I can't sleep.
Rolling over for what feels like the hundredth time in the pile of blankets and pillows Mrs. Wheeler helped me set up in Nancy's bedroom, I am painfully aware of how Nancy isn't actually in her bed no matter how hard I try to persuade myself to ignore that particular reality with all that I have. Mike is probably already sleeping in his own bedroom, down the hall. Eleven is snugly tucked away in the blanket fort I had helped Mike erect in the basement.
Even with everything related to the Wheelers' unknown houseguest squared away, I still cannot seem to slow the rapid tumbling of thoughts in my mind, though, even with being entirely unsure which one of them is the one that troubles me the most.
If Nancy isn't at home yet, that means she's still at Steve's. And if that's the case, I know only too well what's probably going on…
But, more important than the unexpected twist my heart gives in response to that particular thought, is the memory of what Eleven had said. How she had given no doubt as to where Will was.
No doubt that he was in unbelievable danger.
I didn't want to believe it. That the thing I had seen in the woods was actually real. In fact, I wanted to stay in denial for as long as I could manage about all of it, because it was already terrifying enough not being able to figure out what had happened to Will on my own. But I can't. The minute Dustin had included me in this, dragging Mike and Lucas along with his plan, however reluctantly, I had known on some level that there could be no turning back.
I just didn't know exactly how far into the deep end I would be thrown until I was already metaphorically submerged, struggling to kick my way back to the surface as quickly as I can manage.
A frustrated groan escapes as I toss back to my other side to face the door of Nancy's bedroom, unsure if the way I am staring at it is indicative of a desire to conjure my friend into existence through sheer willpower, alone. With everything I know—or think I know, at any rate—about what may or may not have happened to Will, a part of me can't help but wonder if Nancy's late arrival might have less to do with staying at Steve's as long as she could, and more to do with…
No.
No, I can't let myself think like that.
I can't let myself think of Nancy in the same kind of danger as Will, because if I do, I know that I will lose my mind.
Bringing my hands up to cover my face, I dig my teeth into my lower lip to stifle another groan, my eyes squeezing shut as I try to force myself to sleep. To relax. To do something, other than toss and turn in fruitless worry. But I can't. I can't seem to stop going over and over all of the worst possible scenarios that come to my mind no matter how hard I try to stop them.
I am so intent upon this admittedly impossible task that I don't realize Nancy's bedroom door is, in fact, finally starting to open, only the sound of my friend's voice—soft—hesitant—finally breaking me from my reverie, and causing me to bolt upright in momentary alarm.
"Cami? Are—are you okay?"
"Yeah, I—just can't sleep," I manage, dropping my hands into my lap, and watching as Nancy eases the door shut behind her with a soft snap, her hands barely peeking out from under the hems of a bulky sweatshirt that I know is not her own. Without my consent, my lips purse into a thin line, though Nancy doesn't seem to notice, far more intent upon toeing her shoes off in the corner of the room, and then padding over to the dresser beside her bed to hunt for a pair of loose-fitting pajama bottoms to sleep in.
"How was the party?"
"It was—fine."
"Just fine?"
"Yeah. Fine," Nancy repeats, the effort she is making to avoid looking me into the eye causing my stomach to twist, though I do what I can to avoid allowing any of my uncertainty to show in my expression as she shimmies out of her jeans, and dons the pajama bottoms before moving to perch on the edge of her bed, fiddling with a string on Steve's sweatshirt along the way, "Honestly, you really didn't—didn't miss much."
"Barb didn't want to stay the night?"
"No, she—she went home before I left."
"Alone?"
Nancy does look me in the eye, then, something not all that far from guilt flashing across her features before it is replaced by another emotion, entirely. I don't really have time to prepare for her sudden anger before I am on the receiving end of it, and so all I can do is sit there, brow quirked in surprise as I try to decipher if any of it is truly directed at me, or something else entirely.
Maybe Nancy is even directing at least a part of her anger at herself.
"Yes, Cami, alone. When I came back outside, she was already gone, and I didn't exactly think it would be a good idea to go stumbling around in the woods in the dark, looking for her, okay?"
"Nance—"
"No, I'm—I'm sorry," Nancy says, shaking herself and covering her face with her hands for a moment, only peering through a space between her fingers as she hears me shifting so I can sit cross-legged on my impromptu blanket pile not far from her feet, "I just—Mom already gave me an interrogation when I got home, so I just—"
"This isn't an interrogation."
"I know."
"It's just, with everything happening with Will—"
"You're scared."
The words are hardly an accusation, but a part of my pride, foolish though it may be, stings anyway, my teeth chewing at the inside of my cheek as I try to force the words that want to bubble up to remain unsaid. I know they will not help. Not really, and truthfully, I'm far too exhausted to get into it with Nancy right now, regardless.
"I'm tired, Nance. That's all."
"Well I—I'm sure Barb will be at school in the morning. So we can—we can all catch up there," Nancy suggests, probably not missing my half-hearted nod, though I do not look long enough at her face to know for sure, "Cami?"
"Yeah?"
"Everything is going to be fine."
