The soft glow of the TV casts flickering shadows across the living room floor as Humphrey Bogart's gravelly voice fills the room. I curl deeper into the armchair, clutching a quilt against my chest as Ingrid Bergman turns away from him, tears glistening in her eyes.

"This is the worst Christmas movie ever," Dustin groans, tossing popcorn in the air and catching his mouth.

"It's not a Christmas movie," I snap, eyes glued to the screen. "It's a classic, tragic, love story."

Dustin smirks, pretending to gag. "Yeah, real festive. No wonder you're grumpy."

From the kitchen, Dad's voice cuts through the conversation. "Dustin's right, Lacy. It's Christmas, not a funeral."

I turn to glare at Dad, who's leaning against the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "I like it," I mutter defensively.

Dustin snickers. "Yeah, nothing says 'tis the season like heartbreak and Nazis."

"You wouldn't understand," I say, my voice tight with annoyance. If we were at Mom's, this conversation wouldn't be happening. If we were at Mom's, I might actually be enjoying the holiday.

"Sure I do," he shoots back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "You just like watching Bogart suffer because it reminds you of –"

"Dustin," I warn, my voice sharp.

"–you and Billy," he finishes with a triumphant flourish.

My face burns and I whip my head around to glare at him. "Shut up."

"Billy?" Dad asks, now picking up the remote from the coffee table to change the channel, "The boy helping you with your truck?"

My blush deepens at the question. The one time my dad remembers anything about my life and it's Billy Hargrove. "He's not," I mutter through clenched teeth, watching as he changes the channel to A Christmas Story.

Dad crosses his arms, sitting on the armrest of the couch with a raised brow. "So, what happened?"

"Nothing," I say quickly, my voice more forceful than I intend. "He's just not helping me anymore."

"Lacy broke up with him before you picked us up yesterday," Dustin adds, holding the bowl of popcorn out to our dad. "That's why she's crying over Casablanca."

"I swear, Dustin–"

"Lacy," Dad says, cutting me off with that even, authoritative tone he always uses when he's trying to sound reasonable, but there's a twitch in the corner of his mouth, like he's holding back a smile. "There's no reason to get so upset."

"I'm not upset," I insist, standing abruptly and folding the quilt with a snap of the fabric in Dustin's direction. "Can we just drop it?"

Dad opens his mouth, but Helen clears her throat behind us, stepping into the tension with a timid smile. "Dinner's almost ready," she says gently. "Lacy, will you come help me set the table?"

Grateful for the escape, I nod quickly and follow Helen into the dining room. She's already laying out the cloth napkins, folding them with practiced ease. "Your dad's trying, you know," she says softly, not looking up as she pulls out the polished silverware from a cabinet for me.

I glance at her, caught off guard by the comment. I feel my face twist bitterly, fighting the comment that threatens to slip past my lips.

"I know," Helen smiles, catching my look, "what do I know? But I was a teenage girl with a clueless father once too, Lacy."

"Yeah it wasn't that long ago," I mutter, watching as Helen pauses, her hands resting on the table as she meets my eyes.

"Which is why I know what I'm talking about," she says with a careless laugh. "Your dad's trying, Lacy. He doesn't always know how, but he's doing the best he can."

I shrug, avoiding her gaze as I adjust the silverware. "He doesn't care that Billy and I –" I stop myself, reconsidering my words, because there wasn't a real breakup. There wasn't anything real between us to mourn. "He just doesn't want to watch Casablanca."

Helen sets a stack of plates on the table, her knowing smile making me squirm. She's nothing like my mom, who is warm, bubbly, and always seems to know what to say, but she's trying to at least soften the tension between Dad and me. Maybe she deserves more credit than I give her.

"So," she says, her eyes flicking towards me, "tell me about Billy."

My chest tightens, it's not that I don't want to talk about him – it's that I don't know what to say. How do I explain someone like Billy? The way he can infuriate and enchant me in the same breath? The way he's become this knot in my chest I can untangle.

I glance up at her, and she's still smiling, her patience wrapped around the room like a shield. "He's just a stupid boy," I mutter, more to myself than to her.

"All boys are stupid, honey. It took me fifteen years to find one that wasn't too bad." She laughs and I can feel the corners of my mouth pull slightly, "but Billy's either going to come around or he's going to be someone else's headache. Not all of them can be fixed."

I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat. Talking about Billy feels like pressing on a bruise – it hurts too much, and I'm scared of what I might say if I let myself feel at all. I swallow, glancing down at the table, picturing Billy at his own house. I wonder if his stepmom is asking about me, but then I think about the stillness of his home, the fake warmth that lingers and it's easier to imagine him brooding in his room, keeping the world out, like he's done so many times with me.

