I'll Be Good

by randomfan276

Post IT Chapter Two, Richie and Bev take the long way home. A story of healing, friendship and tying up loose ends.

2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

"So," Richie asked around a mouthful of jellybeans, "where do you want to go?"

The top was down; the sun warmed her cheeks. Bev let her head loll backward, her eyes tracing patterns in the clouds and her fingers tapping along to the classic rock drifting from the speakers. "Far away from here," she replied. Then she frowned and added, "Far away from New York, too."

"Bangor it is."

"Don't you dare."

Richie chortled. "I wouldn't. Bangor's an hour in the other fucking direction. I'm not turning around." A sign drew closer, and he nodded to it. "Did you want to stop at Portland? Continue your journey of self-discovery by reliving your high school years?"

"Fuck no." Bev shuddered. "High school…wasn't great, for me."

"High school girls," Richie agreed sagely. "What did they do?"

"Nothing too bad. They weren't Henry Bowers."

"Low bar, Bev."

She laughed. "Good point." High school wasn't awful, not really. The rumours of Derry hadn't followed her to Portland, and her aunt was nice enough, if a little distant. She never felt unsafe. Just incredibly, undeservedly lonely. "I just never fit in, I guess. I was the poor kid in second-hand clothes who couldn't figure out makeup and didn't want to gossip about the boys. The only good thing about their teasing is that it got me interested in sewing – I couldn't afford new clothes, but fabric was cheap."

"Well, you sure showed them. You grew up beautiful, fashionable and successful. You sure you don't want to rub it in their faces?"

Bev's face burned, and it wasn't from the sun. "I doubt they'd even remember me. I spent most of my time smoking alone beneath the bleachers."

"Heeeyyyy!" Richie raised his hand for a high-five. "Let's hear it for the antisocial smoker crowd!"

Giggling, Bev gave his palm a hearty smack. "You too?" She tried to picture him in high school. She imagined long limbs, wild hair, torn jeans, and a wicked grin. The image made her smile.

Beside her, Richie nodded, the corner of his mouth twisting sardonically. "Turns out, Chicago kids don't like loudmouths any more than Maine kids."

Bev winced, a fresh memory surfacing. Hey, Banana-heels! That was before that summer, before she forged an unlikely friendship with the man beside her. She still remembered the surprise at the unexpected words, the sudden rush of adrenaline tingling her spine. Her heart had ticked up and she had stared at the scruffy kid with the dark hair, his mouth too wide for his face, his eyes far too large behind his glasses. The air itself seemed to thicken, the other children too terrified to so much as breathe as Bowers turned toward him. She could even remember Bill, a half-foot behind his friend, fingers digging into Richie's shoulder.

She hadn't seen what happened next. She only remembered the sound of a fist hitting skin, the black eye that Richie sported for the next two weeks, the thick wad of tape around his glasses. She remembered feeling more annoyance than sympathy – he brought it on himself, taunting Bowers like that.

"I never understood that about you," she confessed. "You'd mouth off, and Bowers would beat the shit out of you, and then you'd just do it again. Why not keep your mouth shut?"

Richie shrugged, his eyes on the road. "I'd like to say it was my way of fighting back. Being the person I wanted to be, and fuck Bowers and the rest." His face twisted and he let out a bitter laugh. "Truth is, it was undiagnosed ADHD. Thank fuck for Ritalin."

Bev stared. "Huh."

Richie glanced at her sideways. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bev popped another jellybean in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "You remember those connect-the-dot drawings? And how sometimes you'd be halfway through and you still couldn't figure out what it was supposed to be, but then you'd join the next dot and suddenly it would all make sense?"

"No."

"This is like that."

Richie's forehead creased. Bev smiled, closed her eyes, and soaked up the sun.

---

They drove aimlessly, leisurely, for the rest of the day. Around midday, Bev directed Richie to a scenic cliff she remembered from her senior year. It overlooked the Atlantic, and they sprawled their too-long legs out on the grass and munched on the sandwiches Mike had packed, and then Bev drew her phone from her pocket while Richie disappeared to the toilet.

She a missed call from her divorce lawyer, asking that she book a meeting as soon as possible. Multiple missed calls and texts from Tom, which she ignored. A flurry of messages in the newly minted Losers group chat – Ben, confirming his safe arrival home, that his memories were still intact; Bill, confirming that he still had a job and his memories were still intact; Mike, confirming that the library board would be interviewing a potential replacement later this week and that his memories were still intact – and Bev turned her back to the ocean and snapped a selfie, posting it to the chat along with confirmation that her memories were still intact.

Jealous! Ben immediately commented, a heart appearing over the corner of her photo. Where's Richie?

I ditched him an hour out of Derry. He wouldn't stop wailing along to the radio.

I'm taking a shit you colossal douchebags, Richie messaged, his first contribution to the chat. And I have the voice of an angel.

Bev laughed, and Bill replied with a throwing-up emoji, and Richie's face popped up next to an ellipsis that morphed into And my memories are fine. Dickwads.

Don't text and shit, Bill advised, which was about the point that Bev decided to close the chat and admire the view instead.

Richie returned a few minutes later and they spent half an hour wandering the boardwalk that lined the cliff before clambering back into the car. Bev drove this time, nudging the needle to five over while Richie fiddled endlessly with the radio. They smoked their way through a pack of cigarettes, talking about everything from music to movies to their shared high school humiliations, deliberately not talking about Derry or Eddie or Stanley or fear or death.

Tom would have considered it a wasted day. Bev wasn't sure where that thought came from but there it was, slithering through her mind. Tom didn't like waste. You have so much potential, Bevvie, he'd say, forehead creased in concern, hand resting on her upper arm. And then his grip would tighten, uncomfortable at first, then painful. I hate to see you waste it. Let me help you.

She shuddered. No more, she thought firmly. It's my choice.

"Bev? You okay?"

Richie was back behind the wheel, glancing worriedly at her from the corner of his eye.

"I'm fine," Bev replied automatically. "Looking forward to a shower." They had rooms waiting for them at a nearby motel, booked by Bev an hour earlier when the sun began its slow creep toward the horizon.

"And dinner," Richie agreed, his stomach taking that moment to complain once more. "Chinese?"

Bev glared.

Richie stopped at a red light, turned his head just enough to catch her expression, and promptly burst out laughing.

Bev whacked him on the shoulder.

"Oof!" Still chuckling, Richie accelerated as the light turned green and swung into the motel carpark. "We passed a restaurant a few blocks back. Want to walk there?"

"So long as it's not fucking Chinese." The engine fell silent as Bev cracked open her door. "Give me half an hour."

"No problem."

They grabbed their keys without fuss, Richie handing over his credit card for the both of them, and then Bev found herself alone in a small but tidy motel room. She unzipped her bag, rummaging inside until she found a fresh pair of jeans and a nice-enough top, then turned on the shower.

Luck was on her side. The water had good pressure and was decently hot, so she emerged within ten minutes feeling fresh. She quickly towelled herself dry and dressed, then glanced at the clock.

Fifteen minutes left.

Plenty of time. Probably.

She sat on the edge of the bed and unlocked her phone. The first thing she noticed was a slew of new messages in the group chat. A smile played on her lips and her thumb drifted toward it before she reluctantly drew back.

Richie would be here soon. She only had so much time.

Her hands shook. Her breaths quickened into gasps, and twice she slipped her thumb over the lock button before changing her mind.

You fought an ancient alien clown, she reminded herself sternly. You can do this.

Tapping the first of the messages, she placed her phone face-up on the bed and straightened her back. Her hands folded demurely in her lap and she stared sightlessly at the wallpaper as Tom's voice filled the room.

"Beverly! What the fuck is going on? A fucking lawyer called me to say you're filing for divorce. Have you lost your goddamn mind? Call me back as soon as you get this."

The message ended. She silently tapped the next one.

"So, you're not retuning my calls now? Too busy shacking up with Mike? I'm going to leak it to the press, you know. Cheating cunt. Divorce me and I'll ruin your fucking life. You're going to lose everything, you know that? I'm going to take it all from you - piece by piece by piece."

Next.

"Bev, come on. We have a good thing going. Our business, our house. I've worked hard to give you a good life. If you come home now, I'll forget this ever happened, okay? We can go back to normal. I'll take you out to that restaurant you love. Call me back."

Next.

"This is how you want to play it, huh? You want to slut around in fucking Maine – yeah, I've seen the transactions – and act like I don't exist? Talk to me through fucking lawyers? I'm going to take you for everything you have. Everything I fucking gave you. You're nothing without me, Beverly. Nothing. Remember that."

Next.

"I'm coming for you. Bitch."

There were no more messages.

Bev sat. Stared at the wall. Listened to her heart patter patter patter against her chest.

The minutes slipped by. She didn't move, (frozen like prey, isn't that right Beaver-ly, always so weak, so vulnerable) until she heard a scrape of a shoe against gravel. Someone rapped on her door, and she gasped.

