7. An Innocent Man

The party was still raging inside as if nothing had happened. Christine scanned the dancing crowd in search of a white sweater, just in case Nancy had wandered off after her fight with Steve, but Nancy was nowhere to be found. Eventually, she spotted Jonathan fighting to make his way back into the house from the backyard, so she pushed her way toward him, elbowing drunks out of the way when they didn't move fast enough. A couple dressed as Anthony and Cleopatra were blocked the exit, too busy sucking face to realize they were holding up the crowd. Christine had to reach over their heads to grab Jonathan's hand and haul him into the house.

"Watch it, bitch!" the girl snapped as Christine pushed Jonathan ahead of her. "You wanna dance with your boyfriend so bad, at least say excuse me!"

"Excuse me," Christine said with an unbothered shrug. Then she grabbed the sleeve of Jonathan's jacket and dragged him down the hall.

"Hey, I couldn't find her," he shouted over the music. "She's not out here, and she's not out back—"

"She's in the bathroom," Christine informed him. "I think she and Steve had a fight."

"About what?"

Christine could only glare at him. She didn't have the strength to answer.

When they finally reached the bathroom, Christine pounded on the door. "Nancy? Nance, it's Christine! Are you still in there?"

She didn't get a response, but she could hear the sink running inside. She pounded on the door again, and when no one screamed back complaining about the interruption, figured it was safe enough to take a chance.

"Wait here," she ordered Jonathan, before slipping inside and closing the door behind her. "Nancy? Are you—oh my God…"

Nancy was sprawled out on the bathroom floor, wedged between the toilet and the counter. Her once-white sweater was stained with deep red punch and her makeup was smudged around her eyes, which fluttered faintly as she groaned from the ground.

Christine dropped to her knees, easing Nancy up into a sitting position and propping her back on the toilet.

"Nance? Fuck, Nancy, are you okay? What happened?"

"Barb," she mumbled the words barely making it past her lips. "Barb, is that you? I'm…m'sorry…"

Christine froze, her heart breaking a little bit more with each passing second. She tucked Nancy's hair behind her ears, cradling her head so it wouldn't fall back too far and crack on the porcelain.

"No, Nance, it's Christine. Nancy, can you see me?"

"Chrissy?" Nancy's eyes fluttered opened, just wide enough show the tears welling inside. "Chris, m'sorry…I'm—m'so, so, sorry…"

"Sorry about what?"

But Nancy didn't answer.

"Nancy?"

Her head lolled to the side as she continued to apologize over and over under her breath: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

Christine sighed, running her thumb over her friend's cheek. "God, Nance. What were you thinking?"

With a blind hand, Christine reached up to the counter and felt around for a cloth she could use to wipe Nancy's face. She found the punch-stained rag that Nancy had used to clean her sweater, still wet from the sink, and tried to wipe the sweat and mascara from Nancy's skin.

"Christine?" Jonathan was calling through the door, rapping his knuckles on the wood. "What happened? Is she okay?"

"Uh, yeah! Well—no. Just come in."

The sound of the party surged behind her as Jonathan opened the door and, like Christine had, stopped short at the scene before him.

"Shit…"

"Yeah, I know," Christine sighed. "Can you get her some water?"

Jonathan hastily shut the door and began rummaging through the junk on the counter. The tap turned on, and a few seconds of frantic splashing later, Jonathan was kneeling next to her and handing her a red Solo cup. Christine frowned at the lipstick smudge on the rim.

"Really?"

"What? I rinsed it out."

Unfortunately, they didn't have the luxury of being picky. Getting Nancy to drink anything was hard enough. She kept turning her head away, squirming out of their hands, still muttering—sometimes in protest, sometimes an apology, sometimes raving about something like "pure fuel." Even when she started drinking, it was a short-lived victory. She got halfway through the cup of water before she groaned, flipped over, and hurled into the toilet.

Christine held Nancy's hair, rubbing her back even as she wrinkled her nose.

"We've gotta get her out of here," said Jonathan.

"I know," Christine bit out. "Look, I—you know I hate to ask, but would you be able to drive us home?"

"Me? What about Steve?"

"I…told him to go home."

"And he did?"

This time, his incredulity pushed Christine over the edge.

"Jesus Christ, Jonathan, I do not have time to deal with your petty, jealous bullshit right now! We both saw Steve, okay? Whatever Nancy said to him, he was a wreck. So yes, I told him to go get his head straight, and that I would take care of Nancy. He's waiting for me to call with an update, so are you gonna fucking help me or not?"

