. . .

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟕𝐭𝐡

"Where do thirteen-year-olds get dresses?"

Rowen had been in the middle of writing down an exemplary to-do list for Powell when these words came out of Hopper's mouth. The wrong word was written in pen, and her model for what she had hoped Powell and Calahan would eventually catch on to and start writing down themselves was now ruined. She was mildly annoyed . . though she was a little more jarred by what she heard to care.

Slowly, she looked up to see the chief standing in front of her; not the imposing figure he usually was — or tried to be — but a towering shape engulfed by what she would have pegged as innocent confusion. Would have. His question made her face scrunch into one blatantly disturbed expression.

Rowen dropped her pencil and propped her elbows over the edge of the desk, forearms crossed.

"What kind of stalker question was that?"

Hopper's helpless expression deflated into annoyance. "That's not what I meant . ." he drawled, and began to pace.

She might as well have laughed at him. "What did you mean?" she asked, a thread of amusement in her voice, "I mean, c'mon Hopper, if you are going to ask about dresses and thirteen-year-olds, you need to word it a little differently."

He jutted his hands out in frustration. "Why?"

Her brow raised. "Have you seen yourself?"

"Have I seen myself — yes," he threw back, pace turning into a sulky walk. "I'm not stalker-y."

"I know," Rowen answered simply, "That question has the potential to be though."

He only glared at her.

"What do you need a dress for?" she asked him, blowing out the tiny flames of ire before it could turn into a fire.

"For El," he told her when he returned to her desk, keeping his voice quiet. "She wants to go to this —" he flung his hand around in the air, "— Snow Ball thing."

Rowen squinted. "Snow Ball thing?"

"It's a dance."

Her expression brightened. "Oh?"

"No, no oh," Hopper bit quietly, to which Rowen frowned. "I don't know anything about these things. What am I supposed to get her to wear? What do you even look for?"

Hopper was exasperated; she didn't know how else to put it. He looked utterly overwhelmed by what, now that Rowen knew what is was, was a very simple thing . . . or what was usually simple.

Usually. This was Hopper she was talking to.

"But, wait. I thought it wasn't safe for her to go out?" Rowen inquired, interrupting his string of questions.

Hopper sighed. "Yeah, but I took care of that. That's not the problem, it's . . . it's just it's a dance."

So, yeah, simple . . . and yet. Hopper was turning said simple thing into a Demogorgon-level problem; if the look of slight panic on his face was any indication.

"Okay, okay, Hopper . . Hopper, stop pacing," she ordered, and he did so. She raised her brow once more. "Do you need help?"

"Yes," he almost pleaded.

Rowen leaned forward on her elbows. "Those are the words you use," she spoke to him as if she was telling a child how to talk. He gave her another glare.

She ignored it, sat back in her chair with a smile. "Don't worry about it, chief. I can help."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Thank me later, we still need to figure out where we're supposed to find dresses for thirteen-year-olds."

. . .

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟗𝐭𝐡

"Okay, so, Hopper made it clear," Rowen explained, furrowing her brow, ". . and I mean very clear. It was a little scary. We can't be seen."

"Got it."

"And she can't know a thing about it."

"Easy peasy."

"And I mean, like, a thing, Steve. No telling Mike, or Lucas. Sure as hell not Dustin; that kid's a gossip if I've ever seen one."

Steve snickered at her words. "You kidding? He's quicker than the Post. I get calls from him daily about the kids he goes to school with."

Rowen turned in her seat to look at him questionably. "Seriously?"

Funnily enough, despite his drawn-out ramblings during their short-lived tutoring sessions, she would have never taken Dustin for one who knows all. She did take him for a classic gossip, as the similarities between his and his mother's habits were unmistakable after being around them enough . . . but that wasn't what made her squint.

What made her do so was that Dustin was apparently bombarding Steve with all of it.

"Yeah, he's a regular blabbermouth. He knows the guys' business, the girls' business, the teachers' . . He's worse than Carol."

Well then.

Rowen blinked at this newfound information and, after a moment, brought herself back into focus. "Okay — the point is, we can't tell anyone."

"Don't worry 'bout me," Steve insisted with an air of confidence, "I'm smooth, like a ninja." He sliced his hand through the air as if it would add emphasis.

Her forehead creased at the array of dead grass and leaves they had parked in front of. Steve had come to meet her at the police station; not Melvald's, not the high school. Definitely not her house, because the thought of meeting up anywhere but in the midst of officers and police cars felt too open and exposed and risking the threat of Billy, even if Max had undoubtedly threatened him to refrain from doing so much as lift a finger against them.

Though they wouldn't exactly admit it.

They were a little paranoid.

It was the safe route.

Rowen had told him to meet her there because it was where she would be, anyway.

