Author's note: I'm posting this chapter is a little later than I planned. I've written a lot of this fic already but I keep changing scenes around and adding additional content. Hopefully it makes for a better story than what I had originally written. Anyway, this chapter sows some seeds for some later Veronica/Eddie moments - our girl is starting to realise how awesome he is. I'm pinching myself at the number of people following and favouriting my little story. I hope you enjoy this chapter and to make up for it's lateness, there will be another one posted at the weekend. Thank you and please feel free to drop me a review.


Chapter IV

Sometimes, Eddie stayed for longer after our sessions. Only if my family were out of the house of course. My stepdad worked late some evenings, and my mom was often taking my brother and sister to play dates or clubs or lessons of some kind, or she was out at friends. This meant that every so often I had the house to myself for a few hours after school and Eddie continued to hang around for a bit longer if these times coincided with his sessions. My mom never troubled me with drop-offs or babysitting, and I was grateful for it – she didn't want to interfere with my studies. Little did she know that instead of working I sometimes used this time to hang out with a boy that she would have thoroughly disapproved of.

Eddie had once told me he just lived with his uncle, who often worked long hours or nights at the plant. I wondered if, when he wasn't out playing Dungeons and Dragons with his friends or rehearsing with his band, maybe he was a little lonely.

He was always entertaining company, however, so I didn't mind him staying. Sometimes we'd sit and chat or mess around, especially if Eddie was in a playful mood. Other times, we'd watch TV on the tiny screen in the den. On these occasions, sometimes barely a word would pass between us once we'd finished studying. Instead, there was a comfortable silence, like we knew that what we both needed was the quiet companionship of someone who didn't demand anything from us.

For some reason, even though we knew the rest of the house was empty, we rarely moved from our usual spots – at the table or on the sofa in the den. I certainly had always felt like it was my territory down there, and I think that Eddie thought the same.

After one session, however, we did venture out. We'd finished studying and Eddie was wandering about the den, picking up and putting down items in the room, asking questions and generally, well, being Eddie. He came across my dad's record player that I kept on a shelf in the corner along with a few albums that had belonged to him and that I sometimes listened to if I studied or hung out in the den on my own. He poked around at the record player, then picked up the albums stacked nearby and looked through the covers.

"Hartley, are you a secret rocker?" He asked with wide eyes and a big grin on his face. He held up a Led Zeppelin album, as if to prove his point.

I laughed, wishing I could say yes instead of disappointing him. I shook my head.

"I'm afraid not, they're my dad's."

"What? No way is he into this stuff!" He commented with disbelief.

"You mean my stepdad," I corrected, who I knew he'd glimpsed here and there and who was as strait-laced as they come. "They're my biological dad's."

"Oh right," he said. "Well, he must be a pretty cool guy."

"Yeah, he is."

"Is he around?" He asked. I admired his directness. Most people didn't know that my stepdad wasn't my biological dad. Probably because I used his name and rarely spoke about it.

"Kind of. He lives in California," I explained. "Near L.A. My mom says that he's not worth knowing so I've only seen him a few times since they divorced. Sometimes we write to each other."

I absent-mindedly flicked through the notepad I was holding, even though our session had finished, wanting to appear unbothered. My eyes flickered over the pages of notes in cramped blue-ink handwriting without really registering the words. It had always felt like my mom had attempted to erase him after she'd remarried. We didn't often speak about him, and she always warned me off of visiting in the holidays, saying we were too busy or that I needed to focus on school. But he had left so long ago now that I was quite used to it. My dad was more of a mythical being than anything actually tangible, only existing in songs and words that I remembered from when I was a kid.

"Sounds familiar," Eddie said sardonically.

"Oh yeah?" I asked. I was tentative about asking after his own situation, not quite knowing where his parents were or what had happened to them.

"My old man is definitely not worth knowing," he explained. I wanted to ask more, but he continued. "But at least yours has got pretty good taste in music, I gotta say. Did not think this house had records like these in it. You've surprised me, Hartley."

My dad had left a lot of stuff behind when he left – my mom had thrown a lot of it out, but I'd managed to salvage some it.