By the time we call Dustin and Dad to sit down, the tension lingers, though Dustin's smirk as he plops into his chair tells me he's still reveling in his earlier victory over the movie. I glance at the folded napkin in my lap, running my finger along its edge, wondering if my own knot will ever unravel.

The clinking of silverware and the murmur of casual conversation fill the dining room. Dad carves into the ham with his methodical precision, his brow furrowed like it's the most important task in the world. Helen serves Dustin a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, her warm smile earning a quick "thanks" before he dives in.

I pick at my place, swirling a bite of green beans in gravy, my appetite dulled. The faint smell of pine from the centerpiece mingles with the food, a bittersweet reminder of simpler Christmases.

"You're quiet," Dad says, his fork pausing mid-air. His tone is casual, but his eyes flick to me with thinly veiled concern.

"I'm eating," I reply, forcing a smile as I spear a green bean and pop it into my mouth.

"She's sulking," Dustin chimes in with his mouth full, earning a sharp glare from me and a disapproving glance from Helen.

"Dustin," Helen begins gently, "I would love to hear about the AV Club."

But Dad leans back, taking a sip of his wine and talking over Helen with clear annoyance. "Lacy, I'm not too happy with the attitude tonight, between this boy and your shoulder –"

"Dad," I interrupt, my voice sharp, knowing he sees both as a distraction to tennis, my future — he doesn't care that the rest of my life seems to be teetering on its axis. He raises a brow and I immediately feel a pang of guilt when Dustin sighs next to me, knowing that an argument is about to erupt.

"It's time to buck up, kiddo," Dad continues, but his tone has finality — it's the start and end of the argument. I press my lips together, listening to the way his voice rises, "Get your head out of the clouds, get back on the court, and I know you'll feel better in no time."

My fork scrapes across the plate as a silence settles over the table. I feel Dustin's foot nudge mine, a silent acknowledgement of solidarity despite his incessant teasing. I know Dustin hadn't meant for it to go this far, had this been five years ago, Dad would have laughed at my attitude, chalked it up to being an almost seventeen year old girl. Dad sighs and the silence that follows is a reminder that he is not the same. I fight the urge to glance at Dustin, to shrug my shoulders, and silently agree that despite the show he's put on for the holiday, Dad is now an asshole.

We finish our dinner in silence, Helen stands, clearing her throat with a pointed glance towards Dad. He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine with a contemplative glance towards me, ignoring the silent disdain, "Dustin, help Helen clear the table. I need to speak with your sister."

Dustin nods, placing a careful hand on my shoulder as he picks up our plates. I sit back in my chair, my fingers still absently fiddling with the edge of the napkin.

Dad leans forward, his elbows resting on the table as he finishes his glass of wine. His eyes linger on me for a moment before he speaks, "You know, it might be good for you to stay here a few more days. Give yourself some time to focus on tennis and clear your head."

I blink at him, caught off guard. I was ready for the lecture – the one where he tells me I'm better than this – that my future in tennis is my only ticket to college, out of Hawkins, for success — not this flimsy extension of an olive branch. "Clear my head?"

He nods, his tone casual but firm. "You've had a lot on your plate lately. Maybe staying here, away from distractions, will help. We'll hit the courts, stretch the shoulder, and I know you'll start to feel better."

My stomach twists at the thought, the ache in my shoulder a constant reminder of how far I still had to go. "I don't know if that's a good idea –"

"No more excuses, Ace," Dad cuts in, his tone leaving little room for argument, "you don't just get back on top by sitting on the sidelines."

His words sting, but this time I don't just accept them. I know he's wrong, even if he won't listen. My shoulder isn't an excuse – it's a fact. I can't play through pain that hasn't healed, no matter how much I wish I could. He doesn't live with the ache or the sharp reminder of my failure. I do.

I roll my shoulder, wincing as a dull ache creeps down to my elbow, but there's no point in protesting; Dad's mind is made up. Whatever I say, however I feel, will just be another excuse — another disappointment in his eyes. The knot tightens again, and I wonder if staying here will really help – and a surprising part of me desperately wants to believe it.

Before I can respond, the shrill ring of the phone cuts through the tension. Dad glances toward the kitchen, "Helen, can you get that?"

A moment later, Helen reappears, wiping her hands on her apron. "Lacy," she says, her tone light but curious, "it's for you."

My heart skips a beat. "For me?"

She nods, holding out the receiver from the line in the kitchen, "I think you'll want to take this one."

I glance at Dad, who nods reluctantly, dismissing me from the table. My breath catches in my throat, and I force myself to stand, my legs suddenly unsteady.

