Chapter 37: Space Oddity

"This is Major Tom to ground control

I've left forevermore

And I'm floating in most peculiar way

And the stars look very different today"

Monday. March 3rd, 1986.

POV: Eddie Munson

The school day is over, and Helen and I are outside against the side of the building, observing our peers as they dash away from their adolescent prison.

We haven't wandered into the parking lot yet, partly because it's packed but mostly because we'd have to walk past a group of people to get to my van.

A very particular group of people. The hive. And a butterfly caught there with them, with iridescent wings that could take flight but won't. She's surrounded by other insects, glued to the spot by their poisonous honey. She's shining for them, for their amusement, unfolding her wings and sparkling with beauty, even though those aren't her people.

I slump against the wall, knees pulled up, arms dangling over them. Helen stands against the brick on my right, eyes observing the scene around us. I can't stop staring at Winter, though.

The butterfly amongst the bees.

"She's onto you," Helen chirps.

"What?"

"Winter saw you talking to Emma, and she's onto you."

"Well, she didn't say anything to me," I reply.

"And what would you do if she did?" Helen counters. "Lie?"

"I don't need to lie, Helen. It's not a big deal."

"I don't like that I have to cover for you," she mumbles. "I don't want to get in the middle."

"Okay, then don't," I say with a shrug.

"But I have information that she doesn't!" She cries. "We tell each other everything!"

"It's fine," I huff and throw my hands in the air.

"It's not fine if you're purposely omitting your relationship with Emma Smith."

"Definitely not a relationship," I counter sharply. "It's just, uh… an acquaintance."

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes.

I return my focus to Winter, watching as Theo tugs her back against his chest and hugs her tightly.

"She's really committed herself to this, hasn't she?" I ask bitterly, finding a pebble on the ground and tossing it against the toe of my shoe.

"Be nice," Helen warns.

A hollow chuckle forces its way out of my lips, and I run my fingers through the dirt, selecting more pebbles and collecting them in my palm. There's a dandelion sprouting between the crack in the pavement five feet north of my position, and I aim for it, holding a rock in front of my face and squishing my left eye shut.

I toss, it flies, and bounces a few inches shy of the target.

"I know she doesn't want to hear it from me anymore… and I know I need to butt out, but…" I hesitate and observe the rocks in my hand, searching for the largest one. "Do you feel like she's been acting different lately? I just think they might have something to do with it."

Helen releases a deep sigh and shifts against the wall, crossing her right leg over her left and cradling her backpack against her chest.

"You don't get it," she says evenly, ready to dole out a heaping of her straightforward thinking. "You don't know what it's like to be around them. They squeeze individuality out of everything and everyone. Winter is just trying to survive."

"We survive," I mumble.

"Barely," she quips. "If you would like to get through high school without a sweetheart or any stories to tell your kids about, then, sure… we're doing just fine."

"I just want to make it through high school."

I toss the rock with too much force, causing it to arch and ping against the heel of a passerby.

I sigh with frustration and collide the back of my skull with the brick, pushing firmly and feeling the pressure through my curls.

"Me too," Helen replies. "I also don't want to be a virgin forever."

I raise my eyebrows and look up slowly, only to find Helen staring wistfully into the distance.

More cars are parked in the rectangular lot straight ahead of us, but Helen is watching the pick-up and drop-off zone. One car, in particular, has her attention, a plum-hued BMW. A very fancy one, with clean lines and a shiny exterior.

An equally shiny driver stands in front of the open door, forearms pressed against the roof as he bickers with a girl standing on the other side. I recognize her as someone Winter always catches in the hallway, holding her hostage with some small talk and forcing Helen to join in the conversation. She's tall with chipped fingernail polish and short hair. And she's arguing with Steve Harrington.

"Ugh," I screw up my face. "Harrington? You have a crush on the hair?"

Helen flushes and sputters, "No! Oh my god, no-"

"It's okay. Winnie had a crush on him once… ages ago."

"She did?"

"I think everyone has a crush on Steve at one point or another," I shrug. "I dislike him on principle, though."