They glowered at each other, the room silent except for the sound of Nancy's retching and the party raging outside. Jonathan was the first to swallow his pride."Okay," he agreed, more earnestly than she'd expected. "I've got to pick up Will anyway."

After that, the only thing to do was wait. When it seemed like Nancy had finally regurgitated all the punch, Christine eased her upright and wiped her face. She was reluctant to let Jonathan take over, but it was a lot easier for him to carry Nancy's weight, leaving Christine to clear them a path to the front door, elbowing party-goers and glaring at anyone who complained.

The drive to the Wheelers' house was quiet. Christine sat in the back supporting Nancy, who was barely conscious at this point. Jonathan kept his eyes on the road, his music playing softly to ease the tension. Christine was pleasantly surprised to recognize Led Zeppelin. Jonathan's taste was eclectic, but she couldn't begrudge him Houses of the Holy.

They pulled up to the curb on Maple Street and slowly rolled to a stop, Jonathan looking warily up at the house; all the lights were still on.

"So how do you want to do this?"

"Wait here," Christine instructed, already untangling herself from the dead weight of Nancy's limbs.

"What are you gonna do?"

"The lights are on in the basement, so Mike and Will are probably downstairs. I figure if I go around back, I can pull the babysitter card and get them to cause a distraction, maybe stage a play fight and flip the couch or something. Mrs. Wheeler runs downstairs to check, and you and I can carry Nancy upstairs, right past Ted, who is definitely passed out on the couch. Got it?"

She turned back to Jonathan for confirmation, only to find him watching her in amusement.

"What?" she demanded.

"You've been playing way too much D&D with the guys."

"Oh, well, I'm so sorry. Do you have a better idea?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, slipping out of the driver's seat, "and it's a lot less effort. Give me a hand?"

Grudgingly, Christine walked around the car to help Jonathan with Nancy. His first move was to lend Nancy his jacket. It took about three minutes to maneuver her noodle-y arms into the sleeves, but effectively hid the giant punch stain on her sweater. Then Jonathan and Christine each pulled one of her arms over their shoulders and, like the world's most awkward, drunken three-legged race, began to make their way up to the house.

"Just follow my lead," Jonathan instructed as he rang the doorbell, "and try to look like you're in pain."

"Wait, what? How much pain?"

"Like you have a stomachache."

It was all he had a chance to say before Mrs. Wheeler opened the front door.

"Happy Hallo—oh! Oh my goodness! Nancy? What happened?"

"Hi, Mrs. Wheeler," Johnathan grimaced, hoisting Nancy up a little higher. "Sorry, this is kinda my fault."

"Jonathan? What? I—What's going on? Where have you been? When the boys came back without you I—"

"I didn't want to smother them. Can we uh—can we come in?"

"Oh! Yes, please…"

She ushered the three of them inside, sharp eyes scanning each one of them for injuries or signs of drunkenness. Christine hurriedly arranged her face into a frown, trying her best to look more nauseous and constipated than surprised.

"Actually, I ended up stopping by Tina's," Jonathan continued. "Nancy's idea of getting me out of the house, but uh…parties aren't really my thing. We stayed for a while and then I convinced everyone to bail so we could get some food. Guess Chinese was the wrong call."

"Chinese?" Mrs. Wheeler repeated skeptically. "You're saying Chinese food did this?"

"You should've seen Steve," Jonathan chuckled.

He nudged Christine behind Nancy's back, prompting her to groan. She was hyperaware of the way that Mrs. Wheeler was scrutinizing her. If there was a flaw in their story, the whole thing was over. Christine probably wouldn't be in too much trouble, even if someone told her dad, but Joyce would be furious, and Nancy would probably be on lockdown for the rest of the year, so Christine held her stomach and grumbled the only true thing she could think of.

"God, I hate you, Jonathan."

He grunted and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

Mrs. Wheeler looked between them with pursed lips. Then, deciding their bickering was genuine, she sighed.

"Well, I don't know what you kids ate, but you do look a little pale. Are you sure you're okay to drive home, Jonathan?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he assured her. "It's not that far. Whenever Will's ready to go—I don't want to rush him."

"He and Mike are down in the basement. Here, let me take Nancy and—"

"It's fine," he repeated. "She's kind of dead weight right now. I can—"

"I'll get the door for you," Christine jumped in. "We got her, Mrs. Wheeler."

