He was a boy
She was a girl
Can I make it any more obvious?
Chrissy quirked her head at the new song that blasted through her car's speakers as she made her way home. At 33, she wasn't much up to date with the pop stars of the new millennium, but she enjoyed listening to the bubbly blonde pop stars that seemed to take their cues from her beloved Madonna. But this was a new song, one she hadn't heard before.
He was a punk
She did ballet
What more can I say?
Her lips quirked at that, remembering a leather-clad punk who'd met her at a picnic table one chilly spring morning. Though she knew he'd resent the label. ("Metalhead, sweetheart, completely different genre.")
He wanted her
She'd never tell
But secretly she wanted him as well.
Chrissy looked at the FM radio station accusingly, as though this new singer had gotten top secret information from when Chrissy was eighteen. The top was down on her 63 Mercury Comet, a 30th birthday present from her husband, who felt strongly that she deserved a flashy car along with her "mom van".
But all of her friends
Stuck up their nose
They had a problem with his baggy clothes.
Chrissy grinned again. Eddie's clothes hadn't been baggy, exactly, more torn up and shredded, accessorized with studs and leather, determined to make a statement.
An electric guitar punctuated the refrain:
He was a sk8er boi
She said see ya later boi
He wasn't good enough for her
She had a pretty face
But her head was up in space
She needed to come back down to earth…
Or come back from the Upside Down of the earth, to earth-shattering trauma and newfound friends. Though, Chrissy considered, she had never thought Eddie wasn't good enough for her. Frankly, it had been the other way around, along with a fear that her friends and family would drive him away.
Five years from now
She sits at home
Feeding the baby she's all alone
Oh dear. And here Chrissy had been rooting for the nameless ballet girl.
She turns on TV
Guess who she sees
Sk8er boi rockin' up MTV
Just last week, she had turned the television on to record Eddie performing on MTV. She hadn't been able to make it that particular evening…she was long past the age where she could attend every single one of his performances. But she recorded every televised one, carefully labeling the videotapes and displaying them proudly in her office.
She calls up her friends
They already know
And they've all got tickets to see his show
Chrissy laughed at this. Despite how popular Eddie's band had gotten, she couldn't imagine her high school friends getting tickets to see his show. But perhaps she was wrong? Sixteen years could change anyone. She was certainly not the same quiet, terrified-of-her-parents, lonely 18-year-old girl she once was.
She tags along
Stands in the crowd
Looks up at the man that she turned down…
The chorus began anew and Chrissy thought of the man Eddie had become. Sixteen years had changed him too and the many properties they owned—a seaside home in LA, the fall cottage she was driving up to now—the distance from Hawkins had done them good, given them the confidence and self-worth the small town had tried to chip away. And of course, they'd given so much to each other…
The bridge interrupted her thoughts.
Sorry girl but you missed out
Well tough luck, that boy's mine now
We are more than just good friends
This is how the story ends.
Ah. Well, that was a disheartening ending, at least from her perspective. But perhaps she had connected a little too much with the nameless ballet girl who was scared of her friends' disapproval.
Too bad that she couldn't see
See the man that boi could be
There is more that meets the eye
I see the soul that is inside
The song finished with the smug pop star proclaiming her love to the Sk8er boi and Chrissy felt a bit of a chill at its conclusion. Goodness. What would have happened if she hadn't seen the man her boy could be?
She knew what would've happened. She'd be back in Hawkins, in a loveless marriage to Jason Carver, still under her mother's thumb, and utterly in misery. The visceral nature of this despairing future made her feel a little sick.
But that wasn't her future. Her future was in the little cabin she was pulling up to, tucked away in the woods, near a large lake for her children to splash in.
She parked, turned off the ignition, and smiled dazedly at her home—her favorite of the ones scattered across the country. The leaves were changing, creating a wonderful watercolor spread that made her heart sing.
She stepped out of the car and shut the door, not bothering to lock it. As she made her way up the walkway, the front door burst open and out flew her two children, ages four and seven.
"Mommy! Mommy's home!"
"Hi, my babies!" Chrissy bent down as Callum and Theodora nearly knocked her over with the force of their hugs. She hadn't been gone that long—just a couple hours drive into Manhattan to do some consulting with a few international clients who were interested in purchasing some new art. She was in high demand as an art historian and buyer, known for her immaculate taste, her nearly supernatural talent at detecting frauds, and all around unpretentious demeanor. She never pretended to be anything but a woman from small-town Indiana who'd blossomed in college, discovering a love of art she'd always suppressed. Artists of fame or status were irrelevant to her; and she was never afraid to voice her opinion, whether it lost her a client or not.
Yes, she was certainly not the same shy 18-year-old her husband had once deemed 'terrifying'.
Speaking of…
Eddie Munson walked out the door, their youngest daughter Bo on his hip. His smile was as warm as it was when she'd remembered the name of his band so many years ago. Older, a bit unshaven, his hair still wild and untamed because he refused to believe his long hair would ever go out of style and what would his wife play with in the few quiet moments they shared alone? He waded between the older two to wrap his other hand around her waist and pull her in for a kiss that still gave her butterflies.