"What principle?" Helen peers down at me, and I watch as the teens continue to wave their arms through the air, completely unaware of the line of cars waiting to leave. From this distance, they kind of remind me of myself and Winter.

"That he's rich and popular," I sneer.

"I'm rich," Helen shrugs. "But not popular."

"And that's why I like you," I grin.

"My crush is definitely not on Steve Harrington," she clarifies firmly. "It's on someone who probably wouldn't like me back in a million years."

I turn my palm over, scattering the rocks back into the dirt, and rise to stand beside Helen.

"You gonna tell me who?"

"You'll laugh," she shakes her head. "Or worse."

"I wouldn't," I disagree, feeling slightly offended. "I don't give a shit about anything if you haven't noticed."

Helen snorts loudly.

"You give a lot of shits," she replies smoothly.

"No, I don't!"

"You watch Winter like a hawk!" She shouts, thrusting her arm out and pointing at the girl near the silver Volkswagen.

I reach over quickly and force her arm down, worried Winter will catch sight of us gesturing madly in her direction.

"I don't!" I yell defensively. "She's just in my line of sight sometimes."

"Oh, please… if you really wanted to commit to this jaded, outcast, loner dude, you would. But you don't. Because you care."

I grumble under my breath and drag the toe of my sneaker through the dirt, but don't protest out loud.

"Helen the Wise," I reply softly.

"Hmph?"

"I think that'd be your DnD name," I smirk down at her. "You're annoyingly, and almost aggressively, wise."

"Thank you," she chirps. "What's your DnD name?"

"Eddie the Bard."

"That's boring," she scrunches up her nose.

"It's my class," I bump my shoulder against hers. "Besides, I'm the dungeon master. I don't play like everyone else. I lead the group, craft the story, bend the rules, make sure everyone has a good time."

"So… I'm a wise?" She asks, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Nah, I think you're a cleric."

"And what do they do? The other character's taxes?"

"Cleric… not a clerk," I chuckle. "Besides, there are no taxes. It's a society free from the shackles of manmade inventions like money."

"Is money a manmade invention?"

"Of course it is!" I bellow. "In DnD, we use the barter system. Or combat or theft. You could be like Robin Hood if you wanted."

"So I'm a cleric," she squints her eyes. "What does that say about me?"

"You don't throw yourself into combat, but you're always there to lend an ear or heal someone's wounds. You're a ride-or-die, but you can be strict with your moral code. And the people around you need your guidance. They're very lucky to have you on their side."

"That sounds nice," Helen muses. "And… in your world… you can be whoever you want?"

"Yup," I respond happily.

"And… you can be…. with whoever you want?"

"Sure," I shrug.

She smiles and glances back to the front of the school, watching the tail lights of the BMW flash on and drive away.

"So, what is Winter's class?"

"She always played as a paladin," I shift against the wall, feeling a sudden pain against the center of my back, but the brick is smooth.

"And they are..?"

"Someone who believes in making the world a better place," I reply softly. "They do everything for love. They stand against evil and try to stamp it out forever… even the evil that exists within them."

"Hardcore," Helen murmurs.

"Eddie!" A voice calls.

Helen and I swivel our heads in the direction of the sound. The person waves me over, taking a few steps backward and motioning me to follow.

I obediently scoop up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.

Helen reaches over and tugs on the sleeve of my shirt.

"Oh, come on," she grumbles. "Again?"

"Wait for me, okay?"

"Don't go. You always run off when she calls you."

"I won't be gone long," I reply halfheartedly, taking a few steps away from Helen leaning against the wall.

"I don't get it!" She throws her hands in the air.

"Don't worry about it, Hell's Bells," I offer her a reassuring smirk. "Just hang out until I'm back."

"Fine," she huffs.

Her gaze carries over my shoulder, and her eyebrows arch in judgment. She purses her lips together and carries her eyes away coolly.

I pause, wondering if I should say something. I want to say, please don't tell Winter.

She could cross to the parking lot and whisper in Winter's ear that I'm running off with Emma Smith for the second time today. But I know she won't.

Helen is loyal to her core, but she doesn't choose sides. If two people she cares about are on opposite battlefields, she'll plant her flag in the middle, shout that we're both immature, and refuse to join the war.