"Take the call in the study," Helen winks as she pushes back into the kitchen, holding the receiver close to her chest.

I step into the study, the door creaking softly as I close it behind me. The room smells faintly of wood polish and old paper, the dim light from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered shelves. My hand trembles slightly as I press the receiver to my ear, the cord curling like a snake around my wrist.

"Hello?" My voice comes out quiet, a mix of anticipation and dread twisting in my stomach. I hear the faint click of Helen hanging up the other line and listen to the silence.

There's a pause on the other end, a crackle of static, and then his voice cuts through clear and warm, "Lace? Don't hang up."

It's Billy. His voice is steady, but there's an edge of uncertainty there, like he wasn't sure I'd listen. My throat tightens, and for a moment, I can't speak. I glance towards the door, half-expecting Dad to burst in and ask who it is, but the room remains quiet.

"What do you want?" My tone is clipped. I want to sound annoyed, but my heart is racing. "How'd you even get this number?"

"Which question do you want me to answer first?" he asks, a faint chuckle in his voice.

I don't respond right away. The warmth in his voice makes my chest ache in a way I've been trying to avoid all day. "I'm going to hang up now," I say, reaching towards the phone cradle.

"Your mom gave it to me," he says quickly, "told her I needed to talk to you."

Of course she did. Mom didn't know about the fallout with Billy and if she did, she probably would have given him the number anyways, assuming she was helping us — helping me. The thought alone makes me miss her, despite my annoyance at the whole situation.

I exhale sharply, leaning against the desk. "So talk," I say, "you called for a reason I'm assuming."

Billy exhales sharply, the sound crackling faintly through the line. "Relax, Lace. I'm not calling to grovel."

I roll my eyes, leaning back against the desk. "Could've fooled me."

There's a faint chuckle on the other end, low and dry, "I'm not calling to fight either."

My grip on the phone tightens. "Why are you calling then?"

"I listened to the mixtape," he says, his voice even, "thought you'd want to know."

I laugh, short and bitter. "You called to tell me you listened to a few songs I know you've heard before? Wow, Billy, really groundbreaking." My tone is even, but I don't back down. This time, I'm not letting him twist me in knots, not after I've spent time trying to untangle myself.

"You didn't have to make it for me," he counters, his tone calm but with an edge that makes me pause, "could've just let me go, but you didn't."

"That was before," I snap, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

There's a beat of silence. "After," he argues, his tone slightly rising with annoyance. "You gave it to me after."

The truth of it stings, and I have no comeback. I press my lips together, gripping the edge of my desk. "I don't know why you're calling me, Billy," I say finally, my voice quieter now, "clearly nothing's changed."

"If you say so," he replies, but there's something in his tone that makes me falter. It's not desperation – Billy doesn't do desperate – but there's a weight there, something unspoken. "But I figured I owed you a thanks. For the mixtape."

I blink, caught off guard. "You're… calling to thank me?"

"Don't make it weird," he mutters, and I can almost hear the smirk in his. "It was a good mix, even if Fleetwood Mac's a little soft."

A small laugh escapes me despite myself, and I hate that he can still do that – still find a way to slip under my skin. "Metallica was for you," I say, my voice softening, "Fleetwood Mac was for me."

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. "I figured."

The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid. I glance toward the door, half-expecting someone to burst in and break the spell, but the house is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen.

"Anything else?" I ask, my voice carefully neutral. I refuse to let him hear how much this conversation is getting to me.

"Not unless you want to tell me you miss me," he says smoothly, and the casualness of it makes my blood boil. Typical Billy, always trying to stay one step ahead, like nothing ever phases him.

"Goodbye, Billy," I say firmly, moving to hang-up.

"Wait," he says, softer now. "Merry Christmas, Lace."

The line clicks dead before I can respond, leaving me staring at the receiver in my hand. My chest feels tight, and I can't tell if it's from anger, frustration, or something else entirely. I place the phone back on the cradle, my hand lingering on the receiver, waiting for it to ring again. The room feels too quiet now, the faint hum of the desk lamp amplifying the ache in my chest. Billy's voice lingers, warm and mocking. I'd let him get under my skin again. Cutting him off was supposed to help, but maybe the problem wasn't just Billy, maybe it's because I refuse to let go.

I glance towards the study door, the faint murmur of dishes in the kitchen and the clink of glasses pulling me back into the present. I push myself up from the desk, my legs feeling heavier with each step as I open the door. The hallway stretches before me, silent and dim, each step creaking underfoot like a warning. Half-expecting Dad to call for me again, I slip past the living room and climb the stairs, my thoughts churning.

