"Follow through, Ace!" Dad calls from the sidelines. His voice bouncing off the empty walls of the indoor courts, echoing over to me with his pithy enthusiasm. I bite the inside of my cheek, reaching down for one of the tennis balls in the basket at my feet. Dad had made a point to start showing up to my private lessons, securing a spot in the indoor gym in Bloomington, Indiana – his new hometown with his girlfriend. It's Hawkins, but with more money, less farms, and thirty minutes away from us so he can still be the distant, devoted father he loves to be.

Dad calls this our weekly father-daughter outing; I call it punishment.

I bounce the tennis ball a few times, catching a small rhythm before lining my hips and feet up for a serve. Inhaling carefully, gripping the handle of the racket a little tighter, before throwing the ball up and landing a perfect serve over the net. My coach nods, motioning for me to do it again, I sigh, trying not to make too much of a fuss about the twinge of pain in my shoulder. It's normal, I think, the doctor said it would feel worse before it felt better. I pick up another tennis ball, absent-mindedly bouncing it once more. The doctor also told you to take as much time off as needed, I recall, before glancing towards my dad again, but that was never really an option.

I serve again, this time throwing a little more force behind my swing. The muscle strains like an over-stretched rubber band, but my dad's loud clapping from the stands tells me that that serve was better, stronger. Maybe I can work through the pain.

I push through another serve, feeling my shoulder strain and tighten with each swing. Coach gives me a quick nod, barely looking up from his clipboard, and I wonder if he even notices the wince I'm hiding.

"Alright, let's see that backhand," Coach says, motioning me toward the center of the court.

I glance over at Dad, who's arms are crossed over his chest, a slight frown creasing his face. He's noticed the way I'm holding my arm, the slouch in my posture, the stiffness in my neck, but I know he won't say anything until my performance suffers. That's the only thing he's here for, after all.

I line up the backhand, adjusting my stance and bracing against the familiar ache. Each hit feels like I'm pulling at something deeper, even the skin seems to scream at the continuous movement. The ball bounces cleanly off my racket, skimming over the net, and landing just inside the line. My dad claps again, and I hear his faint, "That's it, Ace!" echo around the empty court.

The praise feels hollow. I don't want to impress him – not anymore – but I can't help to do what is right, even if it comes at a cost. I take a deep breath, shaking out my arm as I get ready for another rally, willing the pain to fade.

The familiar bounce, swing, hit rhythm lulls me into a kind of trance, and I start thinking about the night before with Billy, about his steady hands and the way he makes everything else disappear. Out here, on this court, with my dad's watchful eyes and my coach's clipboard, I feel more alone than ever. I wonder what Billy would think if he was here, but I know he'd tell me to quit, to walk off the court, and admit that my dad is an asshole. I smile at the idea, sending the ball a little harder back over the net.

Coach whistles for a break, and I wander to the edge of the court to grab my water bottle, rubbing my shoulder for a moment, sneaking a glance at my dad. He's watching me closely, lifting a questioning brow at the way my hand grips my scarred shoulder over the fabric of my shirt. The look says it all and the disappointment curls in my stomach, sharp and bitter.

"Everything alright?" Coach asks, his eyes flicking to my shoulder.

"Fine," I say, dropping my hand and forcing a smile, "just a little sore."

He nods, but there's a flicker of doubt in Coach's gaze, like he knows I'm holding something back. I am holding something back, because I know that if I let even a hint of weakness show, Dad will start his speech about perseverance, about grit, about how he's counting on me to make him proud – and right now, I can't bear to hear it.

Back on the court, I push through the last fifteen minutes, my shoulder protesting with each swing. By the end, I can barely lift my arm over my head, and I know I'll regret it in the morning, but Dad gives me a thumbs-up, his grin wide and approving.

"You did better today, kiddo," he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders. I stiffen at the contact, but he doesn't notice.

Dad walks me into the parking lot, slowing when he notices Mom's station wagon instead of my truck. "I thought you were getting the truck taken care of?" Dad asks, but his tone is accusatory, like he knew he couldn't trust me to handle it myself.

"I am," I mutter, unlocking the back door to throw my bag into the backseat, "but it's taking us a little bit longer to find all the parts for a decent price.

"Us?" Dad questions, lifting his brow again. I hate that look, like no matter what I say or do I'm still not doing enough.