She's our personal Switzerland.

"Thanks, Helen," I mutter quietly.

She tuts in response, signaling she's rather peeved by my actions.

I can't help but try and charm her back on my side, so I jog forward, lean in quickly, and peck her cheek.

She grumbles in annoyance, but I watch her lips tilt up in a reluctant smile.

"You're the best," I grin.

"You're an idiot," she fires back.

I smirk and clasp my hands behind my back, clutching my leather jacket and watching Helen shoo me away with one hand.

As I walk toward Emma, who bats her eyelashes and gives me the once over, I wonder if Winter is watching.

Nah, she's probably too busy mashing faces with her boyfriend. The image that pops into my head fills me with enough annoyance that it quells the slight feeling of discontent lingering in my chest.

If she can do it… then so can I.

I grab Emma's hand and tug her towards the wood's edge, pulling her all the way to the crumbling picnic table and spinning her in front of me.

My jacket and backpack get tossed onto the bench, and my hands land roughly on Emma's hips, pushing her against the table's edge and holding her static with my weight.

I tuck my mouth against her neck, not focusing on feeling but doing. Doing what she wants me to do, what she's been methodically edging me toward since before Christmas break.

The first drug deal, her appearance outside of my trailer, asking for a light in the darkened parking lot. Asking if she could see the back of my van… asking me to take off her clothes.

Don't judge. Things have been weird lately, alright?

At least Emma acts like she needs me. Winter doesn't seem to need me anymore. She said she did, but then she also said it's time to move on. Time to focus on myself and what I want.

I don't think she meant for me to blindly follow my hormones instead of making rational, levelheaded decisions, but hey, I'm only 18.

What the hell do I know?

Emma's hands slide into the back pocket of my jeans, and mine rise to her breasts.

This is what I've been doing while Winter's spinning in the center of the basketball court and settling into her boyfriend's Volkswagen. I snatch every rogue feeling in my body and funnel them into this, into her. They need to go somewhere, and Emma is more than willing to receive.

Lately, it feels like the Earth has shifted off its axis. Not enough to throw us all off into space, but enough for everything to feel like the Twilight Zone.

Things I normally would brush off with a second thought are all I can think about.

Stuff I didn't even notice before is all I can see.

Introspective dialogue that I used to force away is all that rattles in my head.

Everything feels bigger.

When I led Winter to the swing set in our trailer park, I only wanted to talk to her. To check in, I guess, to make sure she was alright. And she was, surprisingly, very alright. It startled me a little how assured she seemed.

Then, I reached out and set my hand on her knee. It's not like I hadn't held her even tighter or closer than that before, but that was different. It was loaded, and she didn't make a move to pull away.

I wouldn't go as far as to say she's giving me mixed signals because she's my best friend, and I can't be sure she even intends to give me signals.

But, man, is it fucking with my head.

I thought I was over this, well, not over it, but enough to move forward. I accepted that she wanted Theo, she chose him, and that should've been enough to wake me up to reality.

For me to accept the truth and move on.

But she's been surprising me, and I didn't think she could do that anymore.

This morning, she reached out to brush a curl from my neck, twirling it through her fingers and trailing her touch over my shoulder.

I froze, completely shocked still where I stood, and then I ran away like a preteen boy who had just had his first kiss on the bus and didn't know what the hell to do.

Winter is bolder, more playful, all the things I know she can be, all the things she usually only is with me.

I am watching her open up, and it's good.

I'm happy for her.

None of this is her problem.

It's my problem.

I just didn't expect to feel even more drawn to her light. I thought if she found herself, settled into her skin, then it would be easier to let her go. It would be confirmation that she was better.

What she said on the swings blares through my head, like the repetitive chorus of some shitty top 40 song I can't seem to forget.

I've been getting stronger, Eddie. Maybe that's what's bothering you.

Does it bother me? Do I need her to need me?

I don't have an answer. She is getting stronger, brighter, and everything feels more intense.

It's getting harder to have her near me, to have her touch me, and laugh at my jokes. It's like I've been living with the sun my entire life, but now it's turned up the heat, and it's making me lose my mind.

It's fucking hard.