"I've got a bunch more in my room. He took most of them with him, but I've still got a box. Wanna see?"


And just like that Eddie Munson was in my room. It just kind of happened without me noticing it, or rather, without me thinking about the implications of inviting him up there. I so rarely spoke about my dad that I think I had jumped at the chance to talk about him. I wanted to show someone the mementos of a person who was no longer a big part of my life. Eddie could do that, I was learning – make you reveal what was underneath, what you really wanted to say.

Eddie had cautiously followed me through the house, which had previously, albeit inadvertently, been restricted territory for him, and upstairs to my bedroom. As soon as he poked fun at the very flowery sign on the door with my name, I questioned what I'd gotten myself in for.

Letting him into my bedroom strangely felt like the most intimate thing I'd ever done with a guy. And it was with Eddie Munson of all people. It was like he was entering a part of me. I was nervous but not unwilling to open up to him in this way. I didn't even have time to think about what the me of two months ago would have thought of this.

He stuck out like a sore thumb among the shades of pink and yellow of my bedroom, the floral bedspread and curtains. I felt self-conscious for a moment, knowing that my bedroom was probably like every other girl in the country, and feeling decidedly boring compared to his whirlwind of a person who was stood in the centre of my room, unapologetically different. Rare, in fact.

"Would you look at this place," he commented with a smirk. He knew that his scrutiny of my room, of me, would make me feel awkward. He had proof enough of that by then.

He pulled out the chair from my desk roughly and sat down, picking up a book and pretending to study.

"This is exactly how I picture you in your room," he said. "Studying away."

"Stop imagining me in my room," I protested, swatting his arm. He laughed mischievously, knowing that comments like that always riled me up. "Besides, I'm not always studying."

I didn't care to admit that he wasn't far wrong. He soon moved on to other things however, peering at trinkets on my dresser, and photos on the wall.

"Wow, you have so many books," he said. He scanned my bookshelf, running his fingers along some of the spines. Then he stopped. "Oh my god."

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

"Are you serious?" he said in a tone of utter disbelief. I couldn't imagine what he had seen on that bookshelf. I prayed it was nothing that would embarrass me and wracked my brain for anything that might warrant his reaction.

He whipped round, holding up a thick, somewhat dogeared copy of J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

"Hartley," he said with sheer joy and amusement on his face. "You are a nerd."

"I am not!" I objected, waving a hand dismissively. "I read it years ago. I was, like, ten or something."

"You so are," he laughed. "You're a nerd in a cheerleading outfit."

"No way!" I cried, sounding like a petulant child, embarrassed but laughing all the same. "It was my dad's. He gave it to me."

I reached for the book that he held and tried to take it from him, but he held it firmly. I laughed as he wriggled away. He bounced around the room with the book in his hand, laughing all the while.

"I should have known! I knew there was something about you."

He held the book above his head so I couldn't reach it. I sidestepped him and jumped on the bed, trying to even out my height disadvantage. I almost had it, but he had zipped to the other side of the room, taking the book with him. This was my favourite Eddie Munson mood; playful almost to the point of being obnoxious. It was exasperating but exciting.

I collapsed, defeated, on the bed, still laughing. He joined me a few seconds later and threw the book down between us, like a truce. For some reason, him being on the bed next to me didn't feel odd.

"It's not so bad, you know? Being a nerd. You should join us on the Dark Side."

"I know that. Just look at you," I gestured at him, before leaning back on one elbow. I was becoming more comfortable around him now. He gave me an inquiring look. "You're the biggest nerd I know and you're, like, the most interesting person I've ever met."

I looked away, bashful after my slight admission. Typical Eddie laughed away the compliment.

"And the sexiest, right?" He said, wagging a finger at me. "That's very important. Don't forget the sexiest."

I laughed and gave him a shove, so he fell back on the floral bedspread.

"And the most modest," I said sarcastically.


Returning to the den with a selection of records, I pulled the record player over from the shelf it usually resided on and set it on the floor. Eddie laid out on the sofa, making himself comfortable, looking through some of the albums we'd brought down with us.