"Ew! Gross! Yuck! Daddy STOP."
The harmony of Callum and Theo's displeasure (mostly Theo, Callum just liked yelling) broke them apart with an amused smile. She opened her arms to take her eight-month-old in her arms, snuggling Bo deeply and inhaling her lovely baby scent.
"Is she feeling better?" Chrissy asked, placing the back of hand on Bo's forehead.
"Oh, much," Eddie assured her. "She's been jamming to Dio with me all morning. Fever's completely gone. You had nothing to worry about."
She never did. When she first had Theo, she worried she might have to place her career on hold. But Eddie's band had churned out enough albums and filled enough auditoriums that he and the rest of his band—who also had families—could devote more of their time to fatherhood. They played less frequently, sure, but Eddie was very disinterested in not being present for his children's lives.
"How were the meetings?"
Chrissy smiled tiredly. "Good! Exhausting. Some of the clients are needier than the C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N."
Theo scowled mutinously and shook her head, her dark brown curls swishing from side to side. "No spelling!"
"Daddy said we could have a bonfire and make s'mores when you got home," Callum informed his mother seriously and she ruffled his strawberry blonde hair.
"Well, if Daddy said so, I guess that's what we're gonna do," Chrissy replied to her son and felt a thrill when he smirked at her. A bonfire meant that after the children were put to bed, there'd be a glass of wine for them both, possibly a shared joint…Daddy's rules.
"Can we do it now?" Theo whined. "Please please please?"
"After dinner, goblin," Eddie pointed at his daughter. "Both of you. Get on upstairs and wash your hands."
Chrissy winced. "You didn't cook, did you?"
"I did not, I ordered pizza, but I don't like your tone," He waggled his finger at her as they entered Castle Munson, as their upstate house was affectionally deemed. "You know I make the best Pop-Tarts in the country."
"My apologies," Chrissy replied, nearly tripping as her children scampered up the stairs around her. Eddie caught her before she fell. (He was surprisingly dexterous when he held his children. She attributed this to his guitar-playing.)
He always caught her before she fell.
She stopped him before he followed their children up the stairs, leaning up to kiss him. "I missed you," She murmured. "My sk8er boi."
Eddie quirked a brow. "Pardon?"
Chrissy giggled. "A song I heard today."
"Well, you should know that the first and last time I was ever on a skateboard was when I broke my ankle at eleven. That's Max's thing."
"It's a metaphor," She told him quite seriously. "You should hear the song."
He looked at her suspiciously. Chrissy had no shame whatsoever blasting Britney or Christina as loud as their expensive speaker systems would go, especially as she got great delight in annoying her purist metalhead husband. He was still required to play most of Billy Joel's catalog for her at her request (it was in their wedding vows), most especially "Uptown Girl" on her birthday every year.
They traipsed up the stairs together and Eddie returned Bo to her playpen, where she returned to 'unraveling the mysteries of the universe' as Eddie called it, otherwise known as playing with her busybox. When Bo was safely contained, he returned to his wife, pushing her against the wall for another homecoming kiss, murmuring his own pleasure at seeing her again.
It was supposed to grow stale. It was supposed to become a chore. Chrissy knew women her age who complained about the lack of sex in their marriages in the most resigned of tones, as though this were the price of having children. Who hated the weight they'd gained that settled around their hips and thighs comfortably, assuring they were women now, and it was all right. Who cited exhaustion and boredom as reasons they slept in separate rooms.
But it hadn't happened with her.
Eddie knew her body intimately and revered it with each passing year—every added pound, every stretch mark, his lips tracing up the line of her C-section scar, whispering against her skin how 'metal' it was. He had mentioned more than once in an interview that his favorite place in the world was between his wife's thighs. He pushed past groupies and fangirls after every concert to call his wife.
Not that there weren't dry periods. Post-partum depression struck Chrissy like clockwork, there were months after childbirth where she couldn't stand to look at herself or her body, where sex seemed repugnant and painful. But Eddie did not complain. He kissed her oily forehead, wolf-whistled at her when she changed from holey pajamas to clean sweatpants, made sure her appointments with her therapist were on the calendar every week.
When Theo was born, her depressed brain convinced her that Eddie would leave her for not putting out—an old fear, courtesy of her ex. She believed she was no longer desirable to him…until she caught him jerking off to pictures of her one lazy Sunday afternoon. He'd been sheepish about the discovery, but unrepentant. "What can I say, babe? You turn me on."
The afternoon had ended with her back in their marital bed, her husband making her scream as loudly as he had at twenty (though their bed was much more comfortable than the wooden picnic table in their forest glade).
They simply were enamored with each other. And as she tangled her fingers through his curls and deepened the kiss, she thought of the waiting bonfire they'd share under the stars, how she would be curled on his lap, lazily sharing a joint, perhaps listening to a record.
Take that, Avril Lavigne, she thought, looping her fingers in his belt loops, earning a delightful grumble from her husband. I got the sk8er boi.