So, yeah, I've been hanging out with Emma.

And I've been a bit reckless about it, and now Helen knows everything. But some deep part of me wants Winter to see, wants her to freak out or yell at me or maybe even go wild with jealousy.

It's a shitty solution. I know that. A stupid plan to force her into a corner and answer to feelings I can't even admit out loud. And thinking that makes me feel even worse.

See, these are the introspective thoughts I mentioned earlier. And they've been horribly inconvenient.

Winter isn't just some girl. She's my best friend. Which means everything is more complex because I want her in my life regardless.

I can't put everything on the line or do something dramatic and borderline manipulative like male characters do in movies.

Like that one god-awful Molly Ringwald film Helen and Winter forced me to watch - Pretty in Pink.

That guy was a terrible friend to Molly.

He made her feel responsible for his feelings. Feelings that grew because she was kind to him. After all, they were close and sure, fine if he fell in love with her, I'm not knocking him for that. But then, Molly wanted to feel special, to feel something different. And Ducky acts as if he had been deliberately betrayed and mistreated.

Worst of all, he made her believe his friendship with her was just a placeholder until he got what he really wanted.

As if caring for someone, knowing someone, listening to them, and taking care of them is a shitty consolation prize to being with them. As if it's not enough.

Yeah, I'm not going to do that shit to Winter.

She deserves the world, and the moon, and the stars, too. My adoration of her is apparent to anyone with a set of eyes, but it's not a crush.

It's… everything.

Too much for me to really understand right now, and if I did accept the full weight of it, the feelings would probably crush me to death. So, instead… I'll do this.

Emma fumbles for the zipper of my jeans, and I pull her hair between my fingers.

This is easy. This is a distraction. This redirects the feelings, so they don't consume me.

Emma winces softly, and I pull back, flattening my palm against her head and looking her over quickly.

"Oh shit, did I hurt you?"

"No, no," she shakes her head and rubs her fingertips against her temple. "It's just a migraine. I get them a lot."

I sigh and step back, but she reaches out, fingers hooking through my belt loop.

"Do you have anything that could help?" She asks tenderly, her voice tilting with flirtation.

"Might have some Tylenol," I shrug.

"Not what I meant."

"I'm not selling to you," I say flatly.

"That's not fair," she pouts.

"It just wouldn't be right."

"Why, you can't sleep with me and be my drug dealer?"

I release a heavy sigh and drop my hands from her hips.

"What a moral code you have, Eddie Munson," she teases, tugging on my jeans and tempting me closer. "You're softer than you look."

She pulls me in, and I stare down at her with an impassive look.

"I'm not soft," I reply gruffly.

"You have feelings," she smiles coyly. The hand that rests between our bodies moves to the middle, laying flat and pushing firmly against my crotch.

I suck in a sharp breath but don't give in further.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" I ask.

"You're just not entirely who I expected," she says softly.

"Yeah, well, don't feel bad. Most people get it wrong."

God, it sounds like my words are springing exclusively from the chip on my shoulder.

She hesitates, her green eyes flicking up to meet mine and her pink lips pulling into a taunting smile.

"Do you have feelings for me?"

I freeze, unable to respond. That topic isn't a joke to me, and I study her carefully, trying to decipher whether or not it's a joke to her either.

"That's okay," Emma shrugs easily and pushes her chest flush with mine. "I don't need that. I just need you."

I answer by kissing her deeply, not because there's any truth to be found in my kiss, but because I want to kiss her.

Listen, feelings are complicated.

Nothing is black or white. It's all different shades. Too many people keep their feelings separate, contained, labeled. I've never been able to do that, which is probably why I've been restless my whole life.

Right now, I feel like giving Emma attention and comfort. At this moment, I know what she wants. She wants someone to treat her good, to make her feel good. And I don't want to be alone, but I'm not going to drown myself in beer or drive 90 mph on a windy road.

All of that would be not feeling - resisting something.

God, Helen was right… I do give a lot of shits.

There's a new lesson I've learned on a very steep curve in the past few months:

You can't run from your feelings. Those bastards don't die in the dark. They grow.