I don't know if the words are meant as more of a reassurance to me, or to Nancy, herself, and so I simply nod, aware of soft shuffling sounds as Nancy slips beneath the blankets on her bed, and I settle myself more comfortably on the floor, as well. We do not say anything more, apparently each lost in our own thoughts, the silence almost heavy between us, whether we want it to be, or not.
I can't quite shake the feeling that something isn't right. That something else terrible has happened, and there is nothing Nancy or I can do to change it.
Squeezing my eyes shut despite how I am now all but certain nothing I do will persuade sleep to come, I grip the blankets around my frame so tightly my knuckles turn white from the effort, hoping foolishly that by the morning, everything will suddenly seem more clear.
Clear, instead of darker. Scarier.
Worse.
…
Contrary to Nancy's initial belief, Barb is not in school, and I catch myself sleep-walking through the majority of my classes as a result. I still can't shake it. The idea that something terrible has happened to her. And I hate myself for the slight twinges of resentment that creep up on me, wanting me to blame Nancy for leaving her on her own.
Or maybe that resentment is actually directed inward, because Barb had asked me—pleaded with me—to go to the party, too, and I had stubbornly refused.
Maybe if I had gone, she wouldn't have been alone.
Or maybe I'm overreacting, and nothing is wrong at all. Nancy had admitted to drinking. Maybe Barb had been drinking, too.
Maybe she was just home nursing a hangover, and I was diving into the worst case scenario too soon.
Clinging to that last shred of hope with everything I have, I shut my locker door with perhaps a little more force than is truly necessary, suddenly feeling not at all inclined to head to the cafeteria despite the hollow pit at the bottom of my gut. And then I see him. Walking down the hall, heading away from the cafeteria, too.
Jonathan Byers.
My best friend. The guy who ditched me yesterday, to go after his father, alone.
My feet are moving almost before I fully realize it, my approach clearly falling short of the silent surprise I am hoping for as Jonathan turns to face me, eyes blown wide as I snag his wrist and drag him all the way to the dark room I suspect he was already heading for, nudging him inside, and shutting the door behind the two of us with a sharp slap.
"Cami, what the hell—"
"You, Jonathan Byers, are an asshole," I hiss, surprising myself with the little shove I deliver to his right shoulder, though even as he recoils, I can see the faintest flickers of guilt in his eyes, giving me every reason to believe he knows what I am talking about whether he wants to admit to it or not, "What. The hell. Were you thinking?"
"I was thinking I could go talk to my dad myself. I know you don't like him," Jonathan replies, clearly taking in my flabbergasted expression, and emitting a soft sigh of resignation before going on, "Cami, I'm just trying to—"
"Trying to what? Protect me?"
"Yes!"
"You don't have to," I retort, wrenching away as Jonathan moves to reach for my hand, suddenly unable to stomach the idea of the comfort he wants to provide, when my frustration and worry over Will—over Barb—over everything has my blood all but singing in my veins, "You don't. And for the record, it's not exactly like you're his number one fan, either."
"You're right. I'm not."
"Then why the hell did you go after him alone?"
"What did you think you were gonna do, Cami? Step in and kick my dad's ass when the words he threw at me hit a little too close to home?"
"You say that like you actually think it's a bad thing."
"Maybe it is!" Jonathan exclaims, startling me with the sudden vehemence in his tone, his expression shifting to something not all that far from regret as he pauses for only a moment in an attempt to keep his next words softer—calmer—though I can still here the frustration resting beneath them, either way, "He already thinks I'm weak. A poor excuse for a son."
"You are not weak. And you're far more of a son than that asshole deserves."
"Weren't you just calling me an asshole, all of ten seconds ago?"
"I was. But this is different," I begin, aware of the lingering doubt in Jonathan's expression, though he never once makes any attempt at voicing it out loud, "I only called you an asshole because I—because I was worried. I'm calling your dad an asshole because—well, because that's what he is."
"Profound."
"And now you're mocking me."
"I would never," Jonathan denies, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and causing one of my own to form not long after. Some of the untameable ire that had flooded me when I first dragged him into the dark room has waned, and I know, without a doubt, that this was Jonathan's intent all along.
He's always been able to do that. To steer me away from indignance and rash action.
I'm far more grateful to my best friend for that than he will ever know, but before I can even attempt to put that gratitude into words, he is breaking the silence between us once again, his next words causing a chill to snake its way around my heart before I even stand a chance at stopping it.
"Will wasn't—he wasn't there."
I know this. I had known it all along, but still, dread squeezes at every organ I possess, as though some small foolish part of me had been hoping all along that Eleven had been wrong when she talked about Will. Wrong, when she had slammed his figurine on the back of the game board with a cold finality that I know I will never forget.
Will had never been at his father's, but I can't exactly tell Jonathan that. I can't tell him how I know it to be true.
I'd made Mike a promise before heading off to school earlier this morning. A promise that I wouldn't say a word about the girl in his basement. A promise to come back after school, to help them all continue the search for Will.
And whether I like the idea of being beholden to a group of kids, or not, it is a promise I do not intend to break.
"You don't seem all that surprised."