"My friend Billy," I say, crossing my arms over my chest, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder, "he's good with cars."

Dad rubs his face and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of him as my parent, the one who used to worry about boys and curfews. "Do I know this Billy?" he asks, his tone low and steady.

"No, he's new," I explain, before sighing, knowing there's only one way to ease my dad's mind, "he's on the basketball team."

Dad nods in approval and I try not to roll my eyes at the fact that in my dad's mind, Billy being on the basketball team suddenly makes him worth my time, as if sports and athleticism are a clear insight to someone's morals. "And you trust him to fix the truck?" Dad asks, still not entirely convinced, but clearly more open to the idea.

"I don't have much of a choice," I remind him, "considering you won't let me get a job to take it to a real mechanic."

Dad chuckles, placing a hand on my shoulder, "You don't need to work during tennis season."

"Then help me pay for the mechanic?" I ask, but watch as Dad's grin only grows.

"This is a lesson in responsibility, Lacy," he squeezes my shoulder, and I don't even think he realizes it's my hurt one, I fight the urge to flinch away "now you know you need to maintain the truck to keep it."

I make a face, swinging the keys to mom's station wagon around my finger, biting back my own bitter laugh. "Yeah, that makes sense," I mutter, opening the driver side door.

"Lacy," he warns and I meet his gaze again, "I know you think I'm being unfair, but I am your father. You and Dustin earn more than enough through your chores."

I force a weak smile, knowing that most of our chore money comes from mom, but decide that this argument can be had another time. "I'll see you tomorrow, for Christmas Eve, okay?" I say, hoping that the mention of the holiday will change his mood.

"Helen and I are looking forward to it," he agrees, before giving my shoulder another tight squeeze, "make sure your mom knows you'll be with us until the twenty-sixth."

"She knows," I snap, suddenly feeling like Dad isn't looking forward to spending time with us – just wanting to make sure he still had some control over who he left behind – my mother included. "I have to go, Dustin and I have to finish wrapping Christmas gifts tonight."

Dad nods, pulling me in for another awkward one armed hug. "We'll have fun this weekend, kiddo. I promise."

"Yeah," I mutter, climbing into the station wagon, "I'm looking forward to it."

As I pull out of the parking lot, Dad's figure recedes in the rearview mirror, and a familiar weight settles over my chest. Christmas with him and Helen won't be about our family, but his new life – the one that doesn't include us except for carefully curated appearances. It's an obligation, like he's ticking us off a list, a reminder that he's still involved, even if it's only on his terms.

The drive back to Hawkins feels longer in the winter twilight, with the trees lining the highway cloaked in bare branches that sway under the cold December sky. The station wagon's heater hums steadily, filling the silence as I grip the wheel a little tighter, trying to ignore the twinge in my shoulder and the familiar weight of Dad's words echoing in my head.

Mom's going to spend Christmas with Aunt Katherine, she'll be okay, I tell myself, though I know it's not the same as having Dustin and me with her. I should be happy, grateful even, that she has a place to go where she'll be surrounded by family, but something about knowing she'll be alone tomorrow for Christmas Eve, her face lit only by the flickering glow of the tree, stirs an ache in my chest.

As the signs for Hawkins start appearing along the roadside, my mind drifts — drawn, as it always seems to be, to thoughts of Billy. I can already picture his smirk, the way his eyes narrow just slightly when he's about to say something that he knows will get under my skin, his own way of trying to make me laugh about my dad's backwards lesson in responsibility – a snarky remark that will make the hollow disappointment feel a little lighter. I absentmindedly reach for the volume control, allowing the soft sounds of Fleetwood Mac fill the space.

It's the mixtape I made Billy for Christmas – not knowing what else to share with him. I'd spent hours recording, rewinding, and recording again – piecing together songs that spoke louder than anything I could say. Now, listening to the tape for the hundredth time, I feel a pang of doubt. Maybe it's too simple, too predictable and I try not to imagine what girls have given him in the past, feeling my cheeks heat at the idea.

I had talked it over with Tori for weeks, knowing the closer Billy and I became the more he probably expected of me… but what he expected of me physically, I expected from him emotionally first. Tori understood better than anyone and came up with the idea of a mixtape, so that even when Billy wasn't with me, he'd be thinking about me. Which is really all I want anyways. Pathetic, I grimace, taking the turn towards home, the familiar holiday lights guiding me up our street.