"Why do I feel like you've said that before . ." she thought aloud.

At once, Steve opened his mouth to explain; though as the words seemed to register in his mind, he blinked, and shook his head. "You know what, never mind. Uh . ." he trailed off, straightened in the driver's seat, and cleared his throat. "So, we get the dress."

"We get the dress," Rowen repeated with a nod.

"Or — you get the dress," he corrected. "I have nothing to do with that."

She rolled her eyes. "You and Hopper both."

Though Steve continued on as if he hadn't heard her.

"We get it, we get out, and we get to Hopper's cabin without being noticed . ." Every word that came out of his mouth was uttered slower and slower until he ran out of them, and he was left giving her a puzzled look. "Wait, how the hell are we going to do that? The kid can practically sense when people are coming."

"Already taken care of," Rowen assured him. "Hopper's taking her on a . . . a road trip? Field trip? Something. The point is, she's not going to be there, so we're in the clear."

"Okay . . ." Steve nodded; though this nod soon slowed, and the puzzled look returned. "So, why do you need me again?"

Rowen turned to him, mouth ajar, and began to explain, "I don't need you, I need your car."

He started to nod slowly.

"And Hopper is going to have his car . ."

"Sure . ."

"So, my only other option would have been a really loud, bright blue one . ."

"Not discreet at all, yeah . ."

"And Billy's using it anyway, so . ."

"So, that's not even an option."

"No. And, I mean, I would've asked Jonathan, but . . you know, Hopper's paranoid and that would've been a little obvious."

"Yeah . ."

"Yeah."

They looked away from each other simultaneously. A few seconds passed.

"Let's go?" Steve blurted, cranking the engine.

"Yup."

. . .

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡

How Hopper managed to keep the dress she had found a secret was beyond her. Her hard work of avoiding the department stores and filing through the hole-in-the-wall shops and thrift stores consumed a whole day; though, after many hours of searching for a style that would suit El, a color that would compliment her, and having a handful of disappointments when Rowen realized something she had thought would work was the wrong size . . she had done it. She had made Steve drive from one side of town to the other, to a whole other town entirely, had rolled her eyes and given a discreet middle finger to more than one clerk . . but she had done it.

And she was pretty damn proud of herself.

Because El liked it.

Actually — no. That was not the right word. She deserved to brag a little.

To say she liked it was an understatement . . because El loved it.

Rowen had never seen someone so fascinated and overjoyed by something so commonplace; a pale blue dress with subtly puffed sleeves, covered in an array of pink polka dots. It hadn't been Rowen's first choice. Her own tastes got in the way more often than she would have liked, and because she knew little about El and her taste in clothing — with no help from Hopper — the task had gone from tedious to daunting.

And she couldn't ask anyone for advice — again, because of Hopper. He wanted it to be no less than an utter surprise, getting the dress for her.

He had most certainly gotten his wish, though it had been at such an expense that Rowen expected no less than a generous compensation after the event was over. Not money, no . . . but if he was to, say, find a decent coffee to brew at the station, maybe a comfy chair for her desk, she would not complain.

The coffee was agreed upon. The chair was considered.

Though her work was far from done. Against his thankful and rather relieved dismissal, Rowen did not leave when the secret was revealed and the dress was gripped lovingly between El's hands. The dress was far from a total package; it was only step one in a process of preparation.

And Hopper was no expert on hair.

Rowen, however . . .

A knock on his cabin door broke the chief out of his dazed confusion.

El had torn herself away from the dress to peer curiously at the closed entrance. "Nancy?"

Rowen had given her a subtle look of shock, remembering Steve's words from the day they had set out on her search. "Damn, you really can sense when people are coming."

The confusion returned. "Nancy?" Hopper questioned, glancing between the two of them. "Why's she here?"

"Reinforcement."

A sudden laugh escaped him as if the word was so ridiculous it was funny. "Reinforcement? Rowen, she's not going to battle."

"Hm, well, then that's another thing you need to learn."

. . .

𝒊𝒊.

Despite El's request, Rowen was unable to drive her to the dance; and Nancy, willing though she may have been, had to return to her own house to prepare herself for the same event. The former had already made a promise to another thirteen-year-old, and though Max was not as willing to allow someone to dress her, style her hair, or brush at her eyes until they were colored in pinks, she had hoped Rowen would do this one thing.

And Rowen couldn't deny her that, as much as she hoped that the time of Snow Balls and boys would occur long after she had gone. She could at least chauffeur Max to her first dance.

Billy's keys were swiped from his hand once more, quietly and, uncharacteristically, without bickering. The lack of a truck in the driveway was prevalent between the remaining four family members within the house, thus the next mode of transport was obvious . . . but it wasn't this that threw Rowen off. What threw her off was that putting up an argument with either of his siblings no longer appealed to Billy, nor did it seem he thought it was worth the energy.

