let's get started."
STATE YOUR FULL LEGAL NAME FOR THE RECORD.
"Christine Elizabeth Cunningham," Chrissy answered, her voice cracking just a hair. If this was the start of her interview, she just knew she was going to flounder it.
WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT ADDRESS?
"303 North Brook Drive, #2, Hawkins Indiana," a pause. "It's the new duplexes off of Main Street." But she was sure they knew that.
WHAT IS YOUR DATE OF BIRTH?
"March 3rd, 1966," she said it like she would as if she were at a doctor's office or at the DMV. It was a routine.
WHAT IS YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT AND JOB TITLE?
"Hawkins High School, guidance counselor," Chrissy couldn't help but grace them with a small smile, her hands flying up. "It's actually like, my first year. I'm super excited."
"Good for you, Christine," Callahan bounced back.
WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE WHEELER FAMILY?
Chrissy’s fingers tensed slightly in her lap. "I went to school with Nancy. We were... friends, for a while. And I had gone to her house a few times, so I know Mike and Mrs. Wheeler through that." Although, it wasn't like she had ever held more than a few words with them.
WERE YOU FORMALLY INVITED TO THE BBQ?
She almost winced. "Well..."
"Well?"
"Well, I guess not formally, per se." There certainly was no invitation stuck to her fridge and she didn't "But, everyone knows about it. It's not like there's red rope at the front door, you know?"
WHAT TIME DID YOU ARRIVE AT THE BBQ?
"What time? I mean, maybe sometime after noon? I'm not very clock savvy." Did people look at clocks wherever they went? How was she expected to verify that? And after the near-crash, she was glad to just have her head on straight, let alone look at the time.
HOW DID YOU GET TO THE BBQ?
"I rode with Steve Harrington, remember?" She asked, like it was obvious and to Powell - it should have been. "He your boyfriend?" Callahan wiggled his eyebrows. Chrissy was quick to let out a laugh, and when she realized that neither Powell or Callahan found it funny, she was quick to compose herself back together.
"No," she shook her head. "I was in the backseat. More of a... taxi situation, I guess," a pause, "Robin Buckley was in the front seat. Again, Powell knows this, I don't see how it's relevant to the case."
CAN ANYONE VERIFY YOUR LOCATION THROUGHOUT THE BBQ?
"For the most part, I think so," she shrugged her shoulders, not out of lack of concern for what was happening, but because she thought that was the truth. "I don't think anyone can vouch for the bathroom breaks I took throughout the night, but yeah, for the most part, people saw me."
HOW LONG WERE YOU AT THE WHEELER BBQ, APPROXIMATELY?
"Until it ended. I think leaving parties before they end is rude, regardless of if ex-husbands show up to ruin things."
HOW DID YOU LEAVE THE BBQ? WITH WHOM?
This was where she was stuck. Steve and Robin had already walked back together and Chrissy took it upon herself to walk back home on her home. "I walked back home, by myself."
"A young woman, at night? All by herself? After that?" Callahan didn't seem entirely convinced of Chrissy's alibi. "What would you have done if someone had approached you? Backflip away from them?" He snickered.
"No," the answer came out more frustrated than Chrissy had intended. "But I have pepper spray, and yes, for the record, I could backflip away."
ARE YOU CURRENTLY UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ANY SUBSTANCES THAT MAY AFFECT YOUR MEMORY OR BEHAVIOUR DURING THE COURSE OF THIS WITNESS INTERROGATION?
"Absolutely not," she said, maybe a little too quickly. Then added, "I don't really drink and I haven't taken anything, prescribed or otherwise."
INVESTIGATION QUESTIONS
HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN MRS. KAREN WHEELER TO LOSE HER TEMPER?
Chrissy hesitated. Her stomach fluttered. Did they think Karen Wheeler had something to do with this? "No, no, I don't think I've ever seen her lose her temper. At least, where it wouldn't be warranted. She's a very controlled woman."
