LXIII

Eleven stops and turns around just in time to see Henry inching toward her. Without taking his eyes off her, a slight rictus on his face, the door closes with a loud bang.

"Henry…"

But he doesn't seem willing to listen to her. Not anymore.

"What you did today," he warns her with his index finger up, "can't happen again. Am I being clear?"

"Yes…"

"Thousands of scenarios went through my mind in your absence." His tone is feral, intimidating. "I've been trying to contact you for hours. If you hadn't answered me when you did, I would have left this small town upside down until I found you. Do you understand what that means, Eleven?"

"Yes," she says once again. "But—"

"No, no buts," Henry silences her sourly. "I need you to understand the severity of your actions. Especially since you could have called from a pay phone or a store or something."

To tell the truth, it's not something that had occurred to her—neither to Joyce nor to Hopper, who were also in a hurry. Having ruled out communicating with him telepathically—because she still hasn't mastered her abilities in the way he has, so starting a long-distance conversation still seems like a distant reality—she hadn't stopped to think about it, letting herself be carried away by her own enthusiasm and that of others. However, this would not have been possible anyway, and she tries to let him know: "I… I don't know the house number by heart and—"

"Then you shouldn't have GONE!"

Eleven suspects that justifying herself further will only make the situation worse, which is why she remains silent as her fingers dig into the plastic bag.

"What irritates me most," Henry admits, "is that you put me through all this over a dress."

Well, that hurts, because for Eleven it's not just a dress. It's a necessity for her first formal—or semi-formal, at least—event. Her first school event with friends.

And lastly—and just as important—it's the first gift anyone other than Henry has ever given her.

"But… I needed it…" she protests then. "For the ball—"

"Oh, the ball?" The smile that appears on Henry's face holds traces of a past life: a life loaded with sacrifices and blood. "The ball you've never before been to and that has suddenly become the most important thing in the world? More important, apparently, than letting the only person who cares about you know you're going out of town with two adults who don't even know the truth about you?"

Though she feels guilty for how inconsiderate she's been to him, Henry's choice of words makes her blood boil. "You're not… the only person who cares about me," she snaps at him.

Henry purses his lips into a thin line, as if he's fighting a battle with himself not to yell; Eleven distinguishes a slight tremor in them.

"Ah, no?" he asks in a whisper loaded with feigned surprise.

"No," Eleven, who won't back down, assures him. "Max and… Joyce and… Will, Dustin, Lucas, Mike…"

"Oh, your friends, right?" Henry smiles again; Eleven distinguishes his pointy canines. "How could I possibly forget: Eleven has made friends, and now stupid Henry doesn't matter anymore."

"It's not like that!" she objects with a frown. "You don't understand! You know it's not… It's not like that. It's just—"

"Yet I think I do understand," Henry continues as if he hadn't heard her, even walking past her to stand in front of the grandfather clock, his hands clenched behind his back. "I think I understand exactly what's going on."

Eleven follows him with her eyes. "Henry…?"

"You lied to me," he says with a resigned tone that, for a moment, attenuates the anger that Eleven feels.

"What—?"

"You lied to me," Henry repeats, and now he looks away from the clock to fix his eyes on her. "When you said you'd go alone."

Eleven tilts her head, puzzled. "I said I'd go with Max…"

"Did you?" Henry's smile only widens, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "And is Max your date?"

To this, she doesn't have an answer.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice? Apparently, Joyce knew…. But I? Oh, no, why would you tell me something like that? Better to lie to me, it's easier, isn't it?"

Eleven shakes her head.

"It wasn't… like that—"

But Henry has already jumped to another topic: "Who?"

For a moment, she doesn't understand his question. Henry raises an eyebrow and insists: "Who is your date?

"...Mike," she reluctantly confesses, knowing that trying to hide it from him will only make the situation worse.

"Mike?"

"Wheeler," she adds. "You don't know him…"

"Oh, I certainly don't, but you are going to do me the favor of introducing us."

"Henry, you don't… understand." Trying to reason with him is hard when he's so defensive, and it doesn't help that the words have decided to stop cooperating with her because of her nerves. "I didn't lie to you."

The man lets out a scornful laugh. "Ah, of course, I'm misinterpreting everything, what a fool I—"

"Mike invited me after you… asked." She almost manages to say it in one breath. "I was going to go… with Max first."

This seems to finally calm things down. From Henry's stunned expression, Eleven senses that he doesn't know how to react once he has processed the facts. She takes advantage of the sudden pause to deposit the bag on one of the chairs. Then, she approaches him.

And she entwines her fingers with his. He doesn't reject her; he just watches her with an expression of obvious confusion.

"But," Eleven continues, offering him a conciliatory smile, "it's true that the rest of my friends… will be there. And I wanted… I want to look… pretty. That night."

I'd like to have a picture together, she adds in her mind, and pushes the thought forward, as if knocking on Henry's door. I want photos with all the people I care about. With you and with them.

Henry takes a deep breath.

"And… I'm so sorry," she finally apologizes. "I wasn't… I wasn't thinking…"

Silence. And then, Henry squeezes her fingers between his own. "I'm sorry," he says finally, in a whisper. "I… was worried. And… well, you know…"

Eleven gets it then: Henry isn't mad, not really.

…

He's scared. And it's her fault.

"It's fine," she assures him, perfectly aware of the effort it takes him to apologize, not to mention it's she who has wronged him first.

"I thought—" Eleven doesn't let him continue, freeing her fingers from his. "Eleven…?"

The thread of voice with which he calls her disarms her. Eleven chooses not to mention it, not making him feel even more vulnerable.

Instead, she lunges forward and wraps her arms around his torso. She feels him tensing up at first; seconds later, however, all of his muscles seem to relax as he hugs her back.

Henry doesn't tell her: not when just a few minutes ago they successfully navigated a misunderstanding-turned-argument.

Not when barely hours ago he had thought he'd lost her.

But the words land on his tongue and threaten to betray him. So he forces himself to silence them by saying something totally different while he gently extricates himself from her:

"Would you like to go for a walk? To… clear our minds a bit."

Eleven smiles and nods. He offers her his arm; she takes it without hesitation.

They both head to the nearby park.

There, under the fine drizzle, among the trees and the fluttering leaves, Henry thinks of the words he has left unsaid.

Even if it had been out of place, even if it might have embarrassed you, I would have liked to accompany you to your first dance.