Max was happy about it. She hated riding with him, but when it was just her, just Rowen, the sleekness of the blue exterior and the hum of the engine made her smirk and, for once, that supercilious feeling of being cool could be enjoyed and embraced.

It had left a handful of middle-schoolers gaping, left Rowen giggling to herself at their open mouths as she cruised away from the back door of the school and into a parking spot. She had promised to wait for El to arrive in Hopper's Blazer . . though, the more she thought about it, the more she had a feeling she was going to not only wait, but hang out in the parking lot until the whole thing was over.

She killed the engine and slipped from the driver's seat; she made herself comfortable on the trunk and, after a few weeks of being good, decided to reward herself with a long inhale of something old and familiar. The cigarettes were stolen from Hopper, of course. She wasn't about to spend her way into a deeper habit. The money given as a cold, hard-earned paycheck needed to be saved.

Little by little. She was making progress, at least.

Rowen wondered just how many of these she would be killing time at, how many months would slip before she could afford her ticket out of this town; it wasn't so black and white anymore.

It wasn't so simple. Easy . . . Things were infinitely more complicated now.

Forget saving money. The real question was if she would be able to cross the town line at all, after all she had seen. After Dart and his demo-dog siblings and Mind Flayers and . . . and all that.

She was getting weary just thinking about it.

Rowen pushed it down, let the thoughts leave with the smoke that slipped from her mouth.

It was difficult for her to determine whether she spent a few minutes or many counting cars as she watched them come and go; some passed through her vision like a blur with shouts and door slams, and it made unsought feelings simmer — not quite reaching the surface, though rising high enough to make her wonder. She wondered how many people in this town had shitty parents. She drowned that thought out with another inhale of nicotine, let it float away with the rest.

Other cars made an underlying feeling of resentment roll over in her stomach; they lingered for anywhere from twenty seconds to twenty minutes, and Rowen could see then who was laidback and who was anal. Figures in the driver's seats gave their passengers pep talks and good wishes, while the passengers looked at them hopefully, fixing their ties or their dresses or their . . .

Hair.

Rowen did not need to be close to recognize Steve's BMW when it rolled up to the back doors of Hawkins Middle; it was a lingering, bitter memory still, however much she wished it wasn't. However much things may have been overthought, then reconciled and explained and forgotten like their assumptions and mistakes never happened.

It wasn't a big deal.

Though the touchy remnants of past grievances were not what made her pin her gaze to the vehicle and forget her cigarette. No . . . she was much more curious about the passenger; or rather, what had changed about him.

Rowen allowed the forgotten smoke to slip from her fingers and hit the pavement, crushed it under her shoe once moving from the trunk of the Camaro. She made her way towards the maroon-colored vehicle and, as Steve and Dustin slowly ended whatever conversation they had been having, began to see that her assumptions were right.

Though she wasn't exactly sure what her assumptions even were. The latter was just beginning to climb out of the passenger seat when she approached the car, when they noticed she was there . . . when she realized that there was something utterly different about his hair.

She could practically visualize the Farrah Fawcett can in Dustin's hand.

The drop of her jaw was not held back. "Wow . ."

Dustin smiled at her as he shut the passenger door. "Cool, right?"

For a few seconds, Rowen couldn't will herself to do anything but stare; though she soon steeled herself, and blurted out a reply. "Oh — yeah! Yeah, totally cool. Cooler than Rob Lowe . ."

She was rambling, though Dustin knew her little enough for that change in speech to go right over his head. His smile turned into a grin, and Rowen almost felt guilty for wanting to laugh. He turned to peer into the car.

"See?" he said before turning back to her. The grin faltered as he opened his mouth and asked, "Is uh, is Max in there yet?"

It was then that Rowen's smile went from amused to knowing. "Yeah, she's in there. So are the boys, I think."

The grin returned, albeit substantially smaller. Dustin took a breath, straightened his jacket, and walked inside without another word . . or rather strutted.

Once she was sure he was out of earshot, Rowen let her own grin stretch wide and leaned down to peer at Steve.

"He looks great."

The proud smirk that had been on Steve's face faltered. "No — no," he blurted, pointing a finger at her, "Listen, before you say anything, I didn't tell him to dress like that."

A suspecting brow was raised. "Or do his hair like exactly like yours?"

"No!" he exclaimed, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. "You were there, he was wondering how I did mine, so I told him. I didn't think he'd . ." He waved his hand towards the doorway Dustin had disappeared through. "Trust me, it was all I could do to keep it together when I picked him up."

Rowen looked over her shoulder, catching the thirteen-year-old deep in conversation with one of his teachers.