"Bev?"

The voice was decidedly male. He didn't sound angry, although how could she be sure? She'd been duped before.

"Bev, are you ready to go?"

The voice slipped into place, and she gave herself a startled shake. Richie. It was just Richie.

He rapped again, jiggled the doorknob, and when he spoke next his voice was anxious. "Beverly? You in there?"

With an effort, she unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "Yes! I'm here!" Her voice was scratchy. She coughed, wincing at the dryness of her mouth. "Just a sec."

Her legs wobbled when she stood, but she willed them into place. Slipping her phone into her purse, she shrugged a coat over her shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Richie stood on the threshold with a furrowed brow, his broad shoulders filling the entrance, his size unexpectedly imposing. Bev flinched.

It's just Richie, she scolded herself over the sudden trip of her heart. Richie, who she'd known since he was a scrappy little kid. Who'd never shown any interest in her.

Who is tall and strong and blocking the only exit and –

Richie took two steps backward and shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched. He nodded to the street. "Shall we?"

"Of course." Taking a deep breath, Bev stepped over the threshold and let the door swing shut. "Lead the way."

---

Something was wrong with Bev.

The thought screamed, circled aimlessly, and finally settled into a sharp prick at the back of his mind.

Then again, Richie scowled, he could say the same about any of them. Bill was making a career out of reliving his childhood trauma. Mike was a level of obsessive that would earn him a prescription or two if he ever bothered to check in with a doctor. Eddie –

He broke off the thought before it could finish.

The point was, Bev was hiding something. She had been since the beginning, of course – Richie had seen the bruises before he'd even remembered her. He'd been shoving his keys into his pocket, restlessly clenching and unclenching his fists, when he spied a man and a woman sharing a warm embrace in front of the restaurant. The woman's jacket slipped down to reveal purple finger-marks on her wrists and he had just long enough to think damn, someone's been laying into her before neon light bounced off brilliant red hair and an image of Beverly Marsh leaping off a cliff popped, fully-formed, into the back of his mind.

It threw him so off-kilter that he completely forgot about the bruises. It wasn't until an hour or so later, when Bill asked Bev about her husband and she dodged with all the subtlety of an eighteen-wheeler racing full-tilt down the interstate that he remembered, and – oh. Oh, fuck, Bev.

Richie had never prided himself on being intelligent – he wasn't Stan or, God forbid, Ben – but he could add two and two and the revelation churned his gut. But Bev clearly didn't want to talk about it and he was in no position to judge (especially with Eddie sitting two seats away, with his dumb fucking polo shirt and premature frown lines and ridiculously deep dimples and oh god why did Richie think it was a good idea to come back to Derry?) so he kept his mouth shut and pretended not to notice how she studiously avoided any mention of her marriage.

And, despite the bruises, she seemed fine. She laughed, she smiled. She was brash, self-assured in a way that Richie only pretended to be. So, when she leaned into Ben's side on the way home from the quarry, Richie exhaled slowly and let his last knot of worry unravel.

Except.

Except, she flinched.

She took too long to open her door and, when she finally did, her eyes skittered to the side. Her breath hitched, her face paled, and her whole body shrank back in fear.

His sarcastic greeting vanished on his tongue.

That son of a – was as far as he got before he dragged his mind back to the actual problem and he stood aside, shoving his hands into his pockets and hunching over in a largely unsuccessful attempt to hide his height, and offered a distraction.

She leapt for it. She looped her arm through his as they walked to the restaurant, enjoying the stretch of their legs and the cool evening air, taking in the sights as though it couldn't have been any small city in America. Richie put on his best tour guide voice and made up stories to pair with the buildings that they passed. She laughed and played along, every inch the successful woman he'd always known she would be.

The restaurant was surprisingly good. Bev paid when they finished – only fair, she insisted, since he'd covered their rooms – and they exited into the cool evening air. There was a spring in Richie's step, his body thrumming in a final defiance against his growing fatigue, and he cocked his head at the sound of music.

It was drifting from a nearby community centre. Curious, Richie veered toward it and peered through the open doors to where a dozen or so older couples were gliding around a nondescript dance floor in well-practiced movements.

He hadn't realised he'd stopped until Bev stepped up beside him. "They're lovely," she murmured. Richie glanced over at her. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed pink with booze. She sounded wistful.

Richie hated it.

"Come here." He grabbed her right hand with his left and slipped his other arm around her waist, tugging her close.

Bev raised an eyebrow, then the other when he didn't let go. "You want to dance? Here?" She jerked her head toward the not-quite-empty street.

Richie grinned and took a step forward, then sideways. She followed, a half-beat behind. "It's public property, isn't it?" he quoted, before snorting. "Bill and his fucking technicalities."

"What?"

"Never mind." The beat was easy to pick up and Richie found himself relaxing into the music. He hummed as he walked her through a few more sets, enjoying the way that she slowly unwound through the movement, a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Ready?" Without waiting for an answer, he lifted his hand and spun her out. She stumbled, a little off-balance, but quickly regained her footing and gave a small twirl. By the time she found her way back to Richie's chest, they were a full beat behind where they should have been, but her giggles more than made up for it.

"Sorry. I'm not much of a dancer."

Richie rolled his eyes, moving them forward once the next bar came around. "Well, colour me shocked. Better call this whole friendship off."

She laughed, moving close enough that Richie could feel her warmth through his shirt. Her steps evened out, her movements gained confidence, and the next time Richie raised their hands to signal a turn, she spun smoothly and met his shoulder at the exact moment his hand found her waist.

She peered up at him curiously. "When did you learn to dance?"

Richie waggled his eyebrows. "I didn't. This is all natural, baby."

Bev snorted, so sudden and un-ladylike that Richie cracked up and tripped over his own feet.

"Well, that was natural."

Richie rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright. "Your faith in me is inspiring," he said dryly. "Next time, I'm dragging you down with me."

Bev shrugged off the threat and held out her hand. After a moment, Richie took it and stepped into position, slipping his other hand around her waist. He let the music flow through him, finding the rhythm as the tune began to swell, and began leading her through a slightly more complicated step.

"You have the natural grace of a toddler," Bev decided a few sets later, "but you're actually good at this. How?"

"I took classes when I moved to LA." Richie dipped her, and she came up grinning. "I had this idea about getting into acting and I figured it might help."

"Did it?"

"Clearly," Richie said dryly. "I've got awards falling out of my butt, Beverly; have you seen my IMDb page?"

"No, but now that you mention it, I'm pretty sure I've seen your butt. And everything else. Were you in a stoner movie?"

"Oh god." Richie stopped dancing and buried his face in his hands. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Sorry." The music ended. Richie briefly considered running into traffic. "It was a nice butt."

"Fuck me."

"Excuse me?" a frail voice interrupted. Richie's head snapped up and he found himself looking at a tiny woman in her mid-seventies. She stood at the entrance to the community centre, her bony hand clutching the doorframe and her blue eyes twinkling. "Would you like to join us? There's plenty of room."

"Oh, fuck no." Richie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Bev elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

He scowled at her and rubbed his side. "Sorry," he said grudgingly, turning back to the old woman, "but I've pretty much reached the limit of my ability. I don't remember any more than what we've already done."

"Well, that's even more reason to join. We're a class." She pointed to the sign beside the front door which – yep, sure enough, there it was: Tripoli Ballroom Dance Class: $10/session. "Don't worry about the fee – we're almost at the end."

"That's very kind of you," Bev interjected before Richie could shove his foot any further into his mouth, "but we don't want to intrude."

"Oh, you're not. To be perfectly honest, we don't have many young people come through." The woman's eyes grew misty, her smile distant. "It'll be nice to have some new faces. And you look like you could use a bit of guidance."

Richie, still stuck on the word 'young' which nobody had used to describe him in well over fifteen years, barely noticed when Bev turned toward him. "What do you think?"

His first instinct was a hearty fuck no, because the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself in front of a room full of septuagenarians, but there was a glint of reckless abandon to Bev's gaze that made him want to indulge, just for a night. "Sure, why not." He grabbed Bev's hand and looped it over his arm, tipping an imaginary hat toward the door. "M'lady?"

Bev giggled again, bright and free, and Richie never wanted her to stop.

They walked up the stairs arm-in-arm, and the woman smiled as they passed. "I have to say, you two make a lovely couple."

"Oh, we're just friends, Ma'am," Bev corrected, politely.

Richie nodded agreement. "It's true. But I appreciate your assumption that I'm anywhere near her league."

Bev tsked loudly. "Stop that! You're a catch, Rich."

"Please," Richie scoffed. "No one's locking this down." The music started up again – a faster pace, this time, jauntier – so he grabbed her hand and pulled her close, copying the pose of a couple nearby. "We should start a betting pool. See how far we get before I fall on my face."

She laughed, her eyes sparkling, and Richie grinned as he spun her out, and then they were off.

---

Richie woke to a pounding headache and the annoying jingle of his phone.

