Chapter Text
You're a bandit like me
Eyes full of stars
Hustling for the good life
Never thought I'd meet you here
It could be love
We could be the way forward
And I know I'll pay for it
“Hop! I am telling you – somebody broke in. There’s just no other explanation!” Joyce’s voice bellowed through the line, worn and frantic.
Hopper rolled his eyes, silencing his groan. He rubbed the creases on his forehead as he stared down the mountain of paperwork on his desk, then cast a side glance at the clock on the wall. The ticking of the second hand echoed in the silence.
“Joyce, I’ve got so much shit to do. Can’t this wait?” His stomach lurched. He wanted to pull his words back into his throat as soon as he heard them aloud. Sweat trickled down his temples as the guilt washed over him. He never said no – not to her – but this was the fifth call this month, and none of them were the kind of call he really wanted to receive.
Ever since spring ended and the temperatures rose, it was as though Joyce had morphed into a different person. She was still the same incredibly gorgeous and fiercely smart mother he knew and loved, but she seemed … tense. Anxious. Stressed out all the time. He figured with her ex out of the picture, she’d feel more settled and find a new groove. Maybe they’d even find that groove together. But with her hours cut at the general store, she’d picked up a second job answering phones downtown. The extra shifts, the early morning and late night commutes, certainly hadn’t helped her frazzled state. And add that to the existing pressure of having her growing boys home all summer – with their insatiable appetites and a limited budget for groceries? He wasn’t surprised she was struggling.
He’d offered to help a dozen times, but Joyce shut him down every time, insisting she wasn’t a charity case. So when she called him one morning for non-financial assistance, he jumped at any opportunity to be useful. First, it was the swamp cooler. He came by the house and fixed it up good as new, grateful for the payment in cold lemonade and good company. Then came the second call for the car. She was late for work, and couldn’t get it to start, but it sounded like she’d witnessed a murder, the way she shrieked in agony over the phone. Turned out to be a dead battery – easy enough – so he gave her a jump, then drove into the city to install a new one during her shift. He never told her that part, of course. She thought the rough start was just a one-time fluke, and he was more than fine letting her believe it.
But the third call was anything but ordinary. A week ago she phoned in a frenzy, screaming how she couldn’t find her oldest, how he hadn’t come home from school that day and she couldn’t get ahold of Principal Jenkins. It took Hopper twelve minutes to get her to realize the kids were on break – that Jonathan was at a Bible camp, dragged there by one of his weird little nerd friends, and he’d be home the next morning.
The last call, though – that one was the strangest. It was the middle of the night. She was less distraught but equally uneasy, mumbling something about high school. She said the Creel boy told her something before he disappeared. A phrase … a warning she couldn’t quite shake. Hopper, half-asleep, kept her on the line while he pulled on his jeans and laced his shoes, ready to rush to her side with his eyes closed. By the time he was alert enough to drive, keys in hand, she called him off. Said she was fine, that it was all just a dream and she was sorry for waking him, then hung up.
And now, she was calling yet again – acting stranger than ever. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help. Of course he did. But he didn’t know how to help. Hell, he didn’t even know what was going on! He did know, whatever it was, it didn’t have anything to do with a break in.
“You’re right,” Joyce said. “Of course you’re busy. I’ll – I’ll just figure it out. Don’t worry.”
“No. Joyce, I - I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I can be there in thirty, okay?” He listened for a reply, hearing her labored breathing on the other end of the receiver.
“Thanks, Hop,” she gasped, then hung up.
Hopper hung his head and sighed, closing his eyes and listening to the chirp of the dial tone and the tick-tick-tick of the lecturing clock. He pulled his Blazer into her yard at exactly half past the hour, throwing the lever in park and slowly hobbling up her dusty porch.
“Joyce?” he rapped at her door. “Y’there? It’s Jim!” No answer. He tapped his toe as he scanned his surroundings. “Joyce?!” he knocked again, this time with his usual cop-like thump-thump-thump. Still, no answer. He fiddled with the doorknob and found it unlocked, then tip-toed inside the house, one hand resting just above his pistol.
He inched his way through the empty living room, peeking into the kitchen and calling out once again. “Hey Joy! It's Hop. You decent? I'm coming in!” He turned down the hallway, pushing open the door to Will’s room. He heard a rustling, and slid his thumb down to undo the latch on his holster as he stepped inside.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
“Jesus!” he yelled, stumbling back against the dresser as Chester leapt off the bed and bolted out of the room. “That damn dog.” Hopper grumbled, catching his breath as he crossed the hall into the master bedroom.