"He looks like a mini version of you!" she gaped.

He pointed again. "No, see, that's where you're wrong. I would never wear something like that."

"Oh, so that just completely disproves my theory, huh?"

"Uh, yeah," he deadpanned. "You seriously think I'd wear a plaid suit?"

"Steve, for all I know, you could have a clown suit in your closet."

"It's more likely than the plaid."

It was all she could do not to gape at him as if he had grown two heads; this ensued a momentary sting, because she realized she was making a habit of throwing others the look her brother threw at her. Though the sting had been so small and so brief that it might as well have never bubbled up at all, snuffed out by grins and outlandish hair and . . . giggling.

Why was she giggling?

Rowen had laughed at a lot of random things lately — things which, had her former self caught her quirking a smile at, would have moved to slap it right off. Because, really, how funny was any of this?

She had been pulled in one too many directions. She was tired; and as she had said once before, things were funnier when she was tired.

Maybe that was why the laugh escaped her before she could even register that it had bubbled up at all.

Though Steve didn't seem to think twice about it. He was laughing too; laughing at himself, at Dustin, at her, she wasn't sure. She didn't really care.

When they sobered, the atmosphere was no lighter than it had been when Dustin straightened his suit and turned towards the school as if he was marching into battle.

Hopper had thought she was ridiculous for saying it, but she wasn't kidding. They did treat this as a battle . . . or at least Dustin and El did.

Rowen didn't have to give Max that pep talk, didn't have to watch her take a deep breath and march inside; the redhead just wanted to get through the next two hours, to get it over with. If anything, Rowen had to coax her into enjoying herself, giving what she classified as "girly" things a chance. Susan had made it all sound terrible to her daughter . . now Rowen was left trying to rectify it.

Steve glanced between her and then the school, around the expanse of cars and asphalt behind them. "So, uh . . are you hanging out, or?"

"Yeah," she answered, straightening to roll her shoulders. Her neck had been feeling cramped lately. "I told El I'd wait until she gets here."

A knowing smirk quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Hopper didn't lock her in her room after seeing that thing?"

He was referring to the dress.

"Shockingly," she told him.

"I don't get it. I mean, first, he's paranoid about her finding out about it; then he's paranoid about her liking it . . now he's paranoid about her wearing it. Does he want her to go to this thing or not?"

Now it was Rowen's turn to smirk. "You don't get it, do you?"

Steve was left clueless. "Get what?"

To tell the truth, Rowen had not really processed the whole afternoon, everything that Hopper had said or didn't say, every wide-eyed stare from El at something strange and new or look of amazement until then. She hadn't really thought about Hopper and his melodrama until Steve asked.

There had been such a to-do about El and the excitement around preparing her, the anticipation of her first dance, having the freedom to step out into a public place without fear of being found out, that she had almost forgotten the entire point; what, or rather who, had set this into motion. Hopper made all of this happen, asked Rowen to scour the racks because he wanted El to experience a piece of normalcy, even if it was only one night. Two hours in a dress that he wanted to give her, yet, when she walked out in it, had kept himself from scowling at.

The sting that look caused was so apparent that Rowen couldn't even recognize the feeling in her gut for what it was in the moment; when Hopper's face flashed into a sudden panic as if he was just realizing what he had done, and that he no longer liked it. That flash was so quick that El never picked up on it, squirming hands and nervous eyes. She had no idea how to act, and his approval — despite her previous rebelling — meant everything. Hopper pulled his smile back on and told her she looked great through a strained expression.

That strained expression turned into a glare when it caught Rowen, Nancy; as if to say 'What have you done, she's too pretty'.

The sting of it was so apparent . . but it had been as quick as the way his smile fell and rose again, in the beginning. And it wasn't from the way he glared at her, no. Not the lack of enthusiasm for the dress . . .

The sting came from the way he looked at El, the way he acted around her, with her . . the way he clearly cared about her. It was a dress. It was a dance. It was something so small, so unimportant in the grand scheme of things . . . and yet so important all the same.

Rowen envied every bit of it; every bit of the soft looks and smiles and gosh she just wanted to go back to the Camaro and smoke . . .

She shook her head, instead said, "I don't know, he's just . . . really protective."

Steve scrunched up his face as if he wasn't sure whether he should agree or not. "I mean, those are your words, not mine."

The smile that began to pull at the corners of her mouth felt both amused and bitter; she directed it at the asphalt, crossed her arms . . though both were flippant. The smile fell and the crossed arms did not last long. Rowen grimaced as she felt the need to roll her shoulders again. It had been like this since she got to Hopper's cabin . . maybe longer than that. Her neck was sore and tight and agitated.

"You okay?"