"Ugh," he muttered.

Someone was calling him, not just texting, which meant there was ninety percent chance it was a scammer and a ten percent chance it was Steve, calling to ask with barely-restrained fury what the fuck Richie was doing and when the fuck he was coming back.

Richie buried his face in his pillow and let it go to voicemail.

Ten minutes later, just as he was drifting back to sleep, his phone rang again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake -"

Richie smacked his hand around the cheap bedside table until it landed on his phone, then stared blearily at the ceiling as he answered.

"If I give you a hundred dollars, will you fuck off and scam someone else?"

There was a pause. Then, "Rich?"

Richie blinked. "Bill?" He pulled the phone away to glance at the screen and, sure enough, he could just make out Bill Denbrough in block letters.

A tinny voice rattled through the speakers, so he quickly put the phone back to his ear. "—from either of you in a wh-while so I figured I'd call. Did I wake you up?"

"No." Groping around the nightstand once more, Richie found his glasses and pushed them onto his face, then glanced at the clock. 10:45. Fuck. "I've been up for hours. Carpe diem and live for the moment and all that."

"Okay." Bill sounded disbelieving. Fuck Bill.

The half-heard sentence suddenly clicked into place and Richie frowned at a water-stain on the ceiling. "Did you call to check in on me? Just because I haven't commented in the group chat in -" he paused, calculating, - "twenty-two hours?"

"Neither y-you nor Bev, to be fair. Thought I'd m-make sure you hadn't died from alcohol poisoning."

"Ha fucking ha." Richie ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. He needed a fucking shower.

He put the phone on speaker and sat up, letting the sheets fall to his waist. "How's the movie going? Figured out the ending?"

"Yeah, I have."

"Wait, really?"

Bill didn't sound offended. "I can't explain it. It's just easier, now."

"Confronting your childhood trauma is a good muse, huh?"

"I guess so." There was a moment of silence, but it wasn't awkward. Then, Bill asked so neutrally that it had to be deliberate, "How about you? Finding s-some inspiration?"

It was a vague question. Richie appreciated that – that Bill had given him the option to dodge it if he wanted. But for the first time in a long time, he didn't really want to. "Not really," he admitted. He leaned back against the headboard, letting his gaze wander. "I'm trying not to think about work at all, actually. I'm not feeling super comedic these days."

"Understandable." There was the sound of hushed voices in the background, then rustling movements as Bill moved away. "You should take a break, if you feel like you need it."

"My manager might actually murder me. Or – well, not murder me, since he needs me to make that sweet, sweet commission money, but he might castrate me. I like my balls, Bill."

"Gross," Bill said, but he sounded amused, so Richie counted it as a win. "So, if not comedy, then what?"

"If I had the answer to that, Big Bill, I wouldn't be running away with Bev on a half-assed road trip to nowhere."

Bill cleared his throat. "Uh, speaking of. I'm guessing you haven't googled yourself this morning?"

Richie cocked his head. One hand crept toward his phone before he thought better of it and let it drop. "No. Why?"

"It's nothing b-bad," Bill assured him. Richie didn't feel very reassured. "S-someone saw you guys last night, is all. They posted a video on Twitter."

"A video of what?" Warily, Richie picked up his phone and unlocked it. Ignoring the six – six – messages and one voicemail from Steve, and the string of notifications for the group chat, he tapped on the search bar and started typing his own name.

"Just you guys dancing. Looked like you were having fun."

"Oh." He hit search, and a news story immediately popped up at the top of the results. Are Beverly Marsh and Richie Tozier an item? The fashion icon and comedian share a romantic dance in a new video. "Oh shit. What the fuck, TMZ?"

"Found it, huh?"

"Has Bev seen this?" Richie's heart sank as he scrolled through the news feed, finding more of the same: speculation, rumours, never-ending gossip. "Jesus, fuck. She's having a hard enough time as it is."

"Ben's calling her right now."

Richie blinked, then glared. "Are you talking about us behind our backs?"

"No." Bill sounded, if not angry, then at least tense. "We talked about you in the group chat, which you would know if you bothered to check. We were worried."

"Oh."

"Oh," Bill echoed dryly. Then, softer, "I'm on your side, Rich. You know that, right?"

Richie took a deep, shuddering breath. The anger had completely vanished from Bill's voice, but then, he'd always been like that, hadn't he? A pinnacle of calm until he wasn't, and then his anger would burn bright and fast, gone as soon you knew it was there.

Richie had never been that good at letting go. "If you saw the video," he snapped, "then you must have known we were fine."

Bill paused. "Maybe I just wanted to talk to you," he said, and Richie suddenly hated himself for making Big Bill sound small. "I was worried you might have f-f-forgotten."

Richie scrubbed a hand across his face, suddenly feeling like a complete ass. "Shit," he managed, his voice sounding strangled. "Yeah, okay. Sorry for biting your head off."

"It's fine, Rich."

"No, it's really not." Sighing, Richie tapped a video icon and watched the grainy footage. He and Bev did look close, he supposed. He could see why TMZ had jumped to conclusions. "I'm scared of forgetting, too. But you don't need an excuse to call, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do. And, hey, when we're both back in LA we can catch up more often. You can introduce me to your wife and I can tell her how much she absolutely, definitely does not look like Beverly."

"Oh, fuck you, Trashmouth," Bill retorted, and Richie cracked up.

"Okay, okay, I take it back," he said between chortles. "Seriously, I'm happy for you, man. With the writing, and everything. Just between you and me, your endings were never that bad to begin with."

"You read my books?"

"I've got most of them at home," Richie admitted. It was weird, how often he'd picked one of them up, ran his finger over the lettering on the spine, flipped it over to glance at the photo on the back, never once feeling the faintest twinge of recognition. "Before your head swells up, you should remember that I have shit taste. Everyone knows that."

"I'll bear that in mind." Bill sounded pleased.

Before Richie could reply, there was a clattering of noise from the other end of the phone. He heard Bill's voice distantly, a garbled What...yes, but...okay, I'll be right there and then his voice was clear and loud once again through the speaker. "Hey, Richie? Sorry, man, but they need me on set."

"No worries - do your thing. And, thanks. For the heads up."

"Of course, Rich. Hey, check the group chat, okay? I don't like the radio silence."

Richie crossed his heart before remembering that Bill couldn't see him. "Sir yes sir," he said instead, then exchanged a quick goodbye and hung up.

The group chat notifications were still pinned to the top of his screen, but so was the voicemail from Steve. Sighing, Richie decided he might as well ride the wave of maturity while it lasted and tapped the little green icon next to Steve's name.

He picked up on the second ring. "What the actual fuck, Richie? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't drop you this fucking second."

"My winning personality?" Richie pulled the phone away from his ear while Steve blasted out a steady stream of curses. When the tinny voice subsided, he cautiously put him on speaker and said, "Sorry for disappearing."

"Sorry for disappearing," Steve parroted, apparently not in the mood to be forgiving. "Sorry for cancelling my tour for no goddamn reason. Sorry for dodging your calls. Sorry for resurfacing in a video with a married woman – also, what the fuck, Tozier? Didn't think she was your type."

Richie bit back a reply that might actually get him dropped and said, "She's not. We're just friends."

"You looked awfully cozy."

"We grew up together," Richie snapped. "We go way back – we're friends. Jesus Christ, Steve, you said it yourself. She's not my type."

The words hung in the air. Richie smacked a frustrated hand against the bedspread.

He knew that Steve knew, of course. Steve had been his manager for ten years and had paid off more than one regrettable fling that had threatened to out Richie for money. But Richie had never actually come out to Steve. The truth had sat between them, unspoken and oft-ignored, a fragile balance that somehow worked.

Until now.

On the other end of the line, Steve sighed heavily. "Okay, Rich. But between the tour fiasco and the new rumours, you have to do some damage control."

Richie scrunched his eyes shut. "What have you got?"

"Option one: You do nothing. Normally, that would be the best route – it's a pretty harmless video, at the end of the day – but coming off the back of a bombed show and a tour cancellation, I'd advise against it. The gossip is starting to blow up.

"Option two: You tell the truth. Post a simple statement on Twitter explaining that you're friends. It won't stop the rumours, but you'll have the high ground when it eventually fizzles out because – surprise! – you're not actually together."

Richie grimaced. "Option three?"

"Give them something else to talk about."

"Like what? I'm not leaking a sex tape."

"You'd better fucking not. No, I meant that you could explain that panic attack. Are you going to explain that to me, by any chance?"

"No."

Another sigh, this time impatient. "Richie, come on. What is it? Drugs, mid-life crisis? Are you being blackmailed? I can spin anything, but I need the details. I won't judge."

"I know." And the worst part was, Richie did. Steve was a decent person, at the end of the day. Very focussed on his bottom line, but that wasn't a bad thing. For all of Richie's talk, he knew Steve wouldn't drop him for anything less than murder.