I fucked up with Patti. Not because I lost her but because I didn't let my feelings show. It would've fizzled out eventually, even she said that, but she was never dishonest. She never saw me and imagined I was someone else, and she never held back what was on her mind.

Not everything has to be intense or tectonic or everlasting. Some things just are what they are.

When I was 16, post-losing my virginity in the woods and pre-fully committing to metal music, I just wanted to be held.

I mean, I still do. But I followed those feelings, and all roads led me back to the same person. So, I buried them. Deep… deep… Mariana trench deep.

In doing that, I buried everything else. I could only feel the easy feelings - excitement, flirtation, pleasure, anger, hurt, desire. So those are the shades that colored my relationships. Nothing more than that, no love or loss. Just primal, basic, easy feelings. The feelings that kept me in control.

What changed?

What made me grow up?

How did I go from an insatiable, loud, rebellious 18-year-old to this? A pensive, dutiful, introspective asshole?

I guess I am softer than I look.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I mutter aloud, answering my own internal monologue.

"Do you like that?" Emma asks, her fingers undoing my button and her other hand sliding up my shirt.

Bless her, she thought my words were me approving her movements.

I don't respond with any explanation. Instead, I tilt her chin with two fingers and feel her mouth open against mine. I push my tongue forward, and Emma responds by finding the waistband of my boxers, her cold fingers begin to tease along the edge.

So, she's not Winter. But she's still a person. A person I actually trust and a person I want to look after, regardless of how short our time together will be.

I wonder if I'm a distraction to her, too. It certainly started that way when she arranged our first drug deal after she fell from the top of the social ladder.

She got hurt. Badly, deeply, personally. And so she did exactly what I would do in the situation - she threw up her middle finger and embraced her new reality.

Everyone was already calling her names, so she gave them something else to talk about.

How she changed, how she quit the cheer team, how she started smoking weed and sneaking around with the Munson boy.

Actually, not the last part. And that's what makes me curious. I don't seem to fit into her plan to blow up whatever is left of her reputation. If I were, then everyone would know, including Winter.

But they don't.

No one knows but me (who has her shoved against the edge of the picnic table), Emma (who has her hand down my pants), and Helen (who is really, really not happy with my behavior).

Damn this introspective streak of mine.

I can't even focus on the movement of her hand. My body is engaged, trust me, but my brain is out in space, like a rocketship that went off course and can't get a signal back to Houston.

Emma's hand is soft, and she begins to move it inside my boxers, up and down, slow and demanding.

Yup, that should be enough to ground me back to Earth.

My eyes shut, and Emma sounds out a happy sigh, now having my full attention. Her lips press against my neck, not trying to overpower what she's doing with her hand but leaving soft, continuous kisses along my jugular.

Her free hand balls into the back of my shirt, and mine tightens against her hips.

I squish my eyes tighter, needing the ecstasy down south to spread upwards and silence the transmission in my skull.

Get back down to Earth, Starman. Stop floating off into space.

Emma's lips drag up my throat, and my palms close around her back, feeling a pressure building beneath my skin and holding onto her tightly, not letting her go, not letting her leave me.

She doesn't want to leave, and her hand moves faster, encouraged by the soft groans escaping between my lips.

Her mouth brushes against my jaw, sliding upwards until her breath traces my earlobe.

"Yeah…" she whispers. "You like me."

"That was longer than you said it would be," Helen shouts as I round the corner of the school.

Winter is next to her, watching me peculiarly, and I feel a sudden flush. A heat blasts through my body, followed by an alarm bell ringing in my head, one trying to warn me that she knows.

Oh god, she knows where I've just been.

She knows what I just did.

She knows.

I slap my palm against my cheek, rubbing away lipstick that I know isn't there, but maybe it was manifested by my sudden anxiety, a red stain blooming like a Scarlett letter against my skin. As I draw nearer, I glance down at my fly, double checking it's zipped.

All seems alright, if only I can keep calm on the surface and if Helen hasn't told Winter.

I stop in front of the girls, them blinking back at me, my eyes flickering between them, none of us uttering a word.

Winter doesn't look upset, but her eyes scan me carefully, her head tilting as she traces the hem of my band tee and the sloppily tied laces of my sneakers.