The door was ajar. He tapped it with a knuckle as he stared at his feet, wary of Joyce’s privacy. “Joy?” he announced. “Are you in he–”
But his voice trailed off as he lifted his head to see her standing in the middle of the room, knee deep in boxes and drawers, their contents emptied and strewn about the floor.
“What… the… hell?” he stuttered. “Did a tornado blow through here?”
Joyce didn’t react. She didn’t even register his presence, talking to herself under her breath as she tossed various papers and trinkets onto her bed.
He moved gently, gliding toward her and raising his arms out in front of him as though he was confronting a wild animal. “Joyce?” he whispered. “Hey. It’s me, Joy. It’s me.” He gripped her shoulders just tight enough to stop her movement. “I’m here.”
She looked up at the intruder, scanning his face for a moment, completely confused, before being hit by a wave of realization. “Oh. Hop,” she sighed, relieved. “What – what’re you doing here?”
His face sank. “You called me. Remember?” He lowered his hands to her arms, rubbing them gently as he spoke. “I’m here to help, okay? Whatever you need. I’m here.”
She looked around the room then back at Hopper, out of breath and bewildered, lost in her own home. “I, um… I,” she stammered. She lifted her eyes to his, noticing the blues were darker than usual – and soft, with a weary concern. She felt his thumbs gliding tenderly across her skin, her mind and body settling down as she reoriented herself to him – her northern star. She continued, “I think somebody stole my grandmother's necklace.”
“Are you sure it isn’t just –” Hopper smirked, gesturing at the abject chaos around them. “Lost?”
“I’ve looked everywhere, Hop,” Joyce gasped, her face flushed with desperation.
Hopper shrugged. “Why’s it so important, anyway? I get it, an heirloom, all that. But this feels … urgent.”
Joyce collapsed onto the edge of her bed, reaching for her night stand and picking up a folded piece of paper. “The mortgage,” she said. “It’s late – for the fifth time.” She handed the note to Hopper, and he inspected it curiously. “The bank said if I can’t pay by the end of the week, they’re gonna take the house.”
He sat down beside her, combing a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Joyce,” he said, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve –”
Joyce’s shoulders tensed as she pursed her lips and folded her arms defiantly. “I don’t want your money, Hop,” she snapped. “I don’t need a hand out, okay?”
“I didn’t say that,” Hopper asserted, smacking the bill against his knee. “I could loan you the money, though, couldn’t I? I know you’re good for it.”
“I just need you to catch the bastards who stole the necklace!” Joyce stomped, exasperatedly falling back onto the floor and resuming her search in the rubble. “Then I can take it to the pawn shop and –”
“Come on, Joyce,” Hopper begged, kneeling beside her. “I can help you! Let me help you.”
“Dammit, Hopper!” She threw a box across the room, her yell reverberating off the walls. “Why d’you always have to play the hero, huh?”
Hopper stood, surprised and slightly frightened at the ferocity of her response. “Hey, I’m not playing anything here!” he replied, raising his voice to match hers. “I care about you, okay? I’m just trying to –”
“Well stop trying! Either do what I asked you to do, or get the hell out of my house!” Joyce huffed from her perch on the floor, her breaths rapid and angry, her eyes narrowed.
Hopper clenched his teeth and turned away, hiding the devastation on his face. She didn’t mean it. He knew it, deep down – knew she was hurting. But so was he. He’d felt raw for years now. Most days, his only source of comfort was turning off his brain – getting drunk or getting high. But Joyce? She was his exception. He could be lower than low, feel every pain, every sorrow imaginable – but the sting of the grief … well, it just didn’t hit the same when Joyce was around. She was his shield from the heartache – but when his shield was the source of the pain? It was impossible to deflect.
He rifled through her dresser, his frustration and bitterness growing with each passing second. He cast aside whatever concern he had for her privacy or her feelings and flung her belongings aside with a fury. Suddenly, he spotted a small, brown jewelry box out of the corner of his eye, buried under a pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the closet. He opened the top and found an elegant, sparkling necklace with a sapphire stone.
“This it?” he hollered smugly, draping it over his fingers and holding it up over his shoulder.
“Oh my God! Hop! Yes! How did you –?”
He sneered, placing the piece back in its box and tossing it carelessly on her bed, then turned and left Joyce alone in her bedroom.