Better not confess to the murder, then, he thought a tad hysterically, and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "It's hard to explain," he explained once he'd calmed down. "I found out that an old friend committed suicide just before the show, so my head wasn't in the right place. I went back to my hometown for a reunion with the rest of our old group - including Bev – and another one of them died while we were there. So."

"What, for real? Shit, sorry, Rich."

"Yeah, well." Richie rubbed his forehead and ignored the sharp prick of tears. "Anyway, I need some time to figure things out."

The silence was heavy. Even over the phone, he could tell Steve was unhappy. "How long?"

Richie shrugged. "Hell if I know."

"You gotta give me more than that."

A sharp rap sounded on Richie's door and he jumped, grabbing the phone as it toppled off the bedspread. "Let's start with a week and take it from there, okay?"

"Fine. Let me know what you decide to do about this video."

"Will do. Bye, Steve." Richie hung up before Steve could reply and shoved the phone in his pocket, hobbling toward the door to swing it open.

No sooner had he opened the door than Bev burst into his room, all red hair and bright smiles, arms laden with a paper bag and a tray with two coffees. "Hi, lover," she teased, hip-checking him as she passed. "Sleep well?"

Richie blinked. "You're taking this awfully well."

"I've had a couple of hours to adjust." She pressed a coffee into his hands and dumped the rest of her haul on the table. She drew out a bagel and took a hearty bite, then shrugged. "My divorce will make the papers eventually. There's going to be speculation. Granted, I wasn't expecting it to start this early, but – well. I can't stop it, so I might as well laugh at it."

Richie sipped his coffee – milk, no sugar, good girl – and grabbed a bagel for himself. "Well, that's...just...entirely too healthy. Where's the rage, Marsh? The fire?"

"Can't fight the whole world, Rich." Bev eyed him, her good humour dampening. "What, did you have something in mind?"

Richie took a bite, only realising how hungry he was when it reached his rumbling stomach. "Steve suggested a distraction." Wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand, he waved the bagel in Bev's direction. "Wanna make a sex tape?"

Bev scrunched up a wad of paper and threw it at his head. "I'm sure we can think of something better than that."

Much to Richie's surprise, they actually did. It took another bagel and the rest of his coffee, along with Bill's blessing and Mike's help, but within an hour it was ready to go.

"You sure about this?" he asked, finger hovering over the screen.

Bev rested her head on his shoulder. "Let's do it."

Richie tapped post, and the Tweet appeared.

Love your faith in me TMZ, but bevmarsh and I are just childhood friends. You want in on this scandal too, writerbilldenbrough?

Below was a photo. Richie couldn't remember who had taken it – Stan, probably, or maybe Mike. It was a polaroid, taken on the camera Ben had received from his kind but clueless mother for his thirteenth birthday. The photo had faded somewhat, the poster on the clubhouse wall too grainy to make out, but the three children in the foreground were perfectly clear. Richie, immediately recognisable with his coke-bottle glasses, was on the far-right, his dark hair tousled and face bright as he grinned at someone off-camera. Bev stood beside him, her red curls framing her face, freckles stark across her cheeks, her eyes scrunched in laughter. To her right, Bill leaned into her shoulder. His eyes were serious in the way they too often were that summer, but there was a hint of a smirk on his lips and his middle finger was raised in a sharp rebuke.

It was a simple candid shot, and it was everything. Three children in all their brazen, thirteen-year-old glory, radiating a closeness and friendship that was almost palpable twenty-seven years later.

Less than a minute later, Bill had already posted a reply.

Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole, Trashmouth.

Richie grinned. I'll show you a ten-foot pole.

Is that why there's so little blood flowing to your brain?

Richie typed his final reply. You know it.

Bev buried her face in her hands, her shoulders quaking. Richie was pretty sure she was laughing at him, not with him, but that was fine. He had never minded when his friends laughed at him – he remembered that, now.

When she finally calmed down enough to unlock her phone, Bev retweeted the entire thread then made a post of her own. Hey TMZ, maybe do a little research before making assumptions. On an unrelated note, can anyone recommend a good dance class? I've recently discovered that I suck.

"And with that," she declared as soon as she checked the post, "I suggest we turn off our phones for a while."

"Maybe just Twitter," Richie countered. Bev raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. "I promised Bill I'd check in. I think we're, like, co-dependent now."

Bev snorted. "You were co-dependent then."

"Hey!" Richie made to shove her off the bed, but she rolled gracefully to her feet before he could, so in the end he just sort of wriggled on the mattress. "Take that back! I am a strong, independent man who don't need no – oh, is that the last bagel?"

"Yep," Bev confirmed, before biting into it with an exaggerated moan of pleasure. "What do you say, Trashmouth? Ready to blow this joint?"

"Fuck yes." Richie's stomach rumbled and he paused. "Maybe we should grab more bagels for the road."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day."

---

The drive was harder than the day before.

There was a heaviness to the air, the sensation of the real world pressing in on them, their little bubble of unreality threatening to collapse. Their laughs were fewer and further between, and the silences stretched longer.

There were bright spots. Twitter took the bait, the significant Venn cross-section of Richie and Bill's fans losing their minds at the photo of their wee selves, while the much smaller inner bubble of comedy, horror and fashion fans were largely reduced to excited button-mashing. Steve sent Richie a brief text of approval, then a slightly longer text of When were you going to tell me you're friends with Bill fucking Denbrough? Nepotism is the lifeblood of Hollywood, Tozier, for fuck's sake.

"So, I guess I might be becoming a horror actor," Richie told Bev after reading her the text, and she laughed so wildly she nearly drove them off the road.

"Sorry," she finally gasped out between laughs. "Just the idea of you and Bill working together on a movie. The damn thing would never get made."

"I'd tear into every one of his scripts," Richie agreed. "He'd rewrite it so many times he'd lose his mind."

"And you know he'd be there watching all your takes, just so he could give you 'feedback'."

"Watching? He'd take over the whole fucking thing. I'd give it two hours before he's shouldering the director out of his own goddamn chair."

"After a week, the entire crew would get fed up and fire you both."

"We'd be blacklisted. Destitute, we'd show up at Ben's doorstep begging for scraps."

"He'd take you both in like a pair of abandoned puppies. Months later, you'd have overstayed your welcome but he'd be too polite to kick you out."

"You'd move in to keep knocking boots with your ridiculously sexy boyfriend, and Mike would follow when he's had his fill of seeing the world. We'd be a household of forty-year-old has-beens mooching off Ben's hard-earned fortune."

"Oh, poor Ben." Bev eased off the accelerator, letting the car glide ten below while she giggle-snorted her way back to calm. "I have to say, though, that sounds nice. Having everyone together again. I hope we can catch up more often."

Richie screwed up his face. "I mean, I was planning on waiting another twenty-seven years, so…"

Bev flicked him painfully on the arm.

"Argh! Okay, fine, jeez. Twenty-five."

Rolling her eyes, Bev put her hand back on the steering wheel and nudged the car up to speed.

Richie kept his eyes on her. His laughter faded and he found himself turning over the question that had been on his mind for days. He hadn't asked it, not wanting to break the spell of escapism, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. The real world was rushing toward them, and it would be on them before he was ready. "Bev?" he asked, after a beat. "Why are you here?"

Her forehead creased, her eyes darting toward him for a second before refocussing on the road. "You know why."

"I know what you said. Needing some time, avoiding responsibility, et cetera."

"Et cetera."

"Yeah, so my point is, you could do all of that while living in a mansion in Nebraska having incredible sex with a man who looks like he walked off the set of Magic Mike. So why are you driving aimlessly along the East Coast with a D-list comedian instead?"

Bev frowned, her good mood evaporating. "Stop that." Was it his imagination, or was there a bite to her voice? "Stop putting yourself down all the time."

Richie narrowed his eyes. "I'm serious."

"So am I!" Bev's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Richie saw her take a deep breath – and a second, and a third – before they loosened, ever so slightly. Her jaw worked as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "You really want to know?"

"Of course, I do."

She wet her lips nervously. Her eyes returned to the road, almost fixedly so. There was a stiffness to her arms that hadn't been there before. "I don't have a great history when it comes to the men in my life."

"As one of the men in your life, I'm offended." The words tumbled out uninvited, and Richie winced. "Sorry."

Bev's lips thinned, but she accepted the apology with a sharp nod and continued. "Tom...he's not a good person. He...he hurts me."

Her arms began to tremble, so she pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. When the car stopped, she engaged the handbrake and killed the engine, plunging them into silence.

Richie, for maybe the first time in his life, didn't know what to say. He shoved his hands beneath his thighs and remained silent.

"Um." Bev cleared her throat, turning away slightly to hide her face. "I have this friend, Kay. I saw her just before I came to Derry, and I told her I was leaving Tom. Do you know what she said to me?"

Richie shook his head, even though there was no way Bev would be able to see him. She didn't seem to notice.