When I pull up, I see Dustin and Mom at the kitchen table, their silhouettes cast against the warm glow of the holiday lights. Mom's face is lit with a soft smile as she chats with Dustin, their laughter faintly audible through the car window. There's a pang in my chest as I watch them, a bittersweet reminder of the holiday we have to spend without her.

I turn off the car, letting the final notes of "Dreams" fade out as I gather my things, tucking the mixtape carefully into my bag. Steeling myself against the chilly December air, I make my way up the path, hearing the faint sounds of Dustin's voice as I approach. Mom spots me through the window and waves, her face lighting up as I step through the door.

"Lacy!" she calls, her voice warm and the tension melts away almost immediately at the sound. "You're just in time for dinner."

I take my spot at the table, leaning over to take a piece of warm bread in the middle of the table while mom piles chicken and asparagus onto my plate. I inhale the scent, enjoying the warmth and the light conversation between my brother and mom. It's easy, simple, and comforting and soon I don't even notice the lingering soreness of my shoulder or the tension in my neck.

"What do you want for your birthday, Lacy?" Mom finally asks, gathering our plates from the table to rinse them. I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers against the table like I'm considering the questions thoughtfully.

"Whatever I don't get for Christmas," I smile sweetly and Mom rolls her eyes, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

"Why don't you pick out two presents and save them then," she teases before resting a soft hand head, smoothing down my hair before kissing the top of my head. "I can't believe you're going to be seventeen already."

"She's practically middle aged," Dustin laughs, ignoring my glare.

Mom shakes her head, but it's clear she's fighting her own smile at Dustin's poor joke. "I'm going to book club with Mrs. Wheeler," she says, ignoring me as I reach over to flick Dustin's ear, "I'll be home by nine so we can watch a movie, drink hot chocolate, and open one gift."

"Two," Dustin negotiates, lifting a brow.

Mom smiles, "Zero."

"We're happy with one," I say, nudging Dustin to keep his mouth shut. "Have fun with Mrs. Wheeler."

Mom gives us a quick wink before grabbing her coat and keys from the counter. "Clean the kitchen," she calls over her shoulder, giving us both a playful warning look.

"We will," I promise, following her to the door, and shutting it behind her with a flip of the lock. Dustin stands at the kitchen sink, watching as mom's car pulls out the driveway, before turning towards me with raised brows.

"We have two hours," he says, pulling his sleeve down to reveal his watch, "and we have to build that eight level cat post that you bought."

"I bought?" I ask, shooing him away from the sink and rolling up my sleeves, "I don't remember you complaining when we hauled the box out of the petstore."

Dustin heads into the hallway, grumbling under his breath, but I hear the box scraping against the floor as he drags it into the living room. By the time I finish wiping down the counters, ensuring that the kitchen is spotless, Dustin is sprawled across the floor with the box open and parts strewn out in what I can only call a mess.

I feel my jaw open, my eyes following Mom's kitten, Tews, as if rolls a loose bolt across the floor. "Did you just dump it all out?" I ask, settling on the floor next to him.

"This is a delicate process," Dustin defends, holding up the half-crumpled instruction manual, "but do you think step four is asking for this part or this one?"

I snort, snatching the manual from him. "That one?" I ask, reaching for the piece and holding it at different angles, "Because it fits with that one from step five?"

"You think that one is step five?" Dustin says, reaching for the piece I had just assumed was the base.

"Sure," I shrug, "we can do this, right?"

"Totally," Dustin nods, but has lost his confidence, "completely capable."

I squint at the instruction manual, tilting my head as I try to decipher the barely comprehensible diagrams. "Are these illustrations or abstract art?" I ask, holding up the manual for Dustin to see. He shrugs, frowning as he tries to fit a screw into one of the posts.

After another thirty minutes, Dustin leans back, scratching his head as he eyes the pile of screws that don't seem to be dwindling. "Okay, maybe I can't do this," I mutter, slumping back against the couch. Dustin mutters under his breath about "defective parts" and "poor design" and I laugh in spite of the situation, picturing mom's face when she gets home to us and our mess.
"I'm going to call Billy," I finally say, standing up, carefully stepping over the poor base we have established.