“Thank you!” she called out after him. “I mean it!” But he just kept on walking – lesson learned. He wouldn’t bother looking back.
…
He returned to the office for a few hours, working to get caught up long after most of the station had left. He wrote and wrote and wrote as long as he could before the typewriter was practically smoking and his brain couldn’t compute another word, and finally took off at half-past ten. He was silent, zoning out behind the wheel. His head was heavy, his mind full of fog, and he suddenly arrived at his trailer without any recollection of the drive. He dragged his feet as he wandered inside, then shot his hand past the leftovers in the fridge and reached straight for a cold one. He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto the couch with a sigh, grunting loudly with a beer in his hand – like father, like son. He took a drink as he picked up the photo album on the coffee table and began slowly flipping through the pictures.
There he was – his namesake – pushing young Hopper on the swings. He couldn’t have been older than four, maybe five years old.
Another one – workin’ on the car together, little Jimmy all covered in grease.
He lingered on the next page – the shot of his pops at his high school graduation, red-faced and lazy-eyed, struggling to smile.
Hopper’s eyes welled with tears as he downed another drink.
Thump-Thump-Thump.
His bittersweet trip down memory lane was interrupted by a loud knock on his trailer, and he rose to his feet with a shout.
“What the hell?” he cried, reaching for his pistol. “Who’s there?”
He lowered the weapon back into the holster as a sweet, familiar voice called out from the other side of his door. “It’s me,” Joyce answered timidly.
Despite the countless promises he’d made to himself mere hours earlier, Hopper threw open the door without a greeting, then turned back, lazily sinking into his seat on the couch once again.
Joyce let herself in, closing the door behind her. She looked around at the lonely hovel – empty pizza boxes on the counter, empty bottles on the stove. “I, uh,” she started awkwardly. “I came by to say thank you.”
“Said that already,” Hopper growled, resuming his drink.
“Right,” Joyce sighed. “Well, I also came by to …”
He cut her off with a shout “What do you want, Joyce? I’m not on the clock, okay? If the Martians have invaded your house, you’re gonna have to take it up with Daniels.”
She winced at the jab, but determinedly ignored his protest and sat down beside him. “I came by to say I’m sorry,” she said softly.” Hopper sucked on his bottle as he shot a skeptical look her way. “I’m sorry, Hop. I know you were just trying to help, and I shouldn’t’ve –”
“It’s okay,” he muttered, waving his hand and kicking his feet up on the coffee table with another brutish grunt.
“No, it’s not okay,” Joyce asserted. She pulled the bottle from his grasp and set it aside before pushing his feet back to the ground. “I’ve been throwing all this shit at you, and you’ve been nothing but kind, time and time again. You don’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you, and I’m sorry.” Her whole body trembled as she sputtered out the apology.
Hopper’s face softened. “Hey, Byers,” he whispered, reaching out and taking hold of her shaking hands. “Look at me. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Joyce wiped a tear from beneath her eye, blinking to trap the rest inside her lids. “You – you don’t hate me?” she sniffled.
“Never,” Hopper grinned.
“You don’t think I’m a mess?”
“‘Course I do!” he smirked. “But who isn’t? We’re all dealing with our shit the best we can. God knows I’m not right, either.”
Joyce heaved a sigh of relief. She cast her eyes about his living room, counting the cigarettes in the ashtray, before her sights landed on a newspaper opened to the obituaries. She slowly lifted the paper, clasping a hand to her mouth as she read the bolded name at the top.
“Hop!” she gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hopper shrugged. “Oh, that? Naw. No reason to. Didn’t have a funeral. There’s no one left on this planet who gave a damn about James Hopper, Senior.”
“Still,” she said, shaking her head with disbelief. “I would’ve – I would’ve been there. I could’ve helped with the arrangements. I –”
“We never made up,” Hopper blurted, staring at the last photo he ever took with his father – standing by his side in his dress blues. “Me and my old man. Hadn’t talked in years - not since I left for the city. He never forgave me for wanting something bigger, something better for my life than living in his shadow.” His deep voice rattled as he spoke, laced with anger, heartbreak, and confusion. “You know he never even met Sara? Didn’t reach out when she was born – or when she died.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve as he failed to fight back his emotion. “When I came back to town, I thought maybe… maybe we’d bury the hatchet – put all the black eyes and bullshit behind us. But I couldn’t bring myself to face him. Couldn’t stomach the thought of lookin’ him in the eyes without socking him right in the jaw. But now he’s gone and – I don’t know. It feels like a failure, y’know? Just another thing I got wrong.”