"She said: I was convinced he was going to kill you one day, Bev. And the thing is, she was right. What's worse, she wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. In a way, I've spent fifteen years wondering when it would happen. Wondering it would be that would finally make him take it too far. Maybe he'd catch me smoking. Maybe I'd forget to make the bed. Maybe I'd dye my hair – I was never brave enough to try that one."

Richie's jaw creaked, his teeth clenched so hard he thought they might break. Beneath his legs, his hands curled into fists. He focussed on taking slow, deep breaths.

"But we had the business together, you know? It was his idea. I came up with the designs, but he was the one who knew how to make them sell. He looked after all the business side of things, all the marketing. He always said that I would fail without him. That I was worthless on my own. And the thing is, when you hear something over and over for so many years, you start to believe it. "

Bev turned her head slightly, sneaking a glance at Richie. He tried for a supportive smile, but he was pretty sure he managed nothing more than a grimace. His whole body was shaking with rage, which was absolutely the last thing Bev needed right now. It took everything he had to keep it from showing on his face.

She fell silent. Richie opened his mouth, then hesitated. What the fuck could he possibly say to make that okay? "Bev, I – " He broke off his own sentence, shaking his head. "He sounds like a fucking monster. Jesus Christ."

Bev's lips quirked sadly. "Yeah, that about sums him up."

"If there's anything I can do to help, you'll let me know, right?"

That brought out a genuine, if slightly shaky, smile. "You can help by staying out of his way if you ever cross paths with him. No offense, Richie, but he'd take you down easily."

Richie mimed a stab to the heart. "Oof. Why not cut off my balls while you're at it." His anger was cooling, though – enough that he managed to return her smile with one of his own, and if his jaw was still a little too tight, there was no reason for her to know.

Bev huffed a small laugh, then pressed her lips together, contemplative. "So, to answer your question: I like Ben. I even love him, crazy as that sounds. And I'm forty years old – old enough that I don't want to waste any more time. But part of me is just...scared."

Richie blinked, feeling like he'd just been spun ass-over-tit. "You're scared of Ben?"

Bev shook her head, then hesitated. "I think – no. I know he wouldn't hurt me. He's not my father, and he's not Tom. Logically, I know that."

"But your heart's not so sure."

Sighing, Bev leaned back into her seat. "It's not even my heart. My gut, maybe. My nerves. That part of me that went into overdrive when I heard Mike's voice on the other end of the line. I've made so many mistakes before - how do I know I'm not making one now?"

Now, that, Richie could understand. He sighed and copied her movement, leaning back himself. "Well, if you are, then so are the rest of us," he pointed out. "I wouldn't want anything to do with Tom, but Ben is – he's Ben. Sweet as apple pie. I can't imagine him raising a finger to you, Bev."

Bev tilted her head, allowing the point.

"But on the off-chance that we've all completely misjudged him, can I tell you something?"

She quirked an eyebrow, a corner of her mouth already twitching. Richie took that as permission to continue and leaned in conspiratorially. "I love Ben. But I might love you a little bit more."

She mock-gasped, and Richie nodded sagely. "Yes, I know. It's my dirty little secret." He flinched, immediately regretting his choice of words, but powered ahead before Bev could comment. "So, for argument's sake, if Ben ever did anything that made you uncomfortable, you wouldn't be alone. I'm not your knight in shining armour because you don't need one, whatever your shithead husband says, and I'm not going to fight Ben because he has an actual six-pack at fucking forty and I value my life if not my dignity, but I'll be there if you need me. I have a guest room and more money than I deserve. No matter what happens, you'll land on your feet."

There was a little colour returning to Bev's face, but Richie wasn't quite done. "But, you know," he added, "you don't have to move in with him straight away. Ben would understand."

"I want to be with him, though. And I know I'm being contradictory...I feel so stupid." She sounded frustrated and, for once, Richie didn't think it was directed at him.

He chewed his cheek thoughtfully. "You know, I read up on you guys on my flight to Derry. I'm pretty sure Ben has a private plane. You could take long-distance relationships to a whole new level."

Bev bit her lip. "I just…I don't want to disappoint him, you know? He deserves better."

Richie snorted. "Ben won't be disappointed. He'll meet you wherever you're at, I guaran-fucking-tee it. And even if he didn't – that's his problem, not yours. You're allowed to put yourself first, Beverly."

Bev made a choking noise, then lunged across the console and wrapped her arms around him. "Thanks, Rich," she whispered into his chest. "I think I knew that, but I needed to hear it."

He patted her back awkwardly. "Don't mention it. Literally, don't. My reputation as a heartless bastard is at stake."

Bev laughed weakly and pulled back, wiping a hand across her eyes. "You could have a back-up career as a relationship counsellor."

Richie snorted. "Oh, that's hilarious, Miss There's no way Richie's married! Yeah, I know what you really think of me."

Giggling, Bev fiddled with the keys before glancing over at him. "Do you want to take over? I'm wiped."

"Sure."

They switched seats, and Bev pulled out her phone as Richie steered them back onto the interstate. Deciding that he'd had enough of relationship drama for the day, he fiddled with the radio until a familiar bass line filled the air and kept his gaze on the yellow dotted line.

They continued that way for a solid half-hour, until Richie found himself frowning at a sign and flicking on his indicator. The exit came up fast, and he slipped into the off-ramp and pressed lightly on the brake.

Bev squinted curiously at their surroundings. "Where are we going?"

"Reading, Connecticut, population who-the-fuck-cares."

"Let me rephrase: Why are we stopping?"

"I need the bathroom." He could feel Bev's confused stare on the side of his face and squirmed uncomfortably. "Also, my mum's from here."

"Oh." He snuck a glance at Bev, who looked as though she was trying to figure out a puzzle but was missing half the pieces. "Is that why you wanted to go south?"

"I came south because I had vague ideas of crossing into Mexico and drinking it dry. It's just coincidence that I saw the sign."

Bev hmmed. "Hell of a coincidence."

"Been a bit of that, hasn't there? We're a weirdly successful group of losers from bumfuck, Maine."

"Yeah, I noticed. I wish I hadn't."

Richie would have shot her a look if he wasn't behind the wheel. "Don't like the idea of someone pulling your strings?"

"I don't love it, no. You?"

"Nah - I'd have made it with or without alien clown magic. Natural talent all the way." Bev scoffed, and Richie clutched his chest. "You wound me, Marsh."

"Sorry, sorry." To their left, woods gave way to paddocks, and the first hints of a township appeared on the horizon. Bev straightened in her seat. "So, why are we here? Specifically?"

Richie worked his jaw for a moment, then shrugged. "My dad died in '98," he explained. "Pharyngeal cancer. It was – it was shit, actually. Fucking awful few years. But they passed and he passed, and then Mum decided she'd had enough of Chicago and wanted to be closer to her sister. So, she moved back here."

Bev let out a small noise of surprise. "Richie, I'm so sorry." She actually meant it, too, Richie was sure. She'd met his parents a few times that summer - they all had. Between Bev's asshole father, Bill's grief-struck parents and Eddie's mum being, well, Eddie's mum, they had precious few good parents between the lot of them. Ben's mum was nice enough but her house was far too small to hold them all, and Stan's folks were decent but too strict to tolerate seven rambunctious teenagers so, more often than not, the Losers had gravitated to the Tozier household on the rare days that the weather forced them indoors. Richie's father would bicker good-naturedly with Mike and Bill, occasionally dragging them into the garage to help with a project that didn't capture Richie's interest, and his mother would press freshly-baked treats into Eddie and Bev's hands, brushing away their protests with kind words and a gentle smile.

He'd been lucky. Even after he moved away, even when he couldn't remember Sonia or Al or Frank, he remembered that.

"Mum was happy here, I think." A farmhouse slipped by to their left, and the township drew closer. "She died eight years ago – massive stroke. Her neighbour found her dead on the kitchen floor."

There was no comment on that, and when he glanced over he saw that Bev was fighting back tears.

"It's not a bad way to go, Bev," he said quietly. "After seeing what Dad went through…I'm just glad it was quick. Peaceful, you know?"

She nodded but didn't speak.

Richie cleared his throat and continued. "It took me a while to get to that mindset, though. After the funeral, I wasn't ready to deal with it, so I rented a storage locker and hired someone to pack up all her stuff. Then I flew back to California and left them to it."

"You never came back?"

Richie shook his head. "This may come as a surprise, but I don't love emotionally charged situations. I pay the rent on the storage unit every six months and otherwise try not to think about it."

"But now?"

Richie adjusted his hands on the steering wheel, ignoring the fact that they needed no adjustment. "I spent fifteen years of my life in Derry. There's got to be something to show for it, right? Photos, yearbooks. Something."

Bev's eyes widened. "Do you think so?"

"No idea. Let's find out."

---

She watched Richie watch the road and couldn't help but wonder.