Nancy's mother watched, baffled, as the three teens stumbled past her. The stairs were a challenge, to say the least. They were too narrow for all of them to go up at once. Christine and Jonathan both tried to go first, squashing Nancy between them in their haste. Her groan of protest was the only thing that stopped Christine and Jonathan from jumping down each other's throats. They glared, but again, Jonathan was the one who relented.

Christine took the lead, urging Nancy forward while Jonathan took the brunt of Nancy's weight, stopping her from toppling backward down the stairs. Once they reached the landing, Christine opened the door to Nancy's room while Jonathan half-carried her over the threshold. By the time she made it to bed, she was essentially unconscious.

To his credit, Jonathan was smart enough to let Christine take over from there. She coaxed Nancy out of the oversized jacket, out of her boots, and under the covers. Most of her makeup had already been washed away by sweat and tears, but Christine made sure to wipe the excess mascara from her cheeks. She freed the clip from Nancy's tangled hair and brushed the few stray locks out of her face. Nancy hummed and leaned into the touch, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

"You still don't trust me, do you?"

Christine looked up in surprise. Jonathan was hovering by the window, hands tucked in his pockets. He didn't seem angry; if anything, he looked resigned. It was enough to make Christine bite her lip.

"She's my best friend, Jonathan. I just want to make sure she's okay."

"So do I. It's not like—I don't want to hurt her."

"I never said—"

"You don't have to." There was an undeniable edge in his voice. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he continued. "Look…I get it. What I did was super messed up. I probably wouldn't trust me either. But for what it's worth…she's my friend too. I know she's hurting, and all I want to do is help. I want her to be okay too."

Christine pursed her lips, but nodded. A lot had happened over the last year. She and Jonathan still didn't like each other, per se, but they got along alright. Most of the time, their common ground gave her enough reason to look past their differences. But even though Jonathan had helped them take down the Demogorgon, even after everything he'd gone through with Nancy, after listening to Nancy ramble on about what a great guy he was—sometimes when Christine looked at him, she still saw a beady-eyed skeeve hiding behind his camera.

Nancy had long since forgiven Jonathan for the incident at Steve's pool party. Her word should have been enough for Christine—after all, it was Nancy who was half-dressed in the pictures, not her—but Christine still couldn't shake it off. She remembered exactly how she'd felt when Steve had told her, the rage and nausea that had filled her chest. She had no idea how long it would take her to get over that, if ever.

A hand wrapped around her wrist, and Christine jumped in surprise as Nancy rolled over. She lifted her head blearily, her eyes still closed.

"Jonathan…?"

It was the only word she said before dropping back to the pillow. She released Christine and rolled onto her other side, a sleepy smile on her face.

Christine's face fell; this time, it really did feel like she had a stomachache. Jonathan had frozen on the other side of the room, but she point-blank refused to look at him. No way. Tonight had been long enough; she wasn't about to have that conversation.

After a few seconds of heavy silence, Jonathan fled. He hurried out the door without a word, but Christine heard his footsteps pause at the top of the steps. Then he rushed downstairs and she finally allowed herself to breathe.

"Shit, Nance," she sighed, shaking her head. "What did you do?"

Of course, Christine already knew what she'd done. Nancy had been struggling with her feelings for Jonathan for months. Add in some stress, her guilt about Barb, her fight with Steve, and a shit ton of alcohol, and it was no wonder she'd reached a breaking point.

She understood that Nancy was hurting, but at the same time, it was hard not to feel bitter. Not just because Nancy had two boys who were head over heels for her, but because Christine was left to clean up the mess. She loved Nancy to the ends of the earth; still, the petty voice in her head reminded her that if she'd stuck to her guns and skipped the stupid party, she wouldn't be in this predicament right now.

But it was too late to say 'I told you so.' The only thing Christine could do now was stand by Nancy and help her through the drama that was sure to roll in tomorrow morning. And the hangover.

Christine grabbed a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water to leave on the bedside table. She dragged the wastepaper basket next to the bed, just in case Nancy got sick again in the middle of the night. Then she picked up her discarded bag, turned off the lights and, with one last look at her friend, gently closed the bedroom door behind her.

The first floor of the Wheeler house was surprisingly quiet. The television was humming in the living room, barely audible over Mr. Wheeler's snores from his armchair, but that was the only sound. Christine looked around in confusion. There was no one in the front hall or the dining room either. At a loss, she poked her head into the kitchen to find Mrs. Wheeler at the island reading a paperback novel. Christine sighed.

"Did they seriously leave without me?"

"Hm?" Mrs. Wheeler looked up from her book with a start and hurriedly stashed it on the counter. "Oh—no. Jonathan asked to use the restroom. Will's still downstairs with Michael."