“Hey,” Joyce whispered, feeling a quiver in her throat as well. She reached out and held his hands in hers. “You’re no failure. He was. He failed you. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing, you hear me?” She lifted a hand to his cheek and lovingly brushed away his tears.
Hopper closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, familiar smell of sugar on her skin. “Thanks, Joy,” he said, half-smiling. He lowered his shoulders and tossed the photo album at his feet. “You always were the best part of this place.”
Joyce grinned bashfully, weaving her fingers with his.
“You know – I mean, you’ve gotta know, right?” Hopper continued. “That you’re the reason I came back to Hawkins? You’re better than the whole damn lot of ‘em put together.”
“Hop,” Joyce gushed, playfully fanning her face with her hand. “I - I don’t know what to say. You sure know how to make a girl blush.”
Hopper snickered, resting his hand on her knee and giving it a squeeze. “I’m worried about you, Joyce,” he continued, his tone sweet but somber. “You know I’ll always come when you call, but lately you’ve been acting kind of –”
“Crazy?” she smirked, finishing his sentence.
“Your word not mine,” he winked.
“I’ve felt crazy,” she sighed. “It’s like – I can’t seem to catch up. I feel like I’m always one step forward and twenty-six steps back. I mean… I caught Jonathan with a playboy in his room the other day! He’s just a kid, Hop! What am I supposed to do with that?”
Hopper cackled, unable to hold back his laughter, and Joyce smacked him jokingly on the shoulder.
“Hey! It’s not funny, okay?” she scolded through her own laughter. “There’s no instruction manual here!”
“I know, I know,” he said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“I never gave my mom enough credit, you know?” Joyce continued. “She was tough – left Hawkins as soon as I was old enough to drive. But it was just her. Everything fell on her shoulders. I don’t forgive her but … I get it now, I guess. In a way I never did before.”
Hopper smiled, nudging her foot with his. “Well for what it’s worth, which may be nothin’ at all,” he said, “I think you’re extraordinary. Those boys couldn’t ask for a better mom. They’re incredibly tough and resilient – and so are you.” He slid toward her, closing what little distance remained between them. “But – I am here, you know,” he added. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
“I know,” Joyce nodded, her lips curving upward to reveal the slightest dimple in her cheeks. “I do. And thank you again – for picking up the phone even when I’m a little -”. She paused, then spun her pointer fingers around her temples and crossed her eyes, adding silly sound effects. “Woo woo woo.”
Hopper shook his head twisting his face into that trademark half-smile, half-wink of his. “Anytime, Byers,” he laughed. “Anytime.”
Joyce placed her hand on his leg with a friendly, reassuring pat. “And trust me,” she urged. “We’re okay. We’ll be okay.”
“I know you will." He handed her his drink, gesturing for her to take a sip. She hesitantly raised the bottle to her lips and gulped, finishing it off, then puckered her mouth at the bitter taste and pushed the empty bottle back across the coffee table.
“Hey,” Hopper smirked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fresh cigarette. He inserted the smoke between his lips and lit the end. “Remember when we ditched class, and my dad caught us getting high behind that ol’ Gas n Sip?” He blew out a puff of smoke then coolly handed it to Joyce.
She snickered, her pitch growing higher as she sucked the calming toxins down into her lungs. “And you tripped on your shoelace and fell face first into that pile of leaves? I remember!”
“I thought you were gonna throw up – you were laughing so hard!” Hopper beamed as he watched her giggle, her eyes alight with an ageless spark, sharing his space like no time had passed at all. “I really thought we'd be that happy forever.”
Joyce put out the cigarette, freeing up her hands to scratch at the rough patches on his slacks as she spoke. “I would've waited,” she whispered. “For you. Hopper, if I knew that you were — that you wanted – I would’ve waited.”
He lifted his hand to her cheek, lightly brushing his thumb along the barely visible freckles he’d missed for years. “You were my best friend, Joyce,” he whispered back. “As soon as I got out there I – I would’ve come home if I could. And my letters – you know that I sent – that I –”.
She sighed, leaning into the warmth of his palm and raising her hand to hold his. “I know, Hop. I know. I missed you.”
His eyes watered as he leaned in, desperate to be closer to her, to share her breath. “I missed you, too,” he exhaled. “It’s like … like I can’t even find the right words to say how much.”
