Finally, my art school applications are finished. For weeks now I've been looking forward to when I can go straight to Hopper's after work instead of holing up in my room or searching for striking scenery to paint. Hopper has been kind enough to let me use a tucked away cabin he owns as a base for my explorations in the woods.

I pull up to the bar, smiling as I remember the last night we spent at the cabin, and the amazing things he did to my body. I've always found fall to be the most romantic season. And last night, cuddled under in a blanket in front of the fireplace with a bottle of hard cider and nothing between us reinforced that. I trace my finger along the key on my keyring. The most important one. With all the time I've been spending at Hopper's place, the key makes sense. Still, the fact that he gave it to me means so much.

I've got a double shift today, but it should be fairly slow. I'm looking forward to having some time to think. Every time I've seen Hopper this week, he's asked me if I've sent in my applications. I've told him (and myself) that I'm putting the finishing touches on my applications. But I'm terrified to send them. I'm worried that by sending them, I'll be taking a step away from the Hopper. The step that ultimately sets us on two divergent paths. The thought feels like a gut punch and stops me from

I know it's stupid. I got to watch up close while my parents' marriage failed and my mom fell apart. I know better than to plan my life around a guy. Or at least I should know better. When I'm with Hopper, I feel full and at peace. I don't want to risk giving that up. Is formal schooling really more important than being happy? I don't need to go to art school. But I do feel like I need to be in Hopper's arms. That's what makes me happy. I know that's a simple life plan, but what's wrong with that? I'm happy with him, I can be happy in Hawkins. I worry I'm risking all that happiness by moving away. And that fear keeps me paralyzed to take the next step. I mull over my options my whole shift, and I know I should just mail the applications – who knows, maybe I won't get in, and the decision will be made for me. But I don't want to risk it.

When I drive to Hopper's, it's late and I'm tired, but I could navigate to his place blindfolded. I can't wait to be in his arms, cuddled up together.

"Hey, babe," I greet him with a kiss, startling him out of his dozing on the couch.

"Hey," he says with that easy grin that melts my heart and makes me want to tear his clothes off.

I plop down beside him as he sits up.

"How was work?"

"Same old. Nothing too wild. But I had to call someone to pick Harriett up. She got way more sloshed than normal."

"For all her antics, that old bird always gets through unscathed," he says, shaking his head with a smile. He looks at his watch. "You worked late tonight."

"Yeah, I asked for a double today. I'm trying to clear my schedule this weekend. I need to go see my dad."

"Yeah? How come?"

I sigh. I don't like thinking about or talking about my dad. And I'm dreading having to go see him. "I'm hoping he'll pay for art school, assuming I'll get in."

"You'll get in," he interrupts with a smile.

"I'm glad one of us has confidence in me. I figure I need to ask him in person. I haven't seen him for a few months, anyways."

"Makes sense. Let me know if there's anything you need."

"Well...I was hoping you might be able to come with me. That way you can meet him."

The shift in him is immediate and drastic. He bolts upright and starts pacing.

"We don't have to decide tonight. I didn't mean to put you on the spot with that."

"Look, it's just...he's not going to like me. If you're going to ask him to invest in your future, maybe he shouldn't think I'm going to be part of that future."

His words pull me up short. A worm of doubt in my head – does Hopper himself plan not to be part of my future? "I don't understand," I say instead.

"Do you remember how much your mom hated me at first? And fathers tend to inherently dislike the daughter's boyfriend."

"That's not the same thing. Look, Hopper, you're too hard on yourself. You're a good guy!" I stand, reaching up to lay my hands on his shoulders to still his movement. "You've got a good job serving your community."

He scoffs, but I ignore it.

"You're smart, supportive, and good to me. My dad might be a jerk, but he won't hate you just for dating me." I feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Also, he doesn't know about...well, you know you have a reputation here."

He shrugs off my touch. "I'll think about it. But I don't know if it's a good idea."

I feel myself deflate a little bit, but I shrug off the sadness. "Okay, if you are willing to go...would you also agree not to drink during the visit?"

"You want me to meet your father sober?" he asks incredulous.

"I mean...yes. That doesn't seem like that much to ask."

He walks to the kitchen and opens another beer. Silently he takes a few gulps.