Christine relaxed. So Jonathan was hiding. Well, she couldn't blame him for that.

"Must have been some terrible Chinese food," Mrs. Wheeler continued, watching Christine with a keen eye. "How are you feeling?"

"Right. Yeah, uh—I'll be fine. Now I know not to order the chicken lo mein."

She grinned, then remembered she was supposed to be in pain and tried to turn it into a grimace. Mrs. Wheeler raised her eyebrows, but didn't call her out on the bad lie. Instead, she gave an airy sigh and rested her hands on her hips.

"I'm just sorry to hear that you didn't go to the party. And after all the time we spent on your costume."

"Well, we did go to the party," Christine reminded her. "We just didn't stay long because Jonathan's…Jonathan."

She forced the sentence to an abrupt end, just in case the near-insult offended Mrs. Wheeler's delicate sensibilities. But Nancy's mother simply laughed lightly, then leaned forward on the counter.

"So? How was it?"

"It was…fine…"

"Was that cute senior boy there?"

"Um…yeah."

"And?" Mrs. Wheeler leaned forward intently, her eyes alight with excitement. "Did you talk to him? How did it go?"

Christine hesitated. Truth be told, she had no idea how her conversation with Billy had gone. The whole thing had happened so fast, and she had absolutely nothing to compare it to. They'd held up a conversation. He certainly had no problem sharing his personal space. At the same time, the whole ordeal had left her baffled. Billy might have asked around to find out more about her, but she didn't feel like she knew him any better than she had yesterday. Had he not shared enough, or had she been oversharing? Shouldn't that be a red flag?

These were the kind of questions that plagued her, the ones she could never find answers to. In the past, Barb would have been the wise voice of wisdom. Christine still had Nancy—when she wasn't plastered and unconscious—but they'd talked about boys so often that Christine could almost always predict what she was going to say. Nancy was a romantic and an optimist. She would encourage Christine to step out of her comfort zone and shoot her shot, no matter what the outcome might be. It was only because she wanted Christine to be happy, but it did make her perspective a bit biased.

If Christine was really desperate, she could ask her dad. He always tried to be open to conversations about teenage drama, love, and heartbreak. He would listened to her ramble about Steve more than once, but she knew that it made him uncomfortable. Hard as he tried to counsel her, It wasn't the same as having a mother.

"Are boys always so…blunt?"

Mrs. Wheeler blinked, her eyebrows knitting together. "Blunt? Blunt how?"

"I don't know," Christine said with a sheepish shrug. "Just like…direct."

She cast her eyes down at the floor. It was a stupid question. She knew Mrs. Wheeler wanted to hear all the juicy details, but Christine wasn't about to tell her what Billy had actually said. She wasn't that brave, or that stupid.

She was terrified that she might have to elaborate, but Mrs. Wheeler seemed to have gotten the drift.

"Well…that depends. Not all men are the same, but most of them think less than we do. They don't overcomplicate things. So, if a guy's talking to you, it's because he wants to talk to you. If he asks to spend time with you, then he wants to spend time with you. Men don't go out of their way to do things they don't want to do."

Christine's heart clenched. "Right…unless they want something from you…"

Mrs. Wheeler's face softened, and Christine averted her gaze to the floor. She knew Nancy had talked to her mother about had happened with Steve. Mrs. Wheeler could preach all she wanted about how men were simple and straightforward creatures, but Christine's experience was different. How could she trust that any guy liked her when she knew how good they were at lying?

Mrs. Wheeler stepped out from behind the counter, walking around to stand in front of Christine.

"I know it's hard. I guess the truth is that you can't know for sure at the start of things. The more important question is: did you like talking to him?"

Christine bit her lip. That was the question, wasn't it? She didn't know how to feel after her conversation with Billy. He'd teased her, called her a liar, nearly hit her with his car on multiple occasions. She was angry, indignant, confused…and excited. She'd felt that spark when his arm was around her waist, when he stared at her over the rim of her cup. And despite all the downsides, she wanted him to like her. She liked seeing that twinkle of interest in his eyes, knowing that she'd caused it, even if it made her uncomfortable.

She didn't say any of it out loud, but it must have shown on her face. Mrs. Wheeler smiled and patted Christine's slowly deflating curls.

"I really hope it works out, honey." Her grin grew wider as she broke into giggles. "Ah! I'm just so excited for you! A senior boy!"

She tugged Christine into a hug and, powerless, Christine began to giggle too. She was adamant with herself: she did not have a crush on Billy…but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the attention.