Steve noticed it, a little concern plastered on his face.

"Yeah, I — . ." she sighed out her mild frustration. " . . I haven't been sleeping well. At all, really."

When she glanced at him, the concern had gone from ignorant to understanding. He knew what she was implying. They didn't have to be obvious about this one, didn't even have to utter the words. A lack of sleep, if nothing else, was something their unforeseen, monster-hunting group had in common.

Aching limbs.

Nightmares.

They weren't protective of each other like Hopper was with El . . but they understood. They had that commonality.

"Where are you parked?" Steve ventured.

Rowen turned in the direction in which she came. "Over there," she said, gesturing to the general vicinity.

Steve followed her lazy point, and turned back to her. "You, uh . . you want a lift?"

She blinked. "What, across the parking lot?"

He simply shrugged.

Rowen looked over her shoulder as if determining whether she was willing to walk back . . . which, in truth, she had already prepared to do. Though the aching neck and the lousily supported feet were protesting, and not having to push them further into irritation sounded nice.

He was being nice.

She shrugged and eventually said, "Sure."

It wasn't a big deal . . .

The memory of wet grass clinging to her shoes and stomping on it just to get in this same car for the first time lingered, Dustin's face too close to hers as he explained the problem that was Dart, Steve's side-glances lingered; the confusion and the lack of communication that made her fume too easily lingered.

But she shoved it all down, because it wasn't a big deal. She was melodramatic sometimes; Billy and Max could attest to it. And she pushed it down. She wasn't going to let it ruin yet another thing, even something as simple as this.

They rode the length of the parking lot, from the back door to where she had been five minutes ago. He pulled into the parking spot to the left of the Camaro and patted the steering wheel once as if to signal that the drive was over. Rowen stepped out, stepped back onto pavement and breathed in the chilly air.

She blinked and she was back where she had been before hair and Hopper and reminders of soft looks.

The car door shut behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Steve had killed the engine and stepped out as well.

"Are you hanging out too?"

He shrugged again, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

She mocked his shrug, throwing an overexaggerated one at him in return; though he must have taken it the wrong way, as his casual walk came to a halt.

"What, do — do you not want me to?" he asked, a little awkward, a little panicked.

"No, it's fine," she assured him with a smile, and he relaxed. Rowen turned back around and trailed towards the Camaro's trunk, propping herself back onto her former spot.

Steve walked around slowly, hovering next to it. She hadn't noticed he was standing there until she had another cigarette pulled out, ready to light.

"You know you can sit if you want," Rowen told him.

That offer might as well have been a dare. He was glancing at the vehicle as if it was a living, breathing extension of Billy that would pound him into the ground in her brother's absence if he crossed any lines. Treating Billy's car as a chair was definitely a line to him.

Though the thing was, with Rowen, the paranoia and the anxiety that she had felt before that night, during, even when they went shopping for El's dress . . . she didn't feel much of it anymore. It still lingered in the back of her mind like a shadow; it had once been looming, towering and daunting, intimidating enough for her to be wrapped around his finger in some ways. But now . . . now, it was shrinking. Somehow.

Somehow it was getting smaller with every day.

The less he bit back, the less anxiety she felt. The less she believed him. The less she cared about things like this.

Even if he had never been backed into a corner by their stepsister . . . Rowen wasn't as scared as she used to be. She kind of felt tempted to parade herself in public with Steve or Samantha or whoever her brother hadn't liked just to see what he would do now.

It was why she patted the trunk when Steve didn't move, gave him the time to think and hesitate even more, until he decided, and propped himself on the trunk with her.

She couldn't say for how long they stayed like that.

. . .

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔𝐭𝐡

Some semblance — or rather guise, she supposed — of peace managed to position itself over the Hargrove household once the final month of the year began to settle in. Nothing had come out of her mouth in the presence of one parent except for good reports from the police station or otherwise mundane things that weren't interesting enough to pay attention to; because everything that was interesting either entailed nightmarish memories, panic, or that which wasn't supposed to exist at all.

Her dad actually started to believe she was gaining some sense of responsibility, Max kept her opinions to herself. Barely a thing had come from Billy; and if it had, neither she nor Max had noticed . . . because the father in the house was calmer. That, or he simply didn't care enough to put an effort into anything as he used to. Neither made Rowen feel safe, made her feel like she could believe things were resolved for now. Neil Hargrove didn't just stop . . it wasn't a characteristic he possessed.

But the negative extremes being supposedly tempered by all these things; by her 'responsibility', the lack of Max's sass, the lack of Billy period, made Susan happy, which meant there was a weird, neutral feeling that swept through the house and filled up all the empty space.

It wasn't peace . . it felt like the calm before a storm. But it was close enough to feel like peace when the siblings had the house to themselves.