"I'm not trying to criticize you. I just want to acknowledge reality that my dad will not like it if he sees you drinking. It's just one day without booze."

"Obviously I can stop drinking if I want to!"

"I didn't say you couldn't." I keep my voice low. I have never seen this side of Hopper before, and I don't like it. Apparently I've touched on something without realizing it.

"You know, this is bullshit. You knew, better than most, what type of man I am before you wanted to get involved with me. For months you've served me alcohol and you weren't complaining while you were taking my money."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I've lost my ability to try to placate him now. "If you want to accuse me of something, come out and say it. Though I don't know what that could be. Practically from the day I met you I've been trying to help you."

"I don't need help!" he yells as he whirls to face me.

I take a step back, instinct telling me to cower and hide. "That's not what I meant," I answer in a small voice.

"I should have known better. I should have known that goody-two shoes here wouldn't be satisfied with the man I am. So, what, I've been a repair project for you this whole time?"

"I am not a goody two shoes! How dare you reduce everything I am to the same basic stereotype that everyone else here does. You know me better than that. And I love you. I just want what's best for you."

"And it just so happens that what's best for me is the changes you want to see in me."

"C'mon, you know that's not what I meant."

"Okay, then I want to hear you say it."

"Say what?" I ask exasperated.

"That you'll be happy if I never change from this point forward."

"Well right not you're acting like an angry drunk, so yes, I would like that to change."

He slams his hands on the counter, the noise making me jump. "I knew it. I knew that I wouldn't be good enough for you. This," he jabs a finger at me accusingly, "is why I didn't want to date you in the first place. I should have trusted my gut."

"I don't want to be around you while you're like this. We can talk about this more tomorrow when you're sober. Or at least relatively sober," I add on a mutter.

"What was that?"

"Forget it," I spit and head to the door. I shake my head and clench my jaw.

I hear glass break and I whirl back around, my anger at Hopper instantly replaced by concern. And then anger comes flooding back. He dropped his beer bottle on the floor.

"Hopper, what the hell?"

"This is what you want, why are you complaining?"

"Why am I complaining that there's broken glass on the floor, seriously? You're going to hurt yourself." I don't know if he's sober enough to avoid the broken glass.

"Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you. Give you more of an argument for why I should be sober. Reinforce that I'm a project that needs fixing."

"Stop it," I scold, my patience run out. "You don't insult me and my love for you. If you think that's how I see you, you're out of your mind," I yell.

He just goes to the fridge and starts pulling out bottles and tossing them over his shoulder into the sink.

"Hopper, knock it off!" He ignores me, completely trashing the kitchen. I stalk over and grab his arm, trying to stop him.

"Get off me," he snarls, pushing me off his arm.

He breaks my grip, and I have to step back to regain my balance. Then my foot slips out from under me, and I crash to the floor. My back hits the counters behind me. I try to break my fall, hands reaching for the ground, when pain shoots up my right arm. My palm burns, and I wince as I look at the cut. I pluck a thick chard of glass out of my palm. Blood oozes out of the wound. I might need stitches.

"Tricia," Hopper whispers, his voice no longer angry. He stands frozen above me.

"Fuck," I mutter, my eyes welling up with tears. I lean back against the cabinets, struggling to draw a full breath through the anger, pain, and fear.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Are you okay?"

"No," I gasp, left hand clutching my right wrist.

"Let me look at it. I can help you." He extends his hand down.

"Get away from me." I shake my head and push to my feet. I practically run to the door.

"Tricia," he calls after me.

"Just leave me alone!" I yell. I hurry into my car and speed home, tears pouring down my face.

When I wake up the next morning, my heart feels bruised. I wrap my arms around myself and curl into a ball, trying to breathe deeply. I wish it was a bad dream. But it was too real. I feel the cut on my palm. It stopped bleeding early this morning, though I have to be careful not to break the fragile scab.

I feel adrift. I'm not sure if Hopper and I broke up last night, but if we didn't, we might as well have. I don't have a future here, that much is exceedingly clear. Even in the off chance he and I recover from that fight, I now know that. This was a wake up call.

I try to shake the sadness from my limbs. I can chastise myself later for failing to see this coming, for falling when I should have known better. But first I have to get my applications in the mail.