There was a soft cough from the doorway, and Christine quickly smothered her laughter. Jonathan was peeking in from the front room, looking sheepish.

"Hey, uh…you ready to go?"

"Yeah! Let's—sure." She tried not to scowl as she turned back to Mrs. Wheeler. "Um, thanks for all the help. I'll wash the clothes and have them back to you by Friday."

"Oh, don't worry about it, sweetie. You'll probably get more use out of them than I will at this point."

Mrs. Wheeler winked and Christine quickly ducked her head again. She did not want to have this conversation in front of Jonathan Byers.

Reluctantly, she trudged after him back to the front room. Will had already emerged from the basement, one hand holding a sack full of candy, the other a large camcorder. Christine ruffled his hair as she passed him.

"Hey, Mr. Wise. How was trick-or-treating?"

"Hm? Oh, it—it was fun. You look really nice, Chrissy."

Will smiled up at her, and Christine tried her best to hide her double take. Will looked tired, and paler than usual. It might've been exhaustion after walking a few miles in the cold, but there was something darker in his eyes that worried her. It reminded her of the haunted look Eleven used to get.

Christine swallowed her worry, poking the nametag on his costume.

"So do you. I knew you were gonna be Spengler."

"That's because you saw my mom making my costume," Will said, rolling his eyes.

"Nope. Even before then. You're Spengler cause you're the smartest."

He gave her a bashful grin, one that lit up his gaunt face. It was almost enough to chase the darkness from his eyes.

They said their goodbyes to Mrs. Wheeler and piled back into the car. Christine let Will sit shotgun, provided he pay her with a candy bar. He was quiet for nearly the whole ride, staring blankly out the window. More than once, Christine caught Jonathan's eye in the rearview mirror, but neither of them pushed conversation. Prying for answers would just make Will feel like he was being interrogated, babied because they didn't trust him not to break. So instead, Jonathan turned up the stereo, the three of them softly humming along the rest of the trip.

The Ford pulled up to the curb on Dover Avenue, rolling to a stop at the end of the long pathway of pumpkins that led to the Walcott house.

"Thanks again for the ride," Christine said as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Yeah, anytime," Jonathan sighed.

She didn't bother suppressing her small snort of amusement. She tousled Will's hair one last time in farewell and slipped out of the backseat. Halfway up the path, a voice called her back.

"Chris!" Jonathan had rolled down the passenger window, leaning across a bewildered Will so he could raise his eyebrows at her. "A senior boy? Really?"

"I—oh, shut the fuck up, Jonathan."

Christine turned on her heel and stomped the rest of the way to the house, ignoring the sound of Jonathan's laughter behind her. Even when she tried to avoid a fight, she just couldn't win. Why did she bother?

A plastic bowl sat on the stoop, completely empty except for a battered piece of paper that said "Take One!" Christine rolled her eyes as she scooped it up. Typical. Her dad had probably gone to bed early, left a ton of candy at the door, and hoped for the best. It must've been gone within minutes.

The moment she closed the front door, Christine stopped to take off her ridiculous heels. She left the candy bowl on the kitchen counter, then dropped her shoes and bag in her bedroom. Quietly as she could, she crept down the hall to her father's room and eased the door open. A thunderous snore confirmed her suspicions: her dad had long since passed out for the night. She chuckled as she closed the door again and returned to her room.

It took several minutes of pacing before Christine found the courage to pick up the phone. She and Steve might be friends now, but calling him still made her extremely nervous. What if Mr. or Mrs. Harrington picked up? Christine had only met them once or twice, and briefly at that. Would they know who she was? Would they try to talk to her? What would she say to—

"Hello?"

Christine snapped out of her thoughts, sitting up straight in her bed. "Steve! Hey, it's—it's Christine."

"Hey, Chris." His voice was despondent, so soft that she had to press the handset harder against her ear to hear him properly. "So, uh…you got home okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Jonathan just dropped me off."

"And…Nancy?"

"Is safely tucked in her bed," she confirmed, "dead asleep and in for one hell of a hangover."

"Good. Not the hangover, I mean, but…yeah, that's…"

Christine bit her lip. She'd been trying to lighten the mood, but Steve was either too distracted or too depressed to care. She twirled the phone cord between her fingers and tried again.

"Oh, and if anyone asks, we didn't stay at Tina's party. Jonathan crashed, all of us went to get Chinese food, and we all ended up with food poisoning."

"Food poisoning…?"