"We don't have time for you to make kissy faces over the phone right now," Dustin says, gesturing to the mess around us.

"No shit," I snap, grabbing the phone off the wall, "I'm calling for help. If he can rebuild an engine, he has to be able to put this crap together."

Dustin doesn't say anything and I sigh, dialing Billy's number quickly. The phone only rings twice, but I flinch at the sound of the voice on the other end, "Yes?"

"Hi Mr. Hargrove," I inhale, caught off guard by the gruffness of his tone, "is Billy available?"

"Who is this?" he asks and I swallow, trying not to think too much about the question or wonder about how many other girls call for Billy in an evening.

"Lacy Henderson, sir," I manage, knowing that my voice sounds weak, overly polite. I ignore Dustin's snicker from behind me and imagine wrapping the phone cord around my neck instead of twisting it around my finger when I notice the way Billy's father exhales at the sound of my name.

"Billy took Maxine Christmas shopping," Mr. Hargrove says, "is this important?"

"Yes – I mean no, sir," I swallow, feeling even dumber by the minute, "I just needed help with assembling a gift, but uh – my brother and I can figure it out."

Billy's dad exhales again, clearly over this conversation with a mumbling teenage girl. "I'll leave him a message, Lucy."

I flinch again, covering my face with my free hand. Thank God Dustin cannot hear both sides of this conversation, "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Hargrove hangs up without another word and I suck in my lips, turning to face Dustin. "You think your friends can put this together?" I ask, trying to shake off my embarrassment.

"God no," Dustin says, now trying to read the manual upside down, "call Steve?"

I glare at the box of parts scattered around us, deciding that we should have gone with the robe and matching slippers for Mom's gift instead. "Steve?" I repeat, scrunching my nose, "he's about as clueless as we are."

Dustin shrugs, "We don't have a lot of choices, unless you want to call dad?"

I roll my eyes, knowing that Dustin is kidding, but already reaching for the phone again. "Steve it is," I sigh, dialing the number quickly.

"We could always just hot glue it together," Dustin frowns, tightening a screw into the base.

I let out a dry laugh, clutching the phone as it rings, but there's a hitch in my chest from just knowing that Steve will come without hesitation – reliable and ready like he always is. I glance at the clock, Mom will be home in the next hour, and I can't keep waiting for Billy even though something deep inside wants me to. He'll come, but on his own time, and sometimes – most of the time – it's just too late.

I catch a glimpse of the mixtape I'd made for Billy, peeking out from my bag. I didn't know what to write on it – I'd rewritten it from Billy to For Billy to B, finally settling on Hargrove with a tiny heart above the "e". I'm not even sure he'll listen to it – it might just stay buried among his other tapes, or maybe he'll see the heart and shake his head like he always does, like I'm someone he's trying to figure out but never really understands.

He'll hate that I called Steve. He won't let go of that fight at the Byers, the tension that prickles between them every time they even just pass each other in the hallway at school is palpable. I can almost feel the weight of his annoyance, his coldness when he realizes I turned to someone else, but right now – I need someone who I know can be steady.

The line clicks. "Hello?" Steve's voice is calm, familiar, with that easy warmth he always has.

"We have an emergency," I sigh, skipping past the pleasantries. "What do you know about assembling scratching posts?"

"Is this a trick question?" he teases, but I can already hear him grabbing his keys, ready without even a second thought.

"Just hurry up, okay?" I ask, suddenly bothered by his readiness and loyalty. It irks me, knowing that Steve is everything that I should want and Billy keeps coming up short.

"You're lucky it's the season of giving," Steve teases, clueless to my lingering annoyance towards his reliability, making me feel exposed and unsteady with Billy, "I'll be there in ten."

I hang up and give Dustin a thumbs-up. "Back-up's on the way," I say, forcing a smile and taking a moment to tuck the mixtape back into my bag – out of sight and out of mind – for now. I glance towards the window, hoping to hear the familiar roar of Billy's Camaro, but I know Billy won't show up, not for this. I'll see him when the house is quiet and dark, his hands warm against my skin, his breath making me dizzy, and I'll ruin the spell again by giving him the tape like it's nothing – like it's not this secret reminder of everything he can't give me, no matter how much I want him too.