Rowen was being held to a new standard. Apparent dislike of cops or not, her dad saw her job there as respectable enough, thus believed she had seen the light and decided to do things his way.

He couldn't have been more wrong . . but things were okay enough now to where he apparently felt that he and Susan could leave the house to her for two days and wouldn't return to something utterly terrible. Because Rowen was there . . because Rowen was responsible now. Because Rowen had changed.

She could hear Susan's voice in her head and wanted to gag.

Sure, since that night, she had changed . . though most certainly not to their standards. Not to her dad's standards. Hell no. If anything had changed, it was her skyrocketing level of anxiety and a lack of sleep.

But she had the living room to herself for once, had a day off, had the time to try writing again, and the quiet of it all was enough for a few hours.

"Thought you gave that shit up."

But of course . . .

She paused, blinked.

She knew her brother was standing in front of her . . but something about it didn't feel quite believable. Something about the last month made it seem completely off.

Billy had evaporated as if out of thin air, as if he hadn't been secluding himself and keeping quiet and tearing the presence of him slowly away until they almost forgot he was there. She almost had, for a mere moment.

She gave him an off-guard look that he didn't bother to catch. He was too busy with the ends of his sleeves.

"Didn't you throw all those in the trash or something?" he continued.

It was too weird . . too casual.

Rowen wanted to gape at him.

What the fuck was he doing? Being spiteful?

He was sure as hell pretending, using something she cared — had cared about — to throw her off as if she wouldn't pick up on it. As if nothing had happened. As if there wasn't this wedge between them now that she had crossed the line into enemy territory. As if she hadn't lied through her teeth to such an extent that it was painful.

She hated that she had.

She hated that this whole mess was pushing them away from each other.

She hated that he had disrupted her short-lived peace, however little it mattered; that she couldn't answer his question ignorantly like he wanted, as if nothing about it was weird. Everything felt weird now, that was the thing. She never thought it would, not with him . . . But, then again, she never thought other dimensions existed, so what did she know?

She knew that he was full of shit if nothing else, because everything had happened. Everything; everything and then some. It all piled up on top of them.

She had lied. Billy was convinced she had, even if he had no idea as to why or what . . . He had had plenty of time to come up with his own answers, to let the thought of her doing this or that for this reason or that reason settle itself in his mind and become his truth. It wasn't. Whatever he was thinking, it would never be the right answer because how in the hell could he guess that the reason his sister was no longer in his corner was because of monsters and kids with superpowers?

But that wasn't what bothered her.

What bothered her was that when his rage dissipated, he responded by avoiding them. He kept his mouth shut, he locked himself in his room. He gave them the silent treatment . . . and now, after weeks of nothing, he suddenly wanted to ask her about her journals?

She let her pencil fall between the pages. She was going to give up on it, anyway. "Now we're talking?"

Billy's calm expression didn't falter, but she could see underneath that his former, less subdued mannerisms wanted to come out. He was making an effort to keep it casual, even if he was doing much better than her.

"Why not?" he questioned.

"Why not?" she echoed, all but slapping her journal shut as she rocked back in her seat. "Shall we revisit the events of a month ago?"

His even-keel expression never wavered. "Don't have time to," he excused with a shrug. "I have somewhere to be."

That had surprised her, pulled out a scoff full of disbelief. "I thought you had shut yourself off from the world."

Billy was searching for his keys. "I didn't."

"Sure," she murmured, unconvinced.

He heard it. "I didn't, seriously."

"Then what was the locked door for?"

Billy paused in his search, raised his brow. "You don't know?"

All he received was a blatantly confused look. It made him smirk.

"Damn, I didn't think it'd work that well . ." he trailed off as if expecting her to say something. But she said nothing, so he continued, "You don't get it, do you? The door and the music were meant to keep you off my ass, and you completely fell for it."

Rowen would be lying if she said she didn't feel insulted. Though all she could say was, "Seriously?"

"Very."

"Why?" she bit.

"Why not?" he bit back, "You're obviously not where you used to be anymore. I'm not inviting you places when you're all moody and shit."

The smallest of successes, she noted, that she could finally see that her brother's sudden change in behavior wasn't a change at all. Though she had no room to celebrate that when he was snapping at her like a child, and she was scowling.

"You've barely said two words to me since that night, so forgive me if I thought I was getting the silent treatment."

He found his keys, scoffed at her.

Rowen could practically feel the old, sibling-induced moods of irritation and anger bubble up again. She frowned, bit out a, "What?"

"If you think that's what this is, then . ." he shrugged, that idiotic smirk appearing before her eyes, void of humor. "I can't help you. I gotta go."

He was wearing that blindingly white long-sleeve again, slung the faithful leather jacket over it. Not much had changed.