"I know it's dumb, but we didn't want Nancy's mom to know she was drunk. I mean, I'm sure she knows. It was pretty obvious, but we weren't gonna tell her, ya know?"

Steve let out a weak breath of laughter. "Right. Got it."

"What about you?" she asked hesitantly. "Did you…? I mean obviously you're home, but…"

"I'm fine," he assured her, though the words sounded empty. "I'm just hanging out. Waiting for the stupid doorbell to stop ringing."

"Ha, you run out of candy already?"

"Nah, we didn't have any anyway. Didn't think anyone was gonna be home."

"Seriously?" Christine frowned. "Where are your parents?"

"Some corporate party with my dad's coworkers. I don't know what a bunch of middle-aged, white-collar assholes do for fun on Halloween but…whatever. They do this every year."

Christine's frown deepened. Steve's parents spent a lot of time out of the house; it was one of the reasons she'd barely met them. She knew Mr. Harrington ran his own company, which took up a lot of his time. Mrs. Harrington was usually either accompanying him to a work event or volunteering on any number of Hawkins' community boards. Steve's father was a hardass, his mother strict and proper. Outside of that, he didn't really talk about them.

Most of the time, his parents' absence didn't seem to bother him all that much, but tonight, it seemed like he was too drained to hide the truth: he was lonely.

"Do you want to come over?"

The impulsive question caught both of them off guard. There was a beat, and when Steve didn't answer, Christine rambled to fill the silence.

"I mean, it's still kind of early. I don't have any homework left and—and every Halloween I watch Halloween. The horror movie. I know we've talked about this before, but I can't remember if you've seen it. It's the one with Michael Myers, who—he's got the jumpsuit and the white mask? Not the hockey mask, just a blank one. It's kind of turning into a tradition for me, so I'm gonna be up anyway if you don't want to be…uh, bored…"

She swallowed the rest of the sentence. Being lonely was bad enough without someone else pointing it out for you. She twirled the phone cord between her fingers while Steve tried to find a polite way to let her down.

"It's okay. I wouldn't wanna bug your dad, if you guys usually watch it together."

"Are you kidding?" Christine asked with a small smile. "My dad's a wimp. He hates all my horror movies. I think he went to bed at like eight. Lame."

That one got a chuckle out of him. It was short-lived, and faded out with a sigh, but Christine still took it as an encouraging sign.

"Should I bring anything?"

"What?" She blinked. Then her eyes shot wide. "Oh, uh—no. I mean, I've got popcorn and…my house actually has candy, so…"

"Okay. I'll be over in a bit."

"Sure. Yeah, no rush. I'll be here."

"Cool. And Christine, um…thanks."

"Of course…"

He didn't say anything else before he hung up. It took a few seconds before she could do the same. She replaced the phone on her nightstand and ran a hand through her hair. Of course, then her fingers got caught in the hairsprayed tangle of curls and she had to wrestle herself free. She desperately needed to change.

Christine grabbed some fresh clothes and padded down to the bathroom. It took some time to scrub the makeup from her face, even longer to rip a brush through her hair, which only made it bigger, somehow. She'd been praying she could save the shower for tomorrow morning, but by the time her hair was tangle-free, she looked like a very large Troll doll with her hair pointing out in all directions. Grudgingly, she hopped under the spray and scrubbed her hair clean too.

It wasn't the best look: hair tied up into a soggy, wet bun, oversized science fair shirt, mismatched pajama pants. Then again, she reminded herself, it wasn't supposed to be a good look. She shouldn't be worrying about her appearance. It was just her friend's boyfriend, Steve.

When there was finally a knock at the door, it was so quiet that Christine almost missed it. She peeked through the window first, just out of habit, then unlocked the deadbolt.

Steve hadn't changed since the party. He'd ditched the sunglasses, but still wore the black shirt and blazer he'd styled after Tom Cruise. His eyes looked less red, his hair a bit less wild now that he wasn't frantically running his fingers through it in frustration. She supposed that was a good sign, but to her, his flat hair and flat expression showed just how down he was.

He gave her a weak smile when she opened the door, and held up a six-pack of cans in greeting.

"Coke?"

"Well," she replied with a playful sigh, "I guess I'll accept that instead of the usual cover charge."

It made his smile spread a little wider, and Christine allowed herself to grin. She'd put on a brave face to give Nancy a distraction for the night. Now she'd do the same thing for Steve.