Helen watches her watching me, holding onto a breath that's blocking words from lunging out and spewing truth. Her face starts to redden like she's really losing oxygen, and I worry she might pass out, then hit her head on the pavement, and it'll be all my fault because it was my secret she was trying not to spill.

Winter's eyes trail back up my body, locking onto mine and narrowing slightly.

I pull my head back under the intensity of her stare.

I know that look… she's trying to read my thoughts.

And although there is no scientific proof of clairvoyance or telekinesis, Winter has an uncanny ability to know when I'm hiding something.

Helen's head continues to swivel, Winter stares at me, and I'm hurriedly racing through my thoughts, tossing the ones I don't want her to see onto a bonfire and setting them alight.

She doesn't know.

She doesn't know.

…Does she know?

"Hi, Eddie," Winter chirps simply.

The intensity shatters. Helen exhales a gasping breath. And an ocean wave crashes over the fire.

She really doesn't know.

Fuck, that should make me feel relieved, but I just feel worse.

I suck my lips into my mouth and nod in response, and Helen still looks like she might pass out, but from guilt instead of oxygen deprivation.

"You driving us home?" Winter asks, the suspicion that didn't grow after I emerged from the woods now extending in the curious silence between Helen and me.

I try not to glance at Helen, which would be enough for Winter to catch on and march forward, jab her finger against my chest, and demand I tell her what's going on.

"Uh - y-yes," I answer, but with my eyes glued to my feet.

"Cool," she replies, walking forward and sweeping by me.

She wanders so close that her arm brushes against mine as she passes, and I tilt my chin slightly, inhaling the scent of her vanilla lotion.

Helen passes on the other side, giving me a wide berth and walking with extra loud footfalls.

With a deep sigh, I turn to follow, trying to shake away a feeling like I'm betraying someone and fighting my brain before it tries to figure out who that someone is… Winter or me.

"Can I have the front seat this time?" Helen asks.

"Why?"

"Because you always get it!"

"Um, yeah, because I put in hours, Helen. It practically has my name stitched on it."

"The back is scary," she protests. "There's no seatbelts!"

"Eddie's driving is scary regardless of seatbelts," Winter retorts.

"Ooh!" Helen shouts. "I can drive, and we kick him to the back!"

"I love that plan," Winter agrees.

I take that as my cue to jog forward, squeezing past them and turning quickly to block the driver's side door.

Winter reaches out, trying to force her hand behind my back and grab the door handle.

"Neither of you will, ever, ever drive the van," I look between them without a smile because there is no amount of negotiation or charm that could change my mind. "Got it?"

"We reject your statement," Winter replies flatly, cramming her hand beneath my back and fumbling for the handle.

"Hey-" I cry, pressing my spine flat against the door and crushing her palm.

Winter steps closer, elbow digging into my side as she tries to use her weight to cast me away from the door.

I slide my arm in front of her chest, lowering a drawbridge between her and the driver's seat, but she's relentless, still pushing, fingers trying to yank the handle, body shoving mine to the left. Then, I guess her plan would be to pull open the door with enough force to knock me over.

"You can't even drive!" I yell, trying to use reasoning, which isn't helpful because now she's just fighting to beat me, not actually to captain the ship.

"Helen, help me!"

"I feel like this is you two working something out…" Helen replies, her voice slow and reluctant. "So I'm not jumping in."

"Traitor," Winter hisses.

I push my arm forward, shoving her away from the door, but her feet dig into the ground, the soles of her sneakers dragging through the dirt, but her stubbornness holds her firm.

My other arm wraps around her back, now just trying to contain her as she struggles.

"You gotta give it up," I say, humor bleeding through my words as I watch her, eyebrows lowered, mouth pouted, fierce determination flashing in her eyes.

Maybe Helen was right… maybe Winnie is working through something.

God, Helen is always right, isn't she?

So, Winter is pissed. Or at least, suspiciously pissed. As if she knows there is something she could be mad about. And that's why she's doing this, fighting me with no goals in sight but just enough spirit not to quit.

I could've won minutes ago, but I wait, letting her exhaust all her strength, and pressing my back against the door, until she huffs, gives me one last shove, and jerks her chin up.