I shut the guest room door softly and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my small suitcase, still tightly packed and ready to go back home tomorrow. The thought should be comforting – being in my own bed, watching movies with mom before she returns to work, hanging out with Tori – but instead, it only makes the ache in my chest sharper.

I lie back, pulling the covers over me, staring at the ceiling, and trying to push the lingering worries out of my mind. There's a light knock at the door and I roll over to find Dustin poking his head through the doorway.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks with a weary smile.

"Are you still annoying?" I counter, but I lift up the blankets, scooting over so he can crawl into the bed next to me.

Dustin jumps at the opportunity, kicking off his slippers, and settling next to me. We stare at the ceiling in silence, just the two of us. Finally Dustin says, "I didn't think Dad would go off on you like that."

"I know," I shrug, turning over to face him, "Dad told me that I should stay a few extra days."

Dustin laughs, but his smile falters when he catches the look on my face. "And you said no, right?"

I press my lips together, before shaking my head. "Maybe he has a point?"

"Good one," Dustin mutters, "you can't seriously be considering staying here?"

"I am. Dad might be right. I need to focus – get back on the court," I say, ignoring Dustin's furrowed brow.

"That's crap," Dustin fires back. "Your shoulder is barely holding up, you couldn't even carry your suitcase up the stairs."

"It's fine, Dustin." I try to force a smile, but I know Dustin can see right through it and I shake my head, "What else am I supposed to do?"

"But what about your birthday?" Dustin asks, "You know Mom has something planned and Tori too."

"We can celebrate when I get back," I swallow, picturing the double chocolate cake Mom probably already planned out and the movie night Tori would expect to host on my behalf. I force the thoughts away, refusing to acknowledge their imagined disappointment with me, "I need to do this Dustin."

Dustin sighs deeply, pushing the blankets off of him to stand up, clearly annoyed with my decision, "You're staying here because Dad wants you to, not because you really think it'll help."

"It's not about Dad," I snap, my voice cracking slightly. "This is about me, about doing what I have to do to get back on track."

Dustin crosses the room for the door, but turns to face me before he walks out, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "You think staying here is going to fix your shoulder or make you forget about Billy?" he asks, gesturing towards me.

I glare at him, the sting of his words hitting harder than I want to admit. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I do," he counters, his voice quieter now but still firm. "You think this will help, but it won't. You're already miserable enough."

I don't have a response to that, and the silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Finally Dustin opens the bedroom door, shaking his head, "Just make sure you're staying because it's what you want to do."

I hear the door shut softly behind him, the faint click echoing in the silence. I stare at the ceiling, Dustin's words circling in my head: You're miserable enough.

Was he right? I want to believe staying here will help, that maybe Dad does know best for once. But when I think about it – really think about – tennis seems like such a burden now, a painful memory I can't let go of. The ache in my shoulder won't vanish just because Dad says so, but ignoring it won't fix it either.

I sigh, rolling onto my back to stare at the ceiling again. If I push through the pain, maybe I can enjoy tennis again – or at least feel normal. Staying here might not fix everything, but it's a start. I can be myself again – forget about Billy, forget about the Upside Down, and hopefully feel so tired from practice that I never have a nightmare again. I roll my shoulder now, paying close attention to the way the muscle seems to stiffen and frown, shaking away the doubts. I don't know if Dad's right, but I need to believe this will help. A few extra days of practice might hurt, but it's better than doing nothing.

I turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The shadows stretch across the walls, unfamiliar and looming in this empty guest room Helen has set-up for me, and I roll onto my side, facing the wall. I pull the blankets tighter around me, as if they can shield me from the storm raging inside my head.

The house is still, the only sound is the faint creak of the heating vents. I close my eyes, trying to block out Dustin's words, Dad's expectations, the lingering echo of Billy's voice, and the sharp pain in my shoulder. The ache is a reminder of what I need to leave behind. If I stay tangled in the past I'll never move forward.

Sleep creeps in slowly, like fog rolling through a forest – cold and unwelcome. It's not soundless or peaceful, but it's something heavier and darker that greets me as sleep finally drags me under the surface.

I'm back in the woods again, the air cold and heavy, the mist clinging like a second skin. Trees stretch overhead, their branches twisting like claws. Something follows, its presence growing heavier with every step. Shadows swell, pressing closer. A branch tangles in my hair, and a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, slicing deep.

I try to run, but my legs feel heavy, like I'm moving through quicksand. The shadows consume everything, and then it emerges – tall and imposing, its head tilting as it watches me. I try to scream, but my throat feels like ice. The shadow surges forward, and I see a glint of sharp teeth before everything goes black.

A/N: Don't forget, updates are posted every Saturday!