Christine ushered him through the door and into the living room. After forcibly sitting him on the couch, she ducked into the kitchen to get cups and the popcorn that was waiting in the microwave. She dumped it into a bowl, grabbed the bag of candy that had never made it out to the stoop, and then skipped to the living room once more.

"Now, you have to remind me," she asked over her shoulder as she fished out the tape, "have you actually seen this before?"

"No," Steve answered. "Despite your uh…best efforts, I have not seen this before."

"Perfect. Then you are in for a treat. I promise you're gonna like it." She laughed to herself as the TV crackled to life, then brushed off her legs as she got to her feet. "Lights on or lights off?"

"Um…whichever."

"You want a blanket?"

"Nah. Really, I'm good."

"A pillow to hide behind during the scary parts?"

He snorted and shook his head at her. "Just start the damn movie, Walcott."

"Fine, fine. Have it your way."

She started the tape and plopped down on the other end of the couch.

In retrospect, it would have been smarter to watch a movie she liked less. She'd had every intention of paying more attention to Steve, but the movie kept sucking her in. She'd seen Halloween dozens of times, and still there were scenes she watched with baited breath, others she quoted along with the movie, and some she just watched in wonder at the way the camera moved. God, she loved this movie.

Even when she was focused on Steve, her attempts at conversation weren't all that successful. Sometimes she'd spout random facts about the movie, either backstory or interesting things she'd learned from interviews with the director. She'd ask random, unrelated questions, or throw popcorn at him just to get a reaction. She'd even tried to give him an out a few times along the way. Steve's response was always the same: a weak smile, a soft laugh, and a short answer. Then he'd go back to staring at the television, a faraway look in his eyes that warned his mind was elsewhere.

Christine was at a loss. She didn't want to bully him into talking to her, but she wasn't sure it was a good idea to leave him alone with his thoughts.

An hour and a half later, she wasn't sure if he was any better off than he would have been at home.

"That was pretty good," Steve offered, stretching his arms as the credits appeared on the screen. "Bloody, but good."

"It's fine, Steve," Christine assured him. "You don't have to pretend you liked it."

She slipped off the couch and onto the floor so she could crawl over to the television. She pressed a few buttons to rewind the tape and the VCR hummed and sputtered, not all that different from Steve's noise of indignation.

"Hey, I—I like it, okay? I liked the thing with the phone and—and with the—the coat hanger."

She gave him an indulgent smile over her shoulder. "What's the main character's name?"

"Michael. Duh."

"I meant the girl."

Steve's smug smirk twisted, the corners falling into a grimace. His face screwed up in concentration as he answered, "Uh…L—aaaacey?"

"Close enough," she chuckled.

Christine wasn't mad. As Steve's former lab partner, she knew his attention span was variable at best, and right now, he had more than a lot on his mind. She hadn't really expected him to love the movie, but it was still a little disheartening—even if it wasn't his fault.

She wasn't going to press the issue, but as she slid the tape back onto the shelf, Steve sighed.

"I'm sorry. I'm just not good with character names. If you can believe it, I'm as bad at English as I was with Physics. And I know we weren't at the party for that long, but…honestly, I'm just wiped."

"Hey, I get it," said Christine, frowning in concern. "Are you sure you're good to drive?"

"Yeah, I should—I'll be fine. My folks probably won't be home for a few more hours, but…at least that'll make easy to fall asleep. Ha, for…for a couple of sticks in the mud, they certainly know how to party. Long as I'm not around I guess…"

He wiped his hands over his face, but they never cleared his eyes. Instead, he pressed his fingers into his sockets, like he was trying to force himself into darkness. A bitter smile stretched between his palms. It was almost as heartbreaking as the angry tears had been.

Before she knew it, instinct had taken over again.

"You can stay if you want."

Steve dropped his hands to squint at her. "What?"

"You don't have to," she said hastily. "I just meant like—if you didn't want to drive. My dad's already asleep and I still have El's blanket fort in the corner of my room, which is kind of like a second bed. I mean, it's on the floor so you don't—I could sleep there if you wanted to stay. Which I get sounds weird, but I just wanted to—you don't—you don't have to be…alone…if you don't want to…"

Christine squeezed her hands together as he stared at her. She had backpedaled, crashed, and burned. What the hell had she been thinking?

But Steve didn't look angry. He didn't even look amused, the way he had when she'd fumbled to ask him out at The Hawk. All traces of his brave smile had vanished. His gaze dropped, heavy and hollow as his eyes returned to that far-off place they'd been during the movie. Christine could see the exhaustion hanging on his shoulders as he leaned heavily on his knees, and while he didn't answer her, there wasn't a better word for his posture than defeat.