What was he like when he was younger? He paused at a red light, blinker on, brow slightly furrowed as he guided them through the city, but he didn't bother to fire up the maps and he slipped through the turns with the confidence of someone who'd done it dozens of times before. Had he driven these roads at twenty-five, hair curling wildly around his face, legs clad in faded jeans that he couldn't afford to replace? Had he walked these streets at thirty, pace a little slower, peering at shopfronts through contacts instead of glasses? Had he brought someone home – a girlfriend, or maybe a boyfriend, although she hadn't worked up the courage to ask – a shy smile on his face as he introduced them to his mother?

She wanted to know more than anything in the world. Which didn't make sense, when she stopped to think about it. Twenty-seven years was – god, a lifetime. She shouldn't care this much, shouldn't feel this much, and yet she did. Richie and Bill and Mike and Ben had all wriggled their way through her defences, truly seeing her in a way that no one had for so many years, and despite everything it felt like coming home.

She wanted to be part of their lives and have them be part of hers in a way she'd never felt about anyone save Tom, back in that first year when he'd been charming enough to sweep her off her feet and into a hellhole she'd barely managed to escape.

If she had escaped. Her phone burned in her pocket.

"Here we are." Richie's voice jerked her out of her thoughts, and she leaned back as he swung the wheel and slid into a parking space. Bev followed him out of the car and slipped a cigarette between her teeth. She noticed Richie watching her.

"What?" she snapped, oddly wired.

"Nothing." He paused, then stretched out a hand. "Care to share?"

She tapped a cigarette into his palm, then fished out the lighter she'd bought that morning and flicked it open. Holding the flame to the tip, she waited until her cigarette was alight then handed the lighter to Richie.

He coped her movements, well-practiced, then handed over the lighter and clapped his hands. "Alrighty, let's go. Pip pip and tally-ho, my good lady."

Bev groaned and shouldered past him, then stopped when she realised she didn't know where they were going. She fixed him with a stern look. "Which way?"

Richie waved an arm broadly enough to make the gesture useless. "Number thirty-seven. Second row and to the right."

"Right." Blowing out a puff of smoke, Bev stomped in that direction, Richie trailing behind.

Tom would never have let you act like this.

The thought sidled into the corner of her mind, and she clenched her teeth around her cigarette. Her skin itched.

You're acting like a toddler. Pushing ahead, refusing to engage. Grow up.

She blew out a puff of smoke and glared at the numbers on her left. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight…

They'll all leave you, you know. Clean yourself up, put on a smile, say please and thank you and I couldn't possibly. Otherwise, they'll know.

Thirty-three. Thirty-four.

Bev plucked the cigarette from her lips and inspected the lock on number thirty-five. "Do you have a key?"

"Well, fuck me. I knew I forgot something."

Bev rolled her eyes and stepped back. "Go on, then."

Richie sighed. "You're not going to pay that? Not even a little? Damn, Marsh." He fished a key out of his pocket and fitted it to the lock, which struggled for a moment before turning with a creak.

Clearly, it hadn't been opened in a long time. Bev frowned and asked, "Do you keep that on you all the time?"

"Hmm? Oh, the key?" Stiff as it was, it took a moment for Richie to jiggle it from the lock. "No. But I always pack it when I'm touring. Just in case, you know?"

"You were on tour before Derry?"

"Near the end, thank god. I only had to cancel a week of shows." Richie grabbed the handle and slid the door open, revealing a dusty interior crammed with boxes, furniture, and something that looked roughly like clothes-racks covered with sheets.

It was a sizeable storage locker, and it was filled to the brim.

Bev whistled, craning her neck to take it all in. "You really weren't kidding when you said you packed up everything, were you?"

"I did sell the furniture. Donated the kitchenware. But, yeah - everything else was packed up and stored in here." He peered at something near the back, then shook his head. "There's a chance I underestimated the amount of crap in here."

He sounded despondent. Bev shot him a sharp look, the dropped her cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out. "Well, it's a good thing you brought me, then, isn't it?" She pointed to a clear space to her right, then to the ground beneath her feet. "Rubbish goes there; donate pile here." She pointed to her left. "Keep pile there. Okay?"

Richie's lips parted in surprise. "Are you sure? You don't have to help with this."

Bev shot him a smile and grabbed the nearest box. "I'm sure."

By the time she'd managed to tear open the tape, Richie had busied himself with his own pile. Bev left him to it and concentrated on her own work. The box was filled with shoes, so she began the slow process of methodically checking each one and dividing them between the donate and rubbish piles. Most seemed to be in good nick, which shouldn't have surprised her. Her memories of Maggie Tozier were of her pleasant smile, her tidy hair, her clean, well-pressed clothes. Always put-together in a way that Beverly wished she could one day be. She never really understood Richie, Bev didn't think, but she loved him all the same.

Her vision was cloudy. Bev discreetly wiped her eyes on the edge of her sleeve and ducked her head.

What is WRONG with me? Why am I falling apart at the –

A loud screech made Bev jump. Heart pounding, she leapt to her feet and spun just as Richie emerged from the locker with a rusted clothes rack. "Fuck, Richie," she breathed, clutching a hand to her chest.

He glanced at her, then froze. "Sorry. Clown shit?"

Her jaw worked. Slowly, she took a deep breath in through her nose and tried to settle her racing heart. "Clown shit," she muttered.

Abandoning the shoes, she joined Richie near the clothes rack and rested her hand on the synthetic wool of Maggie's winter coat. The fibres were rough against her fingers – well-used but sturdy, she catalogued mentally; someone out there will be grateful for it – and she took a moment to admire the stitching as she slipped it off the rack and into the donate pile.

Then she moved back to the rack.

There was something comforting about the work. The feel of fabric at her fingertips. The methodical checklist – Any holes? Stains? Missing buttons? – and the final decision – her decision – donate or discard? Save or destroy?

When was the last time she'd sat down with a sewing machine? She was the creative mind behind Rogan Marsh, sure, but as the company grew her role became less about design and more about directing.

Don't be an idiot, Tom had said, when she first mentioned that she wanted to return to a more hands-on role. All the work I've put into this company, and you want to throw it all away? Do I need to remind you how to be grateful?

Her knuckles whitened around a fistful of cotton.

No, Tom, of course I'm grateful. Here, why don't you sit down and I'll fetch you a beer?

The fabric tore beneath her grip.

"Woah, there." Long fingers eased the blouse from her hand. "I know it's at least twelve seasons out of style, but that's no reason to go all – Bev? Are you crying?"

Was she? She lifted a shaky finger and touched the corner of her eye. It came back moist.

Richie's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Bev?" He clasped her hand between both of his own and squeezed it gently. "You've been off all morning. What's going on?"

Bev shook her head and scrubbed eyes with her one free hand. "I don't know. I feel like I'm going crazy."

"Hey, I get that. We did almost get eaten by a shapeshifting monster clown who died from name-calling."

Her throat tightened. "It's not that."

Richie hesitated. Bev stared at their entwined hands rather than meet his gaze.

"Is it about him?"

Yes. It would be so easy to say. Just one little word.

Clearing her throat, Bev shook off his grip and ignored the question. "I'm going for a coffee run. I'll pick up some bags and boxes while I'm out. You want anything?"

She dared a glance at Richie's face, and immediately looked away.

"Bev, it's okay." Richie sounded worried.

She shook her head and held out her hand. "Can I have the key?"

"Are you sure you should be driving?"

She pressed her lips together tightly. "Key, please."

A beat, and then the cold metal pressed against her palm. Bev closed her fingers around it and started walking away. "If you think of anything, text me. I'll be back in an hour."

She half-expected him to call her name, to chase after her. She was relieved when he didn't, and soon she found herself in the driver's seat, hands gripped tight around the wheel, cruising toward the centre of town with only half her attention on the road.

It didn't take long to find a hardware store, and half an hour later she had a trunk full of plastic bins and garbage bags. Conveniently, there was a coffee shop just across the road, and Bev stopped for another smoke before heading in.

"Would you like another, Miss?"

Bev jerked, tearing her attention away from her sketch, and blinked at the waiter. The man was of an age with her – mid-twenties, with dark hair and soft eyes – and he jiggled his coffee jug in response to her blank stare.

"Oh," Bev said dumbly, her surroundings suddenly coming back to her. She'd found this coffee shop a few weeks ago, and it had quickly become her favourite haunt. The wood panelling was homely, and the corner nook was quiet enough to concentrate, but the steady stream of customers provided a comforting background noise and plenty of inspiration when she remembered to glance up from her work. Today, she'd arrived in time for lunch, and had set herself up in her favourite seat with a sketch pad and a pot of coffee to while away the afternoon.

The pot was long gone, now, and the waitress who'd initially served her was nowhere to be seen. A bubble of dread formed in her stomach, and she reluctantly looked toward the clock on the wall before swearing softly. "Shit. I'm late."

"That's a no, then?"

Her eyes darted to the waiter, a retort ready on her tongue, but the words faded when she saw the open friendliness of his face, the good humour pulling at his lips. She ducked her head apologetically. "Sorry. No. I lost track of time."

"Yeah, you looked pretty intent on…wow, did you draw these? They're really good."