"Big Fleetwood Mac fan, huh?" he commented, holding up several of their records as proof. "They're pretty rock and roll. We'll make a metalhead of you yet, Hartley."

"I guess my dad's music choices kind of rubbed off me," I replied, thinking fondly on memories from when I was a kid. "He used to play them all the time."

"Put this one on then," he said, handing me one of the albums. "Play me your favourite song."

No one had ever asked me to do this, so I was all too happy to oblige. A part of me felt nervous about revealing this seemingly trivial and yet, at the same time, deeply personal information about myself. Another part of me was eager to know what he thought.

I placed the record down and turned the lever to select track number five, Gypsy, my favourite from this album. We sat in a comfortable silence and listened.

"It's good," he commented after a minute or so. His foot tapped rhythmically on the arm of the sofa, and he nodded his head to the beat every once in a while.

I had nodded enthusiastically back, a wide grin on my face. Something in me had wanted his approval. I felt strangely close to him in that moment, sharing one of my favourite songs. Like I had opened up and he had settled in comfortably.

"You play guitar, right?" I asked, recalling a distant memory from some point at school. I looked over at him on the sofa from my position on the floor.

"Yup, with my band," he replied.

"I wish I could see you play."

"Come to one of our rehearsals."

"I'd like that," I replied, earnest but wondering how exactly that would work without telling his friends why I'd randomly turned up to their band practice.

"What do you play? Cello or something?" He'd no doubt spotted its large case in the corner of my room.

"Yup," I said. I sounded exhausted without really meaning to. "And piano."

"You don't like it?"

"I do… it used to be fun. I loved playing, but now it feels more like a chore. I don't really get to play for fun."

He sat up, indignant at what I'd said. "But that's what it's all about."

I couldn't help but smile at the passion in his voice. It was endearing.

"Tell that to my mom," I laughed.

"I want you to play for me."

"Maybe one day." I chuckled but was sceptical it would ever happen.

We listened to a few more songs – with me picking out my favourite lyrics and Eddie trying to decipher the notes of the guitars. We must have lost track of time. It was only when I heard the sound of a car pulling up on driveway that I realised how late it was. We both froze. It was my mom. I usually made sure Eddie left well before I expected her back, just in case a situation like this should arrive and she returned sooner than I anticipated.

"I think that's my cue," Eddie said.

He rose quickly and ascended the stairs to the main house. I followed swiftly behind. It wasn't that my mom didn't already know that Eddie would be over – I always kept her informed of my tutoring sessions – but his session should have finished over an hour before that.

I watched her blurred movements behind the frosted windows as she approached the front door. My mind frantically tried to think of a decent enough excuse that would convince her that we hadn't just been hanging out for a while – alone, no less. There was a rattle and a click as her keys turned in the lock.

"Oh!"

She had opened the door, holding an armful of shopping bags, and was surprised to see us both standing there in the hallway. Eddie had pulled on his jacket, his long hair caught under the collar.

"So sorry to surprise you, Mrs Hartley, I'm just heading out."

Eddie had jumped in, no doubt feeling awkward, before I had a chance to say anything.

They had only interacted once before – when he had arrived for his first session. Since then, I had made sure I was around to greet him or, once he began to hang around a little longer, that I scheduled his sessions for when I had an empty house. Technically, I had nothing to hide, but it was easier this way. To my mom, he was nothing more than another student I tutored from school, and I wanted it to stay that way. Sure, he was a little different to the kids that I'd tutored in the past, but there was no reason for her to suspect anything else. And really, aside from our unmentionable arrangement, there was nothing more to know. We just hung out together sometimes.

"Eddie was just leaving, mom," I explained. "We started our session late today."

She nodded at him and smiled politely. She shifted the shopping bags, so one sat on her hip. "Sure."

He gave a respectful smile in return.

"Goodbye, Mrs Hartley. Veronica."

He tipped his head my way in an overly courteous manner. It was strange to hear my name – my first name – come from him. It sounded almost too formal after weeks of 'Hartley'. I nodded back at him and gave a polite smile. He left promptly. I didn't blame him and wished I could follow. I listened as his retreating steps faded away. His door slammed, followed by the revving engine of his van.

