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"When Doves Cry"

How can you just leave me standing

Alone in a world that's so cold

Maybe I'm just too demanding

Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold

- Prince

Hopper felt weird walking into the restaurant with its live music and its little candles on the table. When was the last time he'd been someplace this fancy? For that matter, when was the last time he'd been on a date at all, much less cared this much about how it went? He unbuttoned another button on his shirt, adjusted his jacket, and took a deep breath. This was going to happen. He was going to make this work, make her see how good they could be together.

He was seated at a small table and handed the narrow wine menu. The waiter hovered over him. Passing an eye over the wine list, Hopper said, "I'll start out with a Scotch. You can make that a double."

The waiter smiled as though it was the most interesting order he'd heard all night. "Very good, sir."

"And I think we'll have a bottle of red, as well," Hopper continued, feeling more confident.

"Very good, sir," the waiter repeated, as if he could see the dollar signs racking up as Hopper ordered.

"How's your Chianti?" He pronounced it like it looked—"Chee-ann-tee".

The smile froze momentarily on the waiter's face. "Our Chianti is quite good," he said, pronouncing it "Kee-on-ti". Okay, then, so Hopper wasn't quite as up on his fancy wines as he'd tried to pretend he was. "Medium-bodied," he continued, "with just a hint of cherry."

"Great," Hopper said, acting like he knew what the hell "medium-bodied" meant. "Who doesn't love cherries, huh? All right. We'll have that. Two glasses, please. One for, uh …" He realized suddenly that Joyce still hadn't shown up. Maybe it looked weird to be ordering all this alcohol for a party that wasn't even there. "Me," he continued lamely, "and one for the lady." He gestured at the door.

The waiter came out with another "Very good, sir" and took the wine menu from him before he could butcher any more names. Hopper dug into his jacket for his cigarettes and checked his watch as he lit one up. She'd be here soon. 'Course she would.

By the time Hopper was through his Scotch, his third glass of wine, and his second basket of free breadsticks, he was starting to realize that Joyce wasn't coming after all.

The waiter cleared his throat, his cheerful demeanor worn through by the number of times he had already approached the table. "Would you like to order your entrée, sir?" he asked. Really, it was more of a demand than anything else.

Picking up the wineglass, Hopper drained it, squinting up at the waiter. "You know what, Enzo?"

"My name is not Enzo," the waiter said, biting the words off with only a hint of patience remaining.

Hopper waved his impatience away. "I just lost my appetite, all right?" He dug his wallet out of his pants pocket and slapped a bill on the table. "So, here you go. You can keep the change." Getting up, he bumped the narrow little table as he picked up the wine bottle, knocking things over with a crash of glass in the process.

Enzo barely caught the glasses before they fell off the table. "Sir! I'm afraid no alcohol is allowed off the premises!"

He snorted in Enzo's face. "I can do anything I want." Didn't this guy know who the hell he was? Still clutching the wine bottle, he staggered toward the door, muttering, "I'm the chief of police."

Taking a swig from the bottle, he bumped into some guy's chair on the way out. Damn guy didn't even apologize. Now there were manners for you—guy sticks his chair right in your way, doesn't even say he's sorry.

He fumbled for his car keys. Well. He'd just take his fancy little grass-wrapped wine bottle home with him, and he'd drink it there. Alone. And Joyce Byers could just forget all about Chief Jim Hopper from now on. He was done with her.

By the time he made it back to the cabin—mostly by memory, the road looking surprisingly fuzzy—Hopper was barely coherent. He stumbled in the door and closed it behind him.

After a few moments it sank in that there was music blaring from El's room. The kind of music she played when that little bastard Mike was with her. Hadn't he put a stop to that?

"Hey!" he shouted, glaring at the closed door. "Hey! When I say three inches—" He shoved the door open and stopped short when he realized that the person on the floor with El wasn't Mike but the red-headed girl. Max.

"Do you knock? Jeez," Max said, glaring up at him, not intimidated by him at all.

"Yeah," El echoed. "Jeez."

"Oh, hey … I'm sorry." Hopper was frozen in the doorway, unable to move, feeling too relieved that it wasn't Mike in the room to realize that El didn't have permission to have Max there either, and too embarrassed to have said anything about it if he had. "I thought that, uh …"

"Mike's not here," Max pointed out.

"Max wanted to have a sleepover," El added. "Is that … okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah," he stammered. What else was there to say? Dimly he thought there was something he should add. "Your parents know about—"

"Yup."

"Yeah. 'S cool. Yeah. That's … really cool."

The three of them stared at each other. Max frowned again and asked, "Did you need something?"

"No. No. I'll leave—I'll just, I'll, leave." He shut the door behind him. Grabbing a cup, he filled it with the last of the wine, turned on the TV, and plopped down on the recliner, kicking his shoes off. So. Joyce Byers had missed out on the best night of her life, but at least Mike wasn't here. For the sake of whatever dignity he had left, Hopper decided to consider that a win.