Joyce pressed her hand to his chest. Her breath hitched as she felt his heart pounding, his blood pumping, his muscles contracting beneath her fingertips. “I’m so tired of being alone.”
“You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.” He put his hand on top of hers, holding it in place, daring her to feel his devotion.
She glanced up at his piercing stare, searching for any sign of doubt, any sign of hesitation. “Are you though? Are you really?”
“My heart is strong and steady,” he answered confidently. “And my feet are flat on the ground, Joyce. I’m not leavin’.”
“What happened to ‘not ready’? What happened to ‘not again’?”
“I was stupid. And I was wrong. This is our second chance, and I don’t want to miss out on this – miss out on us all over again.”
She could feel the shift in his touch, hear the change in his voice. This was different. This was real. Still, this moment was too important. The gravity of this decision, the impact it could have on their lives and on their future … “Are you absolutely sure that –”?
“You can ask me a hundred times and my answer’s gonna be the same,” he said, his lips grazing hers. “You can’t scare me off, Maldonado. I’m all yours.”
When they came together, it wasn’t sloppy like at the bar. When the temperature rose between them, it wasn’t dark. It wasn’t dangerous. Hunger turned into comfort, and temptation gave way to relief. When he invited her to the bedroom, it wasn’t careless. It wasn’t shallow. When Joyce lay down beneath him, she wasn’t a mess of tangled hair and wandering hands – she was certain and intentional. When they stripped their clothes and bared their souls, they left the lights on – eyes wide open as they gazed at one another’s perfect imperfections, their curiosity satiated and their attraction deeper than it ever was. It wasn’t weakness – wasn’t giving up or giving in to a lesser self. It was reigniting, coming back to life – reviving the best parts of their minds and bodies that had gone dormant long ago.
There was healing in each caress, each slow and tender movement. Hopper was gentle and delicate. He took his time, savoring the taste of her skin and relishing each delicious sound that escaped her lips. He held her face in his hands as he softly kissed her lips, kissed her cheeks, kissed her eyes. He didn’t look away, not for a second, willing time itself to stop and begging the moment to last forever. “I love you, Joyce,” he whispered tenderly, tears welling in his eyes. “I always have. I always will.”
He held her close as she writhed in ecstasy, and the safety and security of his embrace unlocked something spiritual within her. The love and heat emanating from his touch allowed her to open herself more fully than she ever had before. Her elated moans morphed into sobs of gratitude as she steadied herself in his arms. “I’ve dreamed about this, a hundred times,” she exhaled, blanketing his neck with her sweet breaths. “Now here we are. Here you are. My Hop – my dream come true.” She kissed him like he was the last man in the world, running her fingers down his spine and feeling the goosebumps rising on his skin. She poured her love into her electric touch, and felt her own wave of satisfaction as she watched him shiver and shake and spend the last of himself, then collapse breathlessly beside her.
They laid together in the afterglow, peaceful and still and lost in thought, reveling in the magic of the night and the excitement of their tomorrows. Hopper peeked over at Joyce as she lay beside him, still smiling. He propped himself up on an elbow and tucked her hair behind her ear as he gazed into her beautiful, deep brown eyes. “That was incredible,” he sighed. “You are incredible.”
“Hopperrrr,” she teased, tracing lines in the hair on his chest.
“I mean it,” he continued. “You’re perfect. Every single thing about you is absolutely perfect.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she stretched up to kiss him once again. He wrapped his hands around her waist, extending the peck into yet another passionate embrace. His calloused fingers danced down her neck, along her chest, before grabbing hold of her bare skin and pulling her body firmly against his. They grinned into the kiss, giggling giddily as their teeth collided between smacks. Joyce lightly scratched her nails down his arms before clasping her hands below his wide hips and guiding his leg up over her body. He groaned as she softly bit his lower lip, then she pulled back with a wink and spun around, leaning back and settling into the shape of his body wrapped around hers.
“God, Joyce,” he sighed, wrapping his arms even tighter around her waist. “I – I can’t believe this is real. You’re really here with me.”
“Believe it,” she whispered, tickling his feet with her own and squeezing his hands draped just below her navel. She felt him melt into the mattress, every muscle, every bone in his body relaxing as he drifted off. She beamed as she closed her eyes, in awe of how soft and sweet and cuddly he was as he held her, knowing somewhere deep in her bones that this side of him was reserved just for her. She looked down at their legs intertwined and felt a rush of hope. Maybe, she thought. Maybe it’s all working out. Maybe the worst really is over.