"Only—only because—I mean—think about it, Jonathan. It isn't like your dad and Will are best friends."
I seize on the excuse as best I can, hoping Jonathan will do the same, even in spite of the guilt that claws at my chest as a result. I hate this. Lying to him. Keeping secrets. But even if I hadn't promised Mike that he could trust me to remain silent, I still don't think I could bring myself to tell Jonathan the truth.
If I tell him about that thing I saw in the woods—the same woods where Will had disappeared—he would only redouble his efforts to find him. And I can't risk Jonathan facing the monster I now know with little doubt is actually real…
I hardly want Lucas, Dustin, Eleven, or Mike facing it. But something about the idea of losing my best friend to this thing terrifies me far more than I care to admit.
More than that, I know that Joyce Byers is not going to survive the loss of another son.
"I know that. I do," He finally speaks up, running a hand across his face, and emitting a sigh that sounds so hopeless I am half-tempted to pull him into an embrace. I resist, though, knowing, somehow, that he needs to process this on his own. To work through it and accept it without any interference on my part, at all.
A fact that I am very nearly willing to accept, myself, until I see him reaching for his backpack, likely in an attempt to withdraw undeveloped photographs from the camera that I know is never far from his side, something not all that far from sheepish guilt flashing across his expression, and causing me to move forward, only to realize he is tucking the pictures safely out of reach as a result.
Odd…
"Jonathan?"
"Yeah?"
"Why the hell were you taking pictures at your father's house?"
"I wasn't—I didn't take any while I was there," My friend admits, not meeting my eyes as I look at him with nothing short of expectation, my own eyes narrowing as Jonathan clutches the photographs almost protectively.
"Then where did you take them?"
"Cami—"
"Where did you take them?" I persist, watching the myriad of emotions that flicker across Jonathan's face in seconds, and settling on one in particular in absolute shock. He is looking at me again, now. Looking at me with something I can only describe as fear.
It is as though he is afraid of my reaction, if I see the photographs. Afraid I will judge him.
He doesn't actually reply to me, though, instead turning to start the process of developing them into finished products, and so I take that silence as leave to remain exactly where I am, only moving far enough to be able to perch on a stool nearby, while I try to ignore the combination of curiosity and apprehension I feel as I watch my friend at work.
Jonathan isn't sending me away. Clear proof that, whatever he is suddenly so frightened of, he is holding to our own promise. We don't keep secrets. Not from one another.
Once again, I am nearly crippled by my own remorse over the lie I am making by way of omission, but before I can become too distracted by such a thing, I realize one of the photos is already starting to become clear, curiosity getting the better of me as I lean over to see better, my hands gripping the edges of the stool I occupy to keep it from toppling over altogether.
It's fuzzy at first, but what is depicted slowly becomes clearer, and even then I cannot look away, my eyes taking in the reality of what the picture represents while my breath seems to still within my chest.
I remind myself that I already suspected this had happened. That when Nancy returned home late last night, what she had been doing was all but certain. But thinking such things, and having undeniable proof right in front of my eyes are proving to be two entirely different things…
I am staring at an image of Nancy and Steve in the latter's bedroom, standing close together. Close enough that I can tell Nancy is no longer wearing a shirt, and Steve is going in for a kiss.
My stomach gives a funny little lurch as I recoil, nearly sending the stool I have been sitting upon toppling to the floor in the process, but I hardly even hear the scrape it makes against the floor over the rush of blood ringing in my ears. It is almost as though I can no longer breathe, the belated realization hitting me that the stinging at the corners of my eyes can only be a signal of oncoming tears.
I know that I am being remarkably stupid, getting so worked up over a boy I am still fervently trying to convince myself I don't even like, given everything else that is going on, but I am too far gone to stop myself, now, the sudden desire to leave school and everything else it comes with as far behind as I can causing me to turn on a heel to head for the door, the panicked edge to my best friend's voice not even proving to be sufficient enough to slow me down.
"Cami—Cami, wait!"
I know that he is probably coming to the wrong conclusion. Assuming my hasty retreat is because I do judge him for the photographs, when in reality, that is the farthest thing from the truth. Sure, they are not exactly appropriate, and most others would find them almost perverse. But I know Jonathan. I know he doesn't take them for the sake of his own personal gain. That he gets so lost in the moment, sometimes, that he doesn't even realize what it is he is photographing until much later on.
Still, I cannot quite summon the courage to turn back and reassure him, right now, my pace picking up until I am all but running toward the exit at the opposite end of the hall, blind to the curious stares that act earns me because my eyes are now brimming with unshed tears.
…
Hello again, my darlings! And welcome to another new chapter in Cami's tale! Apparently I'm still on top of angst mountain for all of my stories, so I really do hope that isn't too much of a problem. I'm having a bit too much fun to stop now, because let's face it. Adding these little twists and turns in the middle of all of the regular canon events is far too enjoyable to pass up ;).
As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story thus far! And special thanks to MulishaMaiden for the lovely review last time around! I'm so, so very excited to keep pushing forward in this story, as well as my others, and I cannot wait to hear what you all think as each new chapter comes out!
Until next time, loves…
MOMM