This time, Christine left him to his thoughts. She snuck into her father's room again and, under the cover of his snores, rifled through his dresser. She slipped out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, which she wordlessly left on the couch next to Steve. Then she piled the empty cups, the drained pop cans, and the discarded candy wrappers into the popcorn bowl so she could bring it all to the kitchen. By the time she returned, Steve had disappeared, along with the change of clothes.

Christine did her best to pretend it was any other night. She turned off the lights and checked the locks on the doors and windows. She cleaned up her room and prepped her backpack for the morning. She straightened out the blankets and cushions in Eleven's fort, ensuring there would be enough room for whoever slept there next. The reality of the situation didn't really hit her until Steve came shuffling into her bedroom.

It was hard to say what it was. It might have been the way he was avoiding her eyes, staring fixedly at her green carpet. It might have been the way he was fidgeting with his real clothes, balled up in his hands. It might have been the fact that he was now wearing a shirt advertising Billy Joel's An Innocent Man Tour.

"I'm sorry." Christine shook her head at herself, toying with the hem of her tee. "I didn't mean to be pushy. I know this must—if you feel weird because you're with Nancy, you don't have to stay. I'm sure she'd understand, because she'd want you to be safe, but like—you could drive home and I could follow on my bike, just to make sure you get back okay. Or you could just…drive, and I could stop babying every single person around me, which is what Dustin—"

"I'm not."

She stopped short, staring at Steve in apprehension. "Not what?"

"I'm not with…I don't know if I'm with Nancy…anymore…"

Steve finally looked at her, and it was so much worse than it had been before. Earlier, his eyes had been hollow and expressionless as he suppressed everything that was upsetting him. Now it was all bubbling up to the surface. More than anger, more than frustration, it looked like he was in pain.

Christine bit her lip, trying to choose her words carefully.

"Look, Steve…whatever Nancy said to you…she was drunk. Like, really drunk."

"Yeah, I got that," he said bitterly. "And it made her—ha—it made her all the more honest."

"It's just because she's stressed. She didn't mean—"

"Did you know we killed Barb?" he asked, his voice sharp. He let out a harsh laugh as he tossed his clothes to the ground. "Yeah, naturally, that's—that's our fault. Also, I'm full of shit. High school is bullshit, and our relationship is bullshit, and the idea that she loves me is—that's just complete and utter bullshit. Which I should have seen coming, right? Because—I mean, why would she love someone so full of shit? Why would she even—I just—fuck!"

Christine leapt into action. She scrambled around him, hurriedly closing the bedroom door before his voice could get any louder. Then—without hesitation, without shame—she turned around and pulled him into a hug.

Steve stiffened under her grip. He trembled, sagged, and finally, broke down in tears.

This was the price of being friends with both Nancy and Steve. Christine knew how conflicted Nancy was about her feelings. More than that, she knew that the guilt was tearing her up inside. It had been a hard year for all of them, and Nancy was trying her best. It was nobody's fault.

But now, standing in her room with Steve crying into her shoulder, things felt different. How could this be nobody's fault? How was she supposed to comfort Steve when there was a chance that Nancy had meant everything that she said?

Christine didn't have the words. She hugged Steve tight, and gently rubbed his back until he calmed down. It didn't take long, either because he was embarrassed about crying or because he was just that tired. But finally he stepped back, sniffling and rubbing at his face.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "That was a lot. I—"

"I get it. Really, I do."

Christine gave him a sad smile and tousled his hair. Broken as he was, Steve still had enough energy to smack her hand away. She giggled and earned herself a watery chuckle in reply.

"You're exhausted," Christine reminded him. "It's been a long night, so…get some rest, and we can talk about it tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere."

Steve nodded, and his hair had just enough life in it that it bounced along with him. She nudged him toward the corner and, sheepishly, they both shuffled to bed. Christine tried to avert her eyes, but it was hard to repress another giggle. Steve was taller than her, and far taller than El. Only about two thirds of him fit in the blanket fort, his legs poking out awkwardly in front of her dresser. She bit her lip and rolled onto her other side so she could focus on trying to sleep.

But she knew that was a slim possibility. She stared at the opposite wall of her room, listening to Steve breathe, shift around in her blankets, on her bedroom floor. The silence stretched on for minutes until Steve spoke.

"Hey, Chrissy?"

"Mhm?"

"I really did like the movie."

Christine pressed her face into the pillow, hiding her smile even though she knew Steve couldn't see her from the floor.

"Told you so."