She smiled and turned the page toward him, allowing him to see a little better. "It's what I do. Well, right now I just tweak other people's designs, but I hope that one day I'll sell my own."

"That's great."

"What about you?"

"Who, me?" The waiter pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, an expression of mock-horror twisting his features. "Ex-cuse me, Miss, but this is my dream. Since I was a wee lad, I've only wanted to serve coffee to beautiful women like yourself. Scout's honour."

Bev couldn't help it. A laugh bubbled out of her, accompanied by a strange ache. Something about the humour pulled at her, making her nostalgic for…for what? She couldn't remember. "Do I know you?"

"I've seen you come in a few times, but I don't think we've ever talked. I'm Sam."

Bev shook off the strange feeling and stuck out her hand. "Bev. Good to meet you."

"Same to you. Will you be coming here often?"

Bev smiled. "Yeah. I think I will."

Her fingertips burned, the cigarette almost gone. She flicked it to the pavement and ground the butt beneath her boot.

She never did spend more time with Sam. She'd been late to meet Tom and he'd been so angry, demanding to know where she'd been. She'd promised herself as she lied through her teeth in a wavering voice that she wouldn't go back. Couldn't go back. The coffee shop would remain in her memory, an oasis of peace amongst all the pain, unmarred by Tom, who could never find out because what would happen to Sam if he did?

The coffee shop was warm and inviting, but Bev didn't linger. She placed their orders then pulled out her phone, going straight to the group text and ignoring the email from her lawyer.

Bill and Mike were in the middle of a long-winded debate over alternative endings to Bill's last book, with Ben occasionally piping up to nix particularly egregious suggestions. Richie…hadn't commented since this morning, she confirmed, scrolling up to the selfie he'd snapped just before they'd left town. The photo showed the two of them grinning into the camera, Bev balancing two coffees in one hand while her other wrapped around his waist. She studied the image a moment longer, then clicked away as the barista called her name.

The coffee was strong and sweet – just as she liked it. The food warmed her arms as she carried it to the car, and as she placed it in the passenger seat, she realised: her mood was gone. Her breaths were slow, her eyes dry. Her hands were steady on the wheel.

She frowned, letting her mind wander back over the last few hours. What had changed? Ostensibly nothing, and yet…internally, everything. She felt calm. Safe.

Safe.

When was the last time she felt safe? Certainly not with Tom. Not since that night when he opened the door and told her to leave while she sat frozen in the seat, tears dripping from her chin, cheek stinging with the force of his slap. When she'd stared at the open road, at the empty night, and thought I worry a lot. When she clasped her hands and whispered I'm sorry and accepted what was to come.

In her early twenties? With the endless bills and scrounging for money and – no. No safety in uncertainty.

Not in high school, either. Not between the absent aunt and the girls with perfect hair and perfect clothes and cutting words that hurt more than a slap ever could.

But in middle school, maybe. Cleaning blood from her bathroom walls with Bill and Ben and Eddie and Stan while Richie waited outside, and even though he whined, she had no doubts, even then, that he would make sure they stayed safe. That they would all keep her safe and ask nothing in return.

The group chat. Bev shook her head, marvelling at the simplicity of it. That was what had made all the difference. Seeing their names, reading their words – it brought her back to that moment, reminded her that it would be okay.

When she made it back to the storage locker, she found Richie sitting beside a box, his back to her and his shoulders hunched. Something about his posture gave Bev pause Carefully, she set her bundle on the ground and walked closer.

'Richie?" she whispered.

His shoulders twitched. He didn't reply.

There was a photo held carefully between his fingers, and Bev leaned over his shoulder to see it properly. Her gut twisted as her eyes met Eddie's.

He was maybe ten years old, all skinny wrists and big brown eyes; fluffy hair that hadn't yet been gelled into submission. His grinning face peeked out of the top of a store-bought ninja turtle costume (Leonardo, her brain supplied, the result of a hot summer in the company of six teenaged boys), and eyes sparkled as they stared directly into the camera.

Bev wrapped an arm around Richie and settled her chin on his shoulder. "He was a cute kid," she murmured.

"He was." Richie's voice was thick with unshed tears. "He was an angry little terror, but he was damn cute."

Richie's shoulders quaked. Bev tightened her grip. "You always did bring out the worst in him."

Richie snorted wetly. "Did I now?"

Bev couldn't help a small smile. "Gee, I don't know, Tozier. Did any of us ever get to use the hammock? You two spent so much time fighting over it that the rest of us just gave up."

She glanced at him, then inhaled sharply at his devastated expression. "Oh, Rich." Bev pulled him into her side, her heart aching. "I'm sorry."

His whole body trembled, his throat working to swallow his tears. His lips moved silently. Then, so softly she almost didn't hear it, he said, "I loved him, you know?" His finger traced the air over Eddie's face. "I don't think I've ever loved someone like I loved him."

She could almost feel her heart shatter. Closing her eyes, Bev tightened her grip on Richie's shoulders and pressed her face further into his neck. "I didn't know," she whispered. "I wondered, these last few days, but I didn't know. I'm sorry you felt like you had to hide."

Richie made a choking noise. His shoulders tensed and for a moment Bev worried he would pull away, but after a moment he seemed to accept the hug for what it was. "I was so scared of anyone finding out - especially Eddie. I always worried he'd hate me. That he'd panic about me infecting him with AIDS."

Bev pulled away to stare, shocked. "Oh, honey, no. Eddie wouldn't – not with you."

Richie dragged his watery gaze to meet her own. "Wouldn't he? It was the eighties, Bev."

She leaned in and spoke firmly. "Eddie loved you. Maybe not the same way – or maybe he did, I don't know. But he loved you, and he would have still loved you if he'd known. We all would have."

Richie turned away.

Bev ducked her head, refusing to let him break her gaze. "I still love you, Rich. Knowing this – it doesn't change a thing. It won't matter to the others, either, when you're ready to tell them."

Richie froze. Then his face crumpled, and Bev surged forward to wrap her arms tightly around him once more. He leaned into her, shoulders shaking, and she held him while he cried.

---

The sun was peeking over the horizon when Bev woke.

She woke slowly, swimming to consciousness from a night blessedly free from dreams, and sluggishly stirred her sleep-heavy limbs. They ached in that satisfied way of a day spent active, and she smiled before opening her eyes.

They'd spent the better part of the day clearing out the storage locker and still had half of it to go. But Richie had made two trips to a dumpster and one to a donation box, and there were two boxes of photos carefully packed and tucked away in his room, so Bev was proud of the work they'd done so far. She'd even squirreled away a few coats for herself – inspiration, she'd told Richie, when he stared at her blankly. Fashion comes around in cycles, and Maggie had good taste. She already had a few ideas simmering in the back of her mind.

She slipped out from beneath the sheets, running a hand through her hair as she planned out her day. Breakfast first, she decided, as her stomach rumbled its displeasure. Coffee, naturally – neither she nor Richie functioned well without it. Then back to the storage locker, with a quick detour to pick up a few more boxes on the way. With luck, they'd be done by mid-afternoon and could spend a few hours lazing around town before preparing to hit the road the next morning.

There was a sense of satisfaction to having her day planned. She'd always struggled with the unknown – perhaps, she couldn't help but think, that was why she'd been drawn to Tom in the first place. Familiarity, for all its terrors, seemed safer than the uncertainty of untested waters.

She worked her way through her morning routine and allowed her mind to wander. Last night had been pleasant – there was a looseness to Richie that she immediately understood. She felt the same way. They'd both shared secrets with each other, and rather than being found wanting they'd both been met with love and reassurance. It was freeing in a way she'd never felt before. The food was good, they both stuck to soda instead of wine, and at the end of the night she pulled him in for a hug which he enthusiastically returned.

Spending time with Richie was easy.

Maybe that was how things were supposed to be.

Emboldened by the thought, she'd called Ben once she'd settled in for the night, and he'd picked up on the third ring. She'd smiled and leaned back against her headboard, the last bit of tension leaving her shoulders, and they'd talked and talked and talked. About her trip; about the storage locker. About that time when they were kids and the group had gone to the movies but Bev didn't have enough money, so Ben pressed a five-dollar note into her hand and told her it wouldn't be the same without her there. She'd crumpled the note in her palm and promised to pay him back – but when she finally presented it to him two months later, he'd brushed it aside and told her not to bother – his birthday had been and gone, and his grandparents had been all too generous.

They talked about Tom, briefly. About Ben's past girlfriends, and the fact that he hadn't dated in years. About Ben's house, which was beautiful if a little lonely, and about his second home in upstate New York.

"I was thinking of staying there for a while," he said, hesitantly, when the conversation lulled. "If that's okay with you. I could drive into the city on weekends."

Bev's want briefly overcame her fear. "I'd love that. I really would."

Ben exhaled over the phone, a relieved rush of air. "You really - ? Okay. Okay, I'll do that then." She could hear the smile in his words and felt herself respond in kind.

