On the eighth visit, he met the owner.
"Kali," she introduced herself, small and feisty with vibrant hues of purples streaked through her hair. There was a lilt in her voice, one rare around these parts, but he didn't have the courage to dive into the territory of personal questions.
They shook hands from across the bar. It was dim and smoky, like always. "Mike," he offered his name, smile amicable. "Kali - Hindu Goddess? Death, time." A beat. "Doomsday. Wow, that makes a lot of sense now."
That earned him one of her smiles, a half-turn of her mouth that was akin to more of a smirk if you squint. "Smart man. I take it you're here for my sister?"
Sister. He knew a bit about El's family from their talks. Deceased biological parents, adopted father, adopted sibling (who now had a face, name, gender). It was information without the weight of specifics - she seemed to skirt around some details, and he wondered if it was because it might give away something that'd finally make him remember who the hell she was.
"Um," he scratched beneath his eye. "I'm just here for a beer."
"You're here for my sister."
Fuck, am I that obvious?
Kali continued like he'd said those very words aloud. "You don't make it difficult to figure out," she tacked on, and he didn't know if he should interpret the look in her eyes as amused or judgmental. Could be both. "You don't exactly look like someone who has friends here."
No bandanas, no leather, no boots or spikes, no crazy Gandalf beard or wildly styled hair. Mike Wheeler was clean-shaven, sporting a Ghostbusters t-shirt under open flannel, jeans, and well-worn converse sneakers. It was just as out of place as the sweater vests he sometimes came in.
Either way, his ensembles screamed fucking nerd.
"You also stay long when she is here, and have only one beer and leave when she's not. I assume it's to make yourself not seem so predictable. It doesn't work well in your favor."
His face flushed and he kind of really wanted to get the hell out of dodge, but his ass remained glued to the barstool. Might as well face embarrassment head on. "She's nice to talk to?"
Yeah, sure, go with that, because that's not pathetic sounding.
"You could always ask for her number, you know."
"Well, the only number she's given me is literally 'eleven,'" Mike confessed, fingernail scraping at the wooden surface. Someone with a sharpie and knife took some liberty on it. Scratched in names, curse words in black, and artistic displays of expressions in the form of blessed male anatomy. Yep, that's a big, veiny penis. "Besides, I'm sure she gets that request a lot. I've seen it."
"Ah, so you've notice the men eyeing her but never even noticed my presence around here." Kali's grin was full of teeth now, wide and bright like the Cheshire Cat's. "I'm intrigued."
Meanwhile he was pretty sure his face resembled a tomato.
Yeah, he realized. That's pretty bad.
The door that led to the back swung open, and in emergence was Eleven carrying clinking bottles of beer in a box. It was clearly very heavy - and her arms were small, bird-boned - so with relief, she set them down, straightened the disarray of her tank top (the face on it, he recognized, was Madonna), and exhaled loudly.
"I see you've met my sister," El greeted dryly, already highly suspicious of Kali's look and mightily concerned about the bright redness of Mike's face. "Is she harassing you?"
"She's not -"
"Only somewhat," her sister replied without shame. "I had to say hello. He's a new patron of the bar and wanted to make sure your service was..." Kali let her eyes flit between the two of them, smug. "Satisfactory."
Eleven rolled her eyes and with a sway of her hips shoved the shorter woman aside. "Yours clearly isn't. You haven't even asked him what he wanted to drink, have you?"
"You're here now for that part."
"Will you go in the back and double-check inventory, then? I think Axel screwed up and we're short on a couple things."
Her demeanor darkened with aggravation. "That fucking plonker," Kali hissed out, right before storming away with Mike a fleeting afterthought.
Not that he minded.
"I didn't know your sister owned the place," Mike brought up. It was early still; the crowd hadn't come in like a tsunami wave to eat up her attention. He also may have timed it that way, but that was neither here or there. Ahem.
The shimmer around her eyes tonight reminded him of moonlight, maybe a little bit of stardust - silvery, matching well with the fine black eyeliner that she always wore. "I figured you'd meet her eventually," she smiled in a way that insinuated she was smothering a giggle. "What'd she say to you anyway?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Oh, something. You're lying."
Friends aren't supposed to lie, either. Damnit. "Can't a guy get a drink first?"
"Nope."
"Like, I'm almost one hundred percent certain the exchange works with money, not gossip. Should I get your manager?"
El studied him, leaning over the bar and slanting her eyes. "You didn't cheat and ask her my name, did you?"
"Pfft, no," Mike scoffed, narrowing his own right back. "I like the challenge."
Apparently she did too, not backing down from their closeness - even with the bar anchored between them - and while it didn't scare him backwards, he felt a warmth spread across his cheeks and hoped, prayed, begged at the Powers to Be that he wouldn't color again.