"What the hell is up with you lately?" she bit before he could reach the door.

Billy turned, and the smirk fell as if she had gotten up and slapped it off herself. He was clenching his keys in his fist.

"With me?" he echoed, as if she had the audacity to even ask. His expression matched his tone. "The hell is wrong with you? I mean, shit, it's like I don't even have a sister anymore!" he suddenly barked. "Ever since we got here, it's been like that. You don't keep your mouth shut, you don't back me up. You don't even talk about going home anymore. You just spend all your time at that fucking police station . ."

Rowen gaped, scoffed again. "That's not fair . ."

"It's not, huh?"

"No, it's not. I need the money —"

"So do I, but not if it means I'm going to get brainwashed by some cowboy."

"When are you going to let go of that?" she snapped.

"When you stop acting like his bitch," he snapped back.

"Billy . ."

He only glared at her. Rowen breathed out a laugh in a fit of disbelief, directed her own glare away from him and towards the small television in the corner.

"You want to know what the hell is up with me?" he said after a moment. "I got threatened with a spiked baseball bat and told that if I didn't quit throwing you around or whatever shit Max claims I was doing, she wouldn't miss next time. That's what's up with me."

Rowen clenched her jaw as he spoke. When he finished, she didn't feel guilty for saying what she said next.

"You deserved it, you know," she stated, turning back to him with a very judgemental look. He bodyslammed Lucas into the wall and nearly gave Steve a concussion, of course he deserved it.

"Oh, really, I deserve getting drugged? Where the hell did she even find that shit, by the way?"

"Does it matter?"

"No," he bit out sarcastically. "I'm just curious."

"You don't feel angry about it at all, do you?" She already knew the answer, knew she was only edging him on. She didn't care.

"She stuck me with a fucking needle," he hissed. "The hell you expect me to feel? Gratitude?"

Her gaze fell away from him again, hovered around the room. She had expected the conversation to end there . . . like it always did. She would ask her questions, he would ask his own and avoid answering. They would get defensive. They would dance around each other's words until it got too repetitive, too frustrating until they forgot why they were even talking. Until it made no sense anymore. He would storm off, she would slip away, and the whole thing would feel pointless.

But the thing was, he hadn't moved to leave. He just stood there; stuck, free. She didn't know, but somehow it felt like a door was opening. This was her chance to say it . . . say something rather than continue their bickering, no matter how spiteful and bitter she felt.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to.

You should, she thought to herself.

For the first time in a while, Rowen allowed herself to think about what happened — to really think. About him. About screaming at him, him screaming at her, being man-handled, being useless as he marched into the Byers' house like some raging force. Thinking he had broken Steve's jaw. She thought of how he slammed the door open and how Max was there and that he had been coming for her, and what it must have taken for her to tell him to go away. Never mind stabbing him with a needle. Rowen had been shocked, but she hadn't faulted her stepsister for it. She couldn't.

He only gave them more anxiety, more trauma that night. They were angry . . . they had been angry for a long time.

That anger was growing old, now . . but the newest of their pile was still fresh after four weeks. Very fresh. It still felt like an open wound, and everything, even the smallest things, was irritating it. She was handling too many feelings at once, too many emotions. They were swirling inside her, poking at her, prodding her. She felt it all rising up, felt the sting of being unable to handle it. Like she was picking off a scab too soon.

"It took a lot for her to do that, you know; to stand up to you."

"Congratulations."

"Would you fucking stop?" she bit.

She wished he would stop. Somehow it had been that one word that set her off. Not the memory of a month ago or however long. Not the silent treatment which was suddenly no more. Not the sudden outburst; just that old, deep-set sarcasm he had thrown at her for years being used at such a bad time.

Rowen remained on the couch, still, but her heart was pounding. Everything in her was beginning to boil over again.

Still, Billy just stood there. His face read the way it did when someone else would get in his personal space, when a lecture came on, or something worse. He was stony-faced.

"God," she hissed it out, as if something had cut her. "You really don't get it, do you? No matter how many times I try . . ." Rowen threw her journal aside, stood from the couch, and continued, "Spiked bat or not, needle or not, she was — fucking scared of you, Billy . . alright? She was scared, and she was sick of it. She didn't want to feel like that anymore. Like some doormat you stomp on over and over . ."

They were glaring at each other. They were recreating that night, and something in her shivered at the resemblance . . . but this was different.

"You think I care?"

"Yeah, I think you do. If you didn't, you wouldn't have backed off. You would've gone back to doing what you've always done. And yet . ." Rowen raised her brow, looked around the house, "I haven't seen you do a thing. To her, to me . . ." she shrugged. "Is that just your new form or tormenting us, or did something actually — finally sink in?"

