Welcome To Hawkins

4

I swear I've endured hours of pointless small talk at this point. The clock behind Mr. (y/ln) indicates a half-hour has passed since we sat down on the couch.

Being a pretend, serious boyfriend was a drag, but the way (y/n) has her hand so casually rested on my thigh... it wasn't that bad, I suppose.

The warmth from her hand is distracting, though, and I'm only catching half of what (y/mn) is saying about the Hawkins Supermarket. I really should be used to (y/n) being this close. She spends half her time at my apartment, sitting closer than this on the couch when we watch shitty tv or whatever film she's picked up from Family Video that Friday.

What made this touch different from (y/n) falling asleep on my shoulder during a Halloween marathon? Because it was a conscious choice? Because there was an audience? Because I liked it?

Maybe this wasn't as much of a perk as I initially thought. I mean, it's fake; she doesn't actually want to touch me like we're this close.

Being a fake boyfriend is a terrible gig, I decide. This hand-on-my-thigh situation is not good for me. There are absolutely no perks to being a fake boyfriend.

The jacket I'm receiving in return for my services is starting to feel like shitty payment as my mood spoils, realizing I'm enjoying her touch a little too much. But, (y/n) would despise me if I backed out now. Which I really didn't want.

Glancing over at (y/n), I see her poorly hidden boredom. At least she's suffering, too, even if it's a different type of suffering. Suffering that didn't at all compares to the conflict her touch is inflicting.

Even her suffering isn't as bad as mine.

I'm dragged from my thoughts when (y/n) says, "Mom, I made a reservation at the motel--"

I look between the women, trying to understand what I've missed in the conversation. (y/n)'s father doesn't look happy, making my skin crawl. If Mr. (y/ln) is upset, it can't be good for me, fake boyfriend or not.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart," (y/n)'s mom waves her off, "You'll both stay here with us. Your room is all made up with new sheets."

"Mom, we couldn't intrude like that--" (y/n)'s eyes widen as she glances at me.

"(y/mn)," (y/n)'s father says, "They can--"

(y/n)'s mom gives her father a warning look, "We discussed this, (y/fn). They're staying here."

Mr. (y/ln) blinks at his wife but doesn't argue further. His gaze turns icy when it lands on me.

Yay, this should be a fun week.

(y/n)'s mother leads us towards the small bedroom, chatting about how they renovated the bathroom recently.

"Thanks, mom," (y/n) smiles at her mother as I set our suitcases at the base of her bed.

"Let me quickly show you the bathroom, and then we'll let you two settle in before dinner."

(y/n) glances at me, ensuring I'm all good before trailing behind her mother.

Mr. (y/ln) clears his throat, "I don't like this. You sharing a bed with my daughter."

I catch myself before I say something stupid back to him, "I--"

"There are some rules under my roof, Eddie. You and I will be on good terms if you respect my rules. I understand my daughter's-- she's in a relationship with you, but I expect there to be no... funny business in these walls," Mr. (y/ln) says with a grin and an accompanying hand on the shoulder.

I've dated enough women and met enough fathers to know that grin looked friendly but really meant 'if you touch my daughter, I'll gut you like a fish.'

I'm tempted to say something inflammatory back, but I promised (y/n) I'd try to get along with her father. Besides, there won't be any 'funny business' going on behind this door anyways.

This could be my one moment of telling the truth.

"Of course, sir." I add on the 'sir' at the end because, in my experience, dads eat that shit up. Dads with daughters were a different breed of nuts.

"Good man," he grips my shoulder tightly, shaking me slightly. Another warning that he could quite literally snap me in half.

"Jesus Christ, what have I gotten into..." I mutter under my breath as I unzip my suitcase.

I look around the room, noticing all the posters, trophies, and crap that looks like it hasn't been touched since 1982. Above the dresser, an eighteen-year-old (y/n) had taped a John Travolta poster, a big pink lipstick heart around his head.

I chuckle, taking a step closer to examine the poster before looking at the items on top of the dresser. A second-place gymnastics trophy and a picture of a younger version of my fake girlfriend with a brown-haired girl sit side by side.

Should I know who this girl is? I'm sure she's never mentioned a best friend in Hawkins. (y/n) thinks I'm a terrible listener; it's only partially true. I remember stories... but names and details usually escape me.

For instance, I know of her ex-boyfriend from high school... Scott? Stefan? I know it starts with an 's'.

But she's never mentioned a friend. It's hard to get information out of her from her past. I'd wager that I'm her closest friend, and she still keeps certain things from me.

"Her name is Nancy," (y/n) says. I turn towards the doorframe where (y/n) is holding a white towel, "My mom wanted you to know there are about five other spare towels in the bathroom down the hall."

I ignore her second statement, wanting to know more about Nancy, "Is she your best friend? Nancy?"

(y/n) looks thoughtful, "I would say she was my best friend at one point. We went to different colleges, and... you know, people drift apart with distance."

I nod. That's understandable, "Fair enough."

"Sorry about my dad," she laughs awkwardly, "If it makes it any better, he was this rough with Steve too."

Steve! That's the guy's name! "Why would it bother me? It's not like I'm an actual threat to 'his daughter's purity.'"

She chuckles, "Still. He's rough when you first meet him, but I swear he's a teddy bear."

Playfully, I roll my eyes, "Yeah, I'm sure. That's what they all say."

Her grin is worth the moments of awkwardness I've already dealt with. If she's happy, and this works, I'm happy.

I look down at my open suitcase, pulling an ugly blouse-like shirt out, "So, how are we sleeping?