But he did (because she was so pretty, the kind of mischievous pretty he'd imagine a fairy would be), and she chuckled. "Heineken?"
"Please and thank you."
It was so frosty cold when it was finally in his possession that he could have held it to his cheek, and there would have been excess steam from the contrast in temperature. She excused herself a moment to shelve the bottles from the back. In the background, the jukebox resounded with a tune he finally knew, the lyrics mouthed; where brave and restless dreams are both won and lost, on the edge is where it seems it's well worth the cost -
"You like Pat Benatar?" An open glass jar was set in the middle point, reeking heavily of sweetness and alcohol. Cherry bombs again. They were hers to nibble on throughout the night, and she was kind enough to share the merchandise (she never charged him, but it was two dollars for three of them). "Kali thinks she's too poppish for the bar, but I fed the machine for it anyway. I earned it."
Mike grinned, reaching to pick one up by the stem. "Yeah, she's good. I actually like understanding the lyrics of songs from time to time too."
"God, same," she groaned, and moved around to grab a couple things; a cutting board, knife, assorted fruits. Garnishes had to be prepped for the night. "It's definitely a more of a metalhead crowd? Standard rock n' roll's acceptable, but anything else gets the guys riled up to the point of brawls."
"Hah. I'd love to see that."
El cocked a brow, slicing through the first lemon like butter. "Would you love to help me sweep glass from the floor?"
"Yep," he replied breezily. "I'd clean the blood off the pool cues too, and help you pull the darts out of people's bodies."
Her sigh was so content it was like she was imagining the luxury of his help in a daydream. "That happens more often than you think, and if you're serious then you may just be my favorite person ever - and I might kiss you for it."
The way she said it - so composed, so casual - almost had him choke on the sip of beer meant to erase the taste of high alcohol content from his tongue. Was she flirting? Did she not know what kind of effect her words had on him? Was this friendly bartender talk? Eleven was audacious. Nothing seemed to embarrass her, all while he struggled to keep himself from looking like the cherries shared between them.
Suddenly, the air around them went stale with awkwardness. The knife kept moving. Mike rolled the beer bottle between his hands.
Then, guiltily, she looked up. "Sorry, was that -"
And at the same time, "Would you ever consider -"
Oh.
El beat him to it the second round. "You first."
"Fine." No, not fine, what the hell do you think you're about to say? "Your sister had me kinda thinking."
Her gaze rounded fearfully. "This can't end well."
That really depends, he thought sourly to himself. He'd already dug a shallow grave for himself already that he might as well dig a full six-feet gravesite. "About asking you for numbers that aren't associated with your nickname."
"Are you inquiring about my weight?"
"Seriously?"
"Or my shoe size, which is strange -"
"Definitely not."
"Bra size?"
"Aren't the letters more important than the numbers in that scenario?"
"Technically," she shrugged.
Mike hid his face behind his hands.
Except her fingers, cold and sticky from her work, came to pry them off and she was laughing. Not mockingly like he'd feared, which he at least sought solace in. "Mike, hey - look at me - I'm sorry! My phone number, you can have my phone number."
"You don't have to -"
"I'm not your bad date, and this isn't a pity thing," Eleven interrupted. And he, for some reason, believed her without a shred of doubt. "I want you to have it."
His own fingers were cool, but nothing like hers - and he didn't mind the citrusy mess on her skin as he clasped her hands like he was meaning to warm them. Strangely, it was the first time they'd ever made physical contact. "And I want your phone number, trust me."
"There's a but to this, isn't there?"
"What a plot twist, right?" Mike grinned crookedly. "It's the name thing. I'm not asking you to tell me. I said I liked the challenge. I'll remember you and your name and once I do, then you can give me your number."
Eleven didn't expect those terms. Her teeth nibbled her bottom lip, considering, and with her free hand selected a cherry from the jar. It was pressed against his mouth; the flavoring sweet, tart, and had a bitter bite. "Okay," she whispered in sultry, dulcet tones. "But only if you promise."
He took her offering, and summoned the valor to kiss her decadent fingertips. "I do."
The ninth visit was brief due to a biker convention that overflowed Doomsday's with business. Nothing to really complain about – she would be making a lot of money – but he couldn't even find a seat where she was, and all they managed to do was spare glances and sheepish smiles.
Sorry, she worded with her lips, voiceless.
Good luck, he replied the same way.
Then, something happened before the tenth.
Inside a brick-built corner building, up the third flight of stairs, was his apartment. Currently, it was a mess.
Its location was in walking distance to most things, and while the rent was steep the neighborhood was at least decent; he liked the people in the building, the walls weren't infested with rats and the pipes didn't freeze much during the winter. He could decorate it as he damn well pleased (framed movie posters, for one, were hung all around) and on the shelves was a diverse selection of books, old science trophies, a sentimental action figure or two.