Her eyes find mine, and I can't help but laugh.

"You done now?" I say, a huge grin cracking across my face, mostly over her stubbornness and partly her body pressing against me, her forearms frozen against my chest, and my arm looped around her waist.

She stares back, eyebrows still lowered, mouth drawn into a pout. She pushes away and crosses her arms over her chest, but her eyes search mine, looking for something hidden within them.

There's a reason for this, why she was so calm when I exited the edge of the woods, but then her body betrayed her brain, jumping forward and fighting for some inexplicable reason.

She's always been heart over head.

Winter can't help but follow the beating center in her chest. But, she also knows pain, cuts that have dug into her tender flesh, scars that just won't heal. So, her brain works overtime, flipping and churning and hastily building walls, detaching her from her surroundings, silencing her feelings, and keeping her safe.

That's what sprouts the anxiety, the analysis, the agony.

Her heart keeps kicking it all down anyways - she keeps trying.

She's always tried. To find the good in others, to make the best of a shitty hand, to fix herself.

Winter is left in pieces on the floor when her brain and her heart clash, lost and overwhelmed. There are moments, though, when her heart rate settles, her eyes stop searching for an exit, her limbs collapse, her brain quiets… when she's safe … well, that's Winter at her core, Winter at her best.

That's my Winter.

That's the girl that climbed through my window and dove beneath my covers. That's the girl that showed me how to let a record spin and be still for a while. The girl that slapped a sign on Jake Hartman's back in the cafeteria. The girl who sprayed me with a hose when I almost made her late to her first game.

The girl that doesn't hide how she feels because she can't. Because her heart is the loudest part of her, and as far out to sea as she might drift, the current will always carry her back to herself… back home.

I see it now. Winter recognizes it, too. Her gaze drops to the center of my chest, and I have to bend at the knees to look into her eyes.

Her emotions are spilling over.

Her brain loses its dominance every day, has done every day since the anniversary of her father's death.

She can't keep it contained anymore, can't quiet her heart.

She raises a hand between us, ready to gain distance, but I catch her wrist.

"Winnie…"

"Drop it, Eddie."

She steps backward, and my grip releases.

Winter is visibly shaken up, raw, and she moves away from me as fast as her body can, heading to the passenger side door.

I'm still startled by the look in her eye. How clear they were. If I had only studied her for a half-second longer, I would've known everything.

Every shade. Every truth.

I stand outside the van, hearing some murmur from Helen, who had taken Winter and I's small tussle as an opportunity to claim shotgun and now pushes down the lock so Winter can't force her out.

Winter doesn't even try, though. Her complete disinterest in fighting for her seat might be the clearest sign that she's rocked to her core, and I hear the back of the van slide open and slam shut.

I hop in and turn the keys in the ignition, driving toward's Helen's house and trying to keep my eyes on the road instead of the girl sitting in the back of my van.

My eyes flick over her once at a red light, and I catch her sitting with her knees drawn against her chest, her chin set atop them, her arms holding herself together in a tight ball.

Things were supposed to get easier for her. Her plan was supposed to work. She would join the cheer team, date a nice boy, and her heart would thaw, and her brain would applaud.

It would be just what she needed, the answer to all of her problems.

But she is thawing, and things are more complicated than ever.

I can't help but think it's my fault, somehow, like I've messed her up. Maybe she can't detangle herself from our friendship. Maybe I'm in the way.

Helen gets out of the van, and Winter gracefully hops out of the back and slides into the front seat, but she sits as close to the door as possible, her legs crossed and her arms cradling her stomach.

It's all bigger now. And I don't know how to help her. I don't even know if she wants me to help her.

All I know is she's not numb anymore, and everything is shifting.

She jumps out as soon as the van rolls to a stop, walking hurriedly toward her trailer without a backward glance.

I know what she'll do next, put on a Stevie Nicks record, skip ahead to the right track, and try to make everything quiet.

I'm not sure it's working for her anymore, though. I think she's on the edge of something, and I'm right there with her, but neither of us knows what's next.

We can't see what's coming… and we can't stop it.