"I do wish he wouldn't park that thing right outside the house," my mom said, frowning at the front door like she could see through it.

"Where else is he meant to park?" I said, already feeling exasperated. I rolled my eyes at her back as she went through to the kitchen. I paused for a moment and took a breath to steady myself. My head throbbed; a headache had been creeping up on me all afternoon. I followed her in and watched as she began to unpack the groceries.

"How come you're back early?" I tried to say it like it hadn't bothered me.

"I just wanted to drop off the groceries before I pick the kids up. They're at grandma's," she explained. "Haven't you got some homework to do?"

"Yeah, I'll start in a bit."

I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. The cool drink calmed my head somewhat.

"Maybe you should think about dropping the tutoring if it's going to keep you this late. You don't want to fall behind."

"I'll be fine," I replied. My tone was blunt, but she didn't seem to notice.

"This is such an important year, Veronica. Nothing is more important than your studies. Especially not someone else's."

"I know, mom. It was one time."

"I know what kids like Eddie are like. They mess around. You don't want to let him distract you," she warned.

"I'm not distracted," I lied. My head ached. I wanted to get out of there and up to my room for some peace. "Like Eddie, what does that even mean?"

But she didn't hear me, or chose not to, she was too busy rearranging the fridge. It was stupid to ask. The answer could only frustrate me.

"I let myself get distracted at school and we know how that turned out."

"Mom!" I said firmly. "I don't want to talk about this."

"You can't rest on your laurels this year. Once you get out into the real world, you won't be special, you must work hard."

Boundary laid down; boundary crossed again. It was like I wasn't even there.

"I know, mom. I know."

I had heard these same words a thousand times. I was getting to the stage of the conversation where I just nodded in reply. My mom would happily speak to herself. I was no longer a person, just a sounding board for her own insecurities. It was easier just to take it. I wanted to remind her that I wasn't her, that I was my own person. I let her speak on for a bit and then drew her attention to the time.

"Oh, yes. I must go," she said, grabbing her purse from the kitchen counter.

"I've got a headache. I'm going to bed."

"Don't forget your homework. Don't you want dinner?"

I said nothing. I left the kitchen and ascended the stairs, seeking the quiet of my bedroom. My mom didn't seem to ever notice my bad attitude. Her words of warning were more about placating her own anxieties than genuine concern for my future. Or at least, that's how it felt.

When I got to my room, it felt strangely empty. Eddie had only been in it for about ten minutes, and I marvelled at how he managed to fill the space completely with so much energy, so that once he had left, I felt his absence keenly. It surprised me. I found myself wishing that he was still there. I had to admit, I missed his company. I missed the way he made me laugh, things just felt lighter around him, more fun. I forgot about all the stresses of school and the pressures of doing well. And I missed how he made me feel so comfortable, like I could say anything and it wouldn't matter. He might tease me, but he wouldn't judge me. I didn't have to worry about saying the right thing or looking like the right kind of person.

Not that I had really revealed much to him yet, other than talking about my dad. I did want to; it had felt good to open up to him that afternoon. But I still felt guarded. At that point, the only person I'd really ever talked to about how I felt about anything was Chrissy, and that was because I knew she had her own difficulties. We understood each other in that way. I wasn't an unhappy person by any means, but I'd learnt to deal with stuff privately. I'd learnt a long time ago that expressing how I felt wasn't really welcome. It made my mom feel guilty, like she wasn't a good mom. It was so ironic how bothered she was, yet not so much as to behave differently. So, if I felt upset or angry or frustrated, I'd always hidden it from her, and eventually, from everyone. Things were much more pleasant that way. I could have some semblance of a relationship with her and my family.

I laid on the bed and let myself imagine what Eddie might be doing at that moment. I pushed aside the nagging voice that questioned why I was so interested in him. Instead, I pictured him getting home, throwing off his trainers and playing guitar alone in his bedroom. I hoped that one day I really would get to see it for myself.