She took a deep breath and rested her head underneath his chin. His soft snoring stopped just long enough for him to twitch again, the spasm jolting him awake. He placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head and sighed as he relaxed once again. “Good night, Joy,” he breathed. “I love you.”
“Good night, Hop,” she whispered back. “I love you, too.” She closed her eyes and smiled, ready and eager to meet him in his dreams.
She woke up at a quarter to three out of habit – most nights she’d get up once or twice to check on the boys, make sure they were sleeping, make sure they were safe. It took her a minute to realize where she was, to realize it wasn’t all another dream. She grinned as reality set in, setting up to sneak a peek at the handsome man asleep beside her. She carefully tip-toed across the hall to the tiny trailer bathroom, feeling her way through the darkness and trying not to make a sound. A small skylight was fixed above the shower, allowing the pale moonlight to shine into the space. As her eyes adjusted, they narrowed in on the small garbage bin near the toilet, overflowing with crushed beer cans. She winced at the eerie sight, forcefully flashed back to the past, the countless years she’d spend picking up after a staggering, belligerent drunk. Disgusted, she snapped herself back to the present, reaching for the toilet paper only to realize there wasn’t a roll.
“Shit,” she mouthed, rifling through the cabinets underneath the sink but coming up empty. She opened the medicine cabinet, hoping against hope to find tissues or wipes – anything to get her out of this mess. As she pulled back the magnetized mirror, a travel pack of tissues fell out onto the counter, along with several half-empty pill bottles, each one crashing loudly against the laminate.
Joyce froze. “Oh, God,” she thought. “He’s sick. That’s why he changed his mind. Hopper’s sick – like … like Sara.” In a panic, she grabbed the bottles, holding them out under the light and squinting to read each label. She braced herself to find some chemical agent, a pharmacist note discussing treatment. Lung cancer. It had to be. Her heart sank as she scoured the six labels. One medication. Six different doctors. Painkillers.
But how? Why? Snapshots of the last year rolled out like a filmstrip in her mind. Sure, she’d seen him take something every now and then. “Got a headache,” one morning. “Back is killing me,” one afternoon. “Sore all over,” he groaned, sweating and slightly anxious as he connected the cables between their cars. “Occupational hazard,” he joked. “I’m not the only one with souvenirs from serving the red, white and blue.” How often had he called, slightly slurring, just home from the bar? How often had she seen him with a drink in his hand? How much did she know, really know, about what he saw in Vietnam? About what he dealt with in New York? She felt the ground pulled out from under her as she considered the grim possibility that every minute, every second of their reunion was tainted by inebriation – rendered inauthentic by addiction.
She stumbled back into his bedroom, biting back the lump in her throat as she quietly dressed beside him. Her heart broke as she watched him sleep, not ready to let go of the fantasy of their happily ever after. It was the draft all over again – only this time, she was the one shipping out.
She slowly made her way to his front door, but as she reached for the handle, something caught her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar photo hung on the side of his refrigerator, just above a Reggie Jackson baseball card.
She tripped across the linoleum, pulling the photo from its magnet and inspecting it, unable to believe it was real. “One of us smiling,” she thought. “One sticking our tongues out wide.” The same pictures she’d tucked in his duffel all those years ago. He kept them. He still had them – even after all this time.
She collapsed, sobbing loudly now with her back against the fridge. She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted the life mere moments before she had believed was possible. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to give this up. She couldn’t imagine breathing air once she stepped foot outside his trailer – couldn’t stomach that kind of loneliness infecting her lungs. She pressed the memento against her chest as she fought to control her devastated cries, then crawled miserably back to her feet. She grabbed a pen and notepad near the telephone on the wall. Tears fell as she scrawled yet another sorrowful letter to her soldier.
“I can’t do this, Hopper. Not again. Please get better – for yourself, not for me.
I need to get better, too, but I can’t if I’m around all of this. That’s not how it works.
I meant what I said. I love you.
But we are broken, Hop. And we can’t fix each other.
I won’t call you anymore. I’m sorry.”
She carried the note, and their county fair photos, back to his bathroom, placing them beneath the prescription bottles like some depressing decorative display. Then she snuck out into the night, grateful for the soothing hum of the cicadas, the cloak of darkness to hide her excruciating pain -- and profoundly grateful for the empty roads, providing safety for her weary eyes as she struggled to stay the course on the longest drive of her life.