But scattered on the floor of his living room were old paper boxes full of mementos that had spilled over. There was a phone squished between his ear and shoulder, the mile-long chord making its way from the kitchen to where he was that moment.
"Do you by any chance remember if we went to high school with anyone named Eleven?"
He flipped through sophomore yearbook, passing his finger over every picture of a girl that maybe, just maybe looked like the punk pixie that served his beer. It was his fourth time combing through every one of these things, yet he felt like he was missing something. Somehow. In a glaringly obvious, stupid kind of way.
On the other end, Lucas snorted. "No? Is this the chick Dustin was talking about?"
"What?"
"Uh, the bartender? Dustin already filled me in. You called him and Will for the same thing."
Ironically, Mike found his friend's boxed picture to glare thousands of daggers at. "Are you guys talking behind my back?"
"We're debating whether or not your obsession's cute or creepy. Weren't you dating that one girl –"
"Barely. Also, not anymore. Also, not obsessed."
"Damn, man." Lucas didn't even bother hiding his laugh. What a great jerkoff of a friend he was. "You move on quick."
"It wasn't serious," he defended, going onto the next page. "Apparently I was a pity date."
"Did she say that or did you assume it?"
"Bit of both. Doesn't matter. C'mon, Lucas! Help me out here. You're my only hope."
"High school was eons ago and we were the nerds – do you really think I've cared to reminisce over the four adolescent years of hell?"
He sighed, snapping the book shut, ultimately discouraged from sifting through the other two again. It was the same faces over and over; all of them older, some of them a little more stupid with age. Hawkins didn't often get new blood, and those always stuck out like sore thumbs. None of them were El. "You're useless."
"How do you know this isn't some charade for tips?" his friend inquired on. Mike felt his patience dip. "Dustin said she knew you were from Indiana but maybe it was a lucky guess, some kind of con artist tactic. I don't know."
"Is the idea of someone liking me such a foreign concept to you, or are you just being a douche canoe?"
"Don't you dare twist my words, you asshat." There was a ruffling sound and minor white noise before he spoke again. "I just think it's kind of weird? If you've been looking through the yearbooks and no one else remembers her, then she's either a stalker now or was some creepy stalker then that avoided picture day and probably made a shrine of bubblegum out of you."
"Isn't that how you got together with your girlfriend?"
"Hey, I didn't –"
"Max's nickname for you is literally stalker," Mike retorted. Adjusting the phone in its place, he kept his hands free to stack up his mess up. Old, loose photos fluttered around. He snatched them, shoving it all into the box unceremoniously. "You would write down the times she was at the arcade, see if there was a pattern, and make sure you were there every time –"
"Stop stop stop."
"Can't take the shit when it's dished back, can you?"
Another brush of white noise, the addition of a very feminine muffled sound, and snickering paired with a distinct Max, stop it! "He can't," added the devil in question because of course she was there. "Didn't know about the bubblegum shrine, though. Ew. I'm questioning the very foundation of this relationship."
"You're several years late for that." Mike rolled his eyes. "Hey, Max."
"Eat a dick, Wheeler," she delightfully replied, fully in control of the phone. "Sorry about your girl problems. You know how Lucas has to be skeptical of everyone's motives. Ever thought about asking your mom if it's someone you knew from her?"
"That's exactly what I need to do, involve my mother."
"It's a suggestion, geez. Maybe you just have to…think outside the box, I guess?"
"Uh – maybe," came his distracted reply, craning his neck to around to make sure he'd collected everything. He didn't. There was a Polaroid picture on the floor, face down, 84' – Snow Ball written in faded ink on the back.
Outside the box. The only thing left to put away.
Still there, Wheeler?"
Mike was. Physically, at least. Mentally – well, definitely elsewhere. "Max," he started, reaching for fallen memory. 1984. Hawkins Middle School. Cheesy winter dance for kids on the precipice of puberty. "Can you ask Lucas if he remembers…"
"If I remember who?"
He flipped the picture over, and there it was. Him, thirteen, clad in tan and baby blue. Her, same age, a curl on her forehead, in a dress of a slightly richer blue, speckled with fuchsia dots – the same color that was glistened around her eyes. Shimmer.
"Mike. Ranger to Paladin, Ranger to Paladin." Pause. "Over."
Do you want to dance?
I…don't know how.
Me neither.
"Huh," Mike breathed, and his mouth slowly breaking into a smile. "I found her."
Do you want to figure it out?
"Wait, what, who is –"
That smile, that dimple.
"Night, guys."
The phone was discarded. Everything else might as well have been, too, because finally, finally he'd done it – remembered her name, remembered her, all in the decade-old photograph that reflected the last night he'd seen her.
Jane. Jane Hopper.