DID YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE OR UNSAFE AT ANY POINT DURING THE BBQ?
She inhaled slowly through her nose. "Not unsafe, but I did feel uncomfortable when Sergeant Sully showed up. I'm not saying he got what he deserved, but he was entirely out of pocket towards Mrs. Wheeler. I won't speak ill on the dead, but it just seemed like he was there to get under her skin. And I don't typically feel safe around rattails."
I SEE YOU ARE GETTING EMOTIONAL. DO YOU NEED A BREAK?
Chrissy blinked, realizing her eyes were glassier than she meant them to be. Maybe it was stupid, but this was stupid. Someone was found dead, and instead of conducting an actual investigation, they were interviewing her and God knows who else. Was she a suspect? An eyewitness? It just made her realized how utterly useless Hawkins PD had always been when it came to deaths around this town. "Actually, yes," she wiped a single tear from her face. They didn't deserve more of her time. And each question just began to feel more and more accusatory as time went on.
"I would like to be excused for a later date until my lawyer can be present."
Even if she was right, Nancy couldn’t stand the idea that Chrissy had read her like a book. Of course she hadn’t come here out of her own volition, or the goodness of her own heart; few people did. But, wasn’t the important part that she was here? Wasn’t it commendable that Nancy had actually gotten out of the house and done something with herself, even if she had to be coerced into it by her mother, of all people?
The way Chrissy spoke of her own parent left an odd taste in her mouth, as though there was something to be looked down upon for those who had chosen to stay home. Or, perhaps, it was simply a commentary on the kind of person she thought her mother was. “Right,” Nancy said, as though she should’ve known. “Well, I hope she’s … well, otherwise.”
Volunteering shouldn’t have been a competition, but it certainly had Nancy shoving down the dread that came with the idea of having to remain here for the next few hours with her former friend, alone. She couldn’t leave now, not when Chrissy was keen on pointing out just how surprising it was to see her here at all. “At least we’re here, and not stuck in our cars,” she pointed out, an attempt to see the bright side.
For the first time, Chrissy sounded genuine, as though there might have been an ounce in her heart that was glad to see her. “Yeah, it’s good to see you, too,” she agreed. “I’m good, yeah. Ireland was … amazing, but it’s nice to be back.” Maybe too amazing: the dream that she could live across a whole ocean checked with reality over each passing day in Hawkins. “You’re working here, at the school, right?”
Chrissy nodded slowly, half her attention still on sorting the endless stack of primary-colored folders in front of them. She didn’t mean to press. Really, she didn’t. She wasn’t trying to fish for confessions or pry under Nancy’s surface like she was supposed to do with the case files that were already piling on her desk — before the school year even started. But, maybe it was a habit now. And maybe it was easier. To try and peel back parts of Nancy instead of digging into her own skin,
"Well," she offered, "I think it’s great. That you went." Her voice was soft, but not insincere. It was hard for Chrissy to be insincere. Maybe a little jealous at times, but never insincere. "It sounds like a dream." Chrissy had made it out of Indiana before. Trips to Lake Erie and Chicago, but never had she made it out of the country. That seemed out of reach.
She reached for another stack binders, hesitating when Nancy turned the question around on her. "Yeah," a nod. She was still getting used to the idea of it herself. Who chose to come back to their old high school? Chrissy Cunningham, apparently. "Guidance counselor. Started this summer."
She hesitated, weighing how much she should say. It had been years since they actually spoke to each other. Years since Chrissy should have pretty much stamped worst friend ever on her forehead. "It’s weird," Chrissy admitted. “I thought it’d feel smaller than I remembered, but... somehow, it doesn’t.” Her voice faded, and she focused on the binders again. Her hands worked in an almost methodical way as she smoothed the creased edges.
“Do you ever think about it? Who we were back then?” It came out before she could stop it. She did always have a bad case of word vomit, always trying to fill the space with something, if she could help it. I mean, I guess it’s hard not to. Especially when you're right back in it."
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