The house succumbed to silence again.

That night, when they had stared each other down, there had been so much rage in his gaze. She had felt it burning through her, burning through Steve, the house . . everyone. Everything. It wasn't like that now . . There was a ghost of that rage, still, but it no longer felt like it was going to sear through her. His eyes were swimming in the way she felt her head was, being bombarded with a million things at once. Being unable to rid herself of it.

They had barely spoken in weeks. That was the longest they had ever gone . . .

Billy huffed, smiled despite himself. "Like I said . . it's like I don't have a sister anymore," he said, and before she could open her mouth to protest, he was out the door.

. . .

𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝

It felt like a dam was breaking.

She was trying not to scare herself into a panic attack.

She was really, truly, trying. Trying so hard.

It was two days until Christmas, and here she was, having a meltdown in her brother's car without a clue as to how to contain it, didn't know how to keep herself from screaming other than biting so hard on her tongue that it drew blood. The metallic taste pooled, was swallowed down with a grimace. It still lingered.

Two days until Christmas, and there was no snow.

Two days until Christmas, and there were snail trails of fresh tears on her cheeks.

A breath, a gasp for air more like it, forced her to open her mouth and breathe that way; not through her nose, it wasn't enough. She needed big, gulping breaths going in and out, filling her lungs and her stomach so other things wouldn't come up unbidden.

She felt sick. She probably was sick, in some way, shape, or form. Nothing felt good or normal since that night, not physically; sure as hell not mentally. Maybe she was sick in the head . . . It felt like it.

But then again, it didn't. It went up and down like an emotional rollercoaster . . . though she knew that wasn't what it was. It wasn't a ride, it was something that lived in her head. Something that hid in the back, hibernated when it wanted, and fooled her into thinking she was alright until something woke it up, and she felt like she was spiraling all over again.

It had been asleep for a year or so before they moved away from San Diego . . . from home.

Some days it was barely noticeable, small enough to be forgotten; not entirely, but long enough for it to feel as if it was never there, or that she had conquered it somehow . . . She hadn't.

Other days it felt like this. No tricks or uncertainty or pouncing from the shadows, just this. Just a chokehold, like something was trapping her or suffocating her or . . . or whatever the hell this stupid, godawful feeling was.

When the nightmares came, they made it worse. They made the thing in the back of her head bigger and scarier.

It liked using the memories she forgot she ever had.

It liked using the ones that still felt real and tangible too.

She hadn't wanted Mrs. Byers or Jonathan to see it.

She hadn't wanted Will to see it.

God, she hadn't wanted Max to see it, and she already knew about everything. Everything.

Everything except that Rowen couldn't breathe right now. She would in two minutes . . maybe five, waving through the passenger window. Rowen needed to collect herself and get back in there before anyone got concerned and came outside to ask questions, to 'just check on her'.

The Byers house was the designated meeting spot today, and Max had biked all the way from their house to it with the boys to watch them play DnD — to watch, not to play, because she knew nothing about the hours, days, weeks, that went into planning a campaign, Mike had said.

He had left already. Dustin and Lucas had left already. It was just Max and Will, Mrs. Byers and Jonathan. It was supposed to be her too, supposed to be her who was cool and casual and — . . . shit, she wasn't sure if she could put up with this anymore.

She could, she knew she could. But knowing one thing wasn't the same as feeling another. She felt helpless and she felt like she was breaking, and she needed to let it all out now so she could collect herself and get back in there. So she could tell Mrs. Byers that everything was fine and that they would love to stay for dinner, but they couldn't.

Rowen only came over to relieve Max of having to bike home in the cold.

She only came to pick her up.

But when she came inside, when Mrs. Byers gave her that warm smile and tugged her in, when Max ran up to her and asked if they could stay because Mrs. Byers was making something for dinner that smelled so good . . it had hit her.

She saw the way the mother of two smiled at her youngest, laughed at her oldest in a way that was both teasing and loving . . and it had hit her.

It hit her like a punch in the gut, had sparked a memory.

It sparked a sting, a burning behind her eyes. The threat of tears. She had to get out. She ended up excusing herself meekly.

She always thought something about Mrs. Byers felt familiar.

Her mom used to laugh like that, tease her like that. Her mom used to look at Billy like that. Like she would kill for that face, like she would do anything for that face.

She used to do a lot of things. She used to play music for her on her own dad's piano; it was an heirloom, rickety and in need of tuning. She used to take them to the beach. She used to watch them surf. Where was she now? Gone somewhere with her broken promises.

You promised . . .

Rowen felt like she was breaking.

. . .

ADMIN NOTE:

just a heads up that the remaining chapters of this story will contain more language in them due to the situations i will be including. hope you enjoyed this one !