Richie was right – Ben hadn't pushed. She felt a little silly for thinking he would. Ben was still Ben – the same way Bill was still Bill and Mike was still Mike. The Losers may have forgotten their childhoods, but they'd never left them behind.

"It's weird, isn't it?" she mused aloud, picking absently at the bedsheet. "We only met again less than a week ago, but I feel like I've known you my whole life. It's like we're picking up right where we left off. I don't think that's common for middle-school friends."

Ben hesitated. "I don't think it's the clown."

"No?"

"No." He spoke with such certainty that Bev couldn't help but believe him. "This is something good. The opposite of the clown, if it exists."

The opposite. Was that a comforting thought? Bev wasn't sure. "Mike might know something about it. We should ask him."

"If you want."

Bev frowned. "You don't want to know?"

For a moment, there was silence. When Ben spoke, his voice was soft. "I've had a lot of success in my life, Bev. I've built a career doing something I love, I've designed dream projects, I've met all sorts of people. But this last week, seeing you all again…nothing else compares. I've never connected to anyone the way I connected with you guys."

He couldn't see it, but Bev nodded anyway. "I think that's true for all of us. Except maybe Bill."

"Exactly. So, if this connection we share is the result of something else…do we really want to dig around and potentially piss it off?"

Bev conceded the point.

They talked a little longer after that, until yawns swallowed their words and they regretfully hung up. Bev fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow and, for the first time that she could remember, she slept easy.

Tucking a last strand of hair into place, Bev gave her reflection one last glance and grabbed her purse. First up: breakfast. Richie was probably still asleep, which meant she could take her time. She'd find a cute diner, enjoy the smells of waffles and bacon and syrup, and watch the sight of the small town blooming into life.

Smiling, she threw open her door and stepped outside.

Someone grabbed her shoulders.

Bev didn't have time to scream. Strong hands shoved her backward, slamming her back against the wall. Her skull cracked loudly against the brick and stars danced across her vision. Moaning, she lifted a hand to the back of her head, her fingertips brushing slick blood.

Her ears were ringing, so it took a moment to realise someone was speaking.

"…thought you could run…owe everything to me…fucking cunt."

Bev's heart sank. "Tom," she wheezed. The light was blinding and her head was throbbing. She squinted, barely able to make out his features against the glare. "Please."

Tom's strong forearm pressed against her neck. His other hand found her breast and squeezed painfully. "Are you going to beg?"

Whimpering, Bev struggled to meet his eyes. "Please. Please stop."

"Why should I? You left, Beverly. After all I've done for you."

The forearm shifted away from her neck and Bev thrashed, throwing herself sideways. But Tom was big and strong, and he crowded her against the wall, leaving her no room to move. His free hand found her neck and pressed painfully against the cartilage, his fingers digging into her pulse.

Bev's hands scrabbled against his fingers, but he was too strong. Her head spun, sparks bursting in her vision as her lungs burned for air, and she couldn't manage anything more than a grunt. Tendrils of grey fog encroached the edge of her vision, and a faint thought whispered in the back of her mind: This is how you die, Beverly.

No.

Gathering the last of her strength, Bev smashed her knee into Tom's groin.

Tom doubled over, his hand automatically pulling back, and Bev took advantage of the moment to wrench his other hand away from her body. Then she scrambled through the opening she'd made to her left.

The brick wall snagged her top and scraped her arms, and her legs wobbled. Still, she pushed on. Richie was in the next room – all she had to do was make it there. "Richie!" she tried to yell, but all that came out was a faint wheeze.

"You fucking bitch."

Bev flinched and pushed herself harder, ignoring the haze of her vision and the way her gut lurched with every step. "Richie!"

A hand clutched her shoulder and Bev's heart sank. Her skull throbbed and sunlight pierced her eyes, making her squeeze them shut as Tom jerked her backward. His hands were all over her – on her shoulder, her chest, her crotch – and then she was tumbling through the air. She landed on her left side, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She gasped for breath, her head swimming, her stomach lurching. It was all she could to push to her hands and knees before she vomited – once, twice, three times – onto grey carpet, her skull threatening to split open with each heave.

It was only when she was done that she realised when she was.

She was inside her motel room.

With the door closed.

Where no one would come knocking for hours.

Bev squeezed her eyes shut and wiped a forearm across her mouth, desperately trying to clear her panicked mind. She needed a way out. Tom was between her and the door, and the window was sealed shut. At least the heavy motel curtain cut out most of the light – without the glare of the sunlight, her vision was a little better than before.

A soft metallic click sounded behind her, followed by the slithering sound of leather against fabric. Bev didn't need to see to know what was happening. She scrambled to her feet, adrenaline momentarily overriding her headache, and glanced desperately for a weapon.

"Need to teach you a lesson Bevvie," Tom explained calmly. "One you'll never forget."

Bev darted for the motel landline at the same moment that Tom lashed out with the belt. Sharp pain burst across her shoulder.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, you know. But you have to learn."

Another lash. Bev flinched as she caught it on her forearms, narrowly avoiding losing an eye.

Tom adjusted his grip on the belt, and Bev threw the phone as hard as she could against the wall to her left.

Tom's head jerked up. He looked at the phone in confusion, then smirked. "You're even more addled than I thought," he drawled. "I'm over here, bitch."

His arm moved quickly, the belt whipping out to strike Bev's shoulder and hip - smack smack – too fast to dodge.

Tom moved closer. Chest heaving, Bev stumbled backward until she met the wall. C'mon, she thought desperately. Richie, please.

Tom's grin broadened. It split his face, making him look twisted, maniacal. "You know I -"

BANG BANG BANG.

Bev and Tom both jumped, startled.

"Bev? You okay in there?"

Bev panted. Help, she tried to shout, but her bruised throat couldn't make the sound.

Tom stared at the door, then at Bev. His amusement was consumed by fury. "Is that him?" he hissed. "That's the guy?"

BANG BANG. "Bev? I'm coming in, okay?"

Bev pulled herself upright and glared.

Tom's nostrils flared. He shoved her to the ground, then walked over to the door and cracked it open.

"Be – who the fuck are you?"

Despite everything – the pain in her head, the burn in her throat, the sickening turn of her stomach – Bev grinned. Richie's voice had never been so welcome.

"I'm sorry, but my wife woke up with a migraine, I'll have to ask you to -"

"You're the husband? Wait, what the fuck have you done to Bev? BEV!"

Slowly, Bev pushed herself to her hands and knees, then to her feet. She could see Richie peering over Tom's shoulder, eyes wide and frantic. Tom's shoulders were relaxed, and she didn't need to see his face to know that he would be wearing a perfectly polite smile.

"Look, man – it's Richie, isn't it? Richie Tozier?" His voice was patient, reasonable. "I need you to give us some time. Bev and I both want to fix our marriage, and it'll be easier if you're not here."

Bev could tell the exact moment that Richie spotted her. His eyes darted across her body, taking in the cuts on her arms and the blood trickling down her neck. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. His face became thunderous.

"So, if you wouldn't mi – fuck!"

Richie drew back his hand and punched Tom a second time, right in the nose. He shoved Tom into the room and stepped in after him, then glanced at Bev. "Are you -?"

Watch out, Bev tried to warn, but her lips moved soundlessly and all she could do was watch as Tom surged forward and tackled Richie to the ground. Richie landed on his back, and Tom wasted no time raining blows on his face, knocking his glasses clean off in the process.

Bev's heard thudded. Richie had managed to grab one of Tom's hands and seemed to be trying to claw Tom's eyes out, but Tom was a solid wall of muscle and without his glasses Richie was fighting a losing battle. She desperately glanced around the room, hoping to find something, anything to –

There. Her hands closed around a heavy ceramic vase. Two quick steps to where Tom and Richie were still writhing on the ground and she swung backward, then brought it down with all her strength.

The vase hit the back of Tom's skull with a horrific crack.

Bev's wrists jarred painfully and she dropped the ceramic onto the carpet. The room rocked, sending her staggering to one side. Her chest heaved.

"Bev, the belt!"

Blinking, Bev turned her attention back to Richie. Her vision blurred, and she could only just make out Tom lying on the carped. He was still conscious, his limbs flailing, but there was a pool of blood forming beneath him and Richie was on top of him, holding him still.

The belt was near her feet.

Bev hated the feel of the worn leather against her palms. Hated the sticky blood covering the edge. She grit her teeth as she dragged it over to Richie, who rolled Tom onto his side and held him steady while she fastened it around Tom's wrists.

When she was done, Richie gave the other man's hands an experimental tug. The belt held tight.

Her head spun once more, and this time Bev couldn't keep her balance. She sank to the ground, her vision greying out, and leaned her back against the bed. Her ears rang, louder than before, and she could only just make out Richie's silhouette moving toward her.

"Bev?"

The word echoed oddly, barely audible over the ringing.

A shadow moved before her as a hand cupped her face, and then the world slipped away.