𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒! [𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐲]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐒𝐔𝐙𝐈𝐄, 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘?

Jaqueline Campbell had had enough. She'd had enough five years ago, but then she'd gotten pregnant and, of course, Conor wanted to be a dad. So she'd had a kid. A girl named Margaret Rose, and she'd tried so hard. She'd tried so hard to be happy, to do the mom thing, to make having a family work for her. But she'd had enough. She'd had enough of Conor with his dry humor and his way of never being around when the important things needed done. She'd had enough of that old, cramped house with its toilet that never flushed right and the crack in the back bedroom window that made her freeze to death in the winters. And she'd had enough of Hawkins, the boring old town where nothing exciting ever happened. 

The thing was, Conor used to be exciting. He was the type of guy to fix up his own motorcycle and take his girl for a joyride on hot summer nights. He liked watching bad movies and mocking them incessantly. He'd sit on the back porch smoking and singing along to songs on the radio until Jaqueline yelled at him to stop. 

But he didn't wash his machine shop uniform enough. He always smelled of oil and cigarettes. His hair was too long. He wanted his daughter to call him by his first name because it 'created a more personal bond,' and he didn't seem to know where the line between being your kids' friend and being an active parent fell. He wasn't the same exciting Conor she'd fallen in love with. He was worn, he was washed up and, worst of all... he never wanted to leave Hawkins. 

Conor was a Hawkins boy born and raised, and he couldn't imagine going any further than the next town over. And Jaqueline hated him for it. If she had it her way, she'd take her daughter and Conor and she'd go as far as she could. She'd take them to New York, to California, to all the places she'd dreamed of going as a little girl. 

But Jaqueline didn't get her way. She knew she wouldn't. So one night in July, after Margo was put to bed and Conor was lying next to her, the picture book he'd been reading aloud resting forgotten on his chest, Jaqueline packed her bags. She didn't cry. She didn't let herself feel anything at all until she stood in her daughter's bedroom. Then she couldn't help it. Margo was wearing the same frown Conor did when he slept. Conor had one arm resting on the pillow above her head, his eyes closed peacefully. Before Jaqueline could sob, she turned and walked out into the night air. She swore she'd come back one day. She'd make it all up to them somehow. 

She never did. 

Margo scared Conor sometimes. Sure, she had his hair, and his eyes, and she wore the same facial expressions as he did. Once, Jonathan spent an evening at the Campbell's house quietly counting the number of times Conor and Margo pulled the same face at the same time. Now that scared Conor. But what was really scary was that she'd only inherited his looks. Everything else was Jaqueline through and through. The way she wasn't afraid to pick a fight. The way not being afraid to pick a fight always seemed to get her in trouble. The way she didn't mind getting in trouble. The way she couldn't seem to find it in her to take serious things seriously. And where had that landed Jaqueline? He didn't know. That was what scared him. The leaving. And as much as he tried to convince himself it wouldn't happen, he knew deep down that it would. Someday. 

Gasoline or oil or some other car fluid dripped onto Conor's forehead. He wiped it away with the towel laying next to him, hoping it wouldn't get in his eyes. He heard a tapping sound and carefully moved his head, narrowly avoiding hitting the bottom of the car he was working on. All he could see was a pair of black Converse, one tapping incessantly against the pavement floor of the shop.

"I'm bored," said Margo, leaning back against the wall and continuing to tap her foot. 

Conor rolled out from underneath  car and got to his feet, wiping grease from his hands on the dirty old tea towel he'd taken one day from their house. He was in his jumpsuit, stained almost black with soot and car grease, his hair pulled back into a short, messy ponytail behind his head. He plucked his glasses from his toolbox and adjusted them on his face before answering Margo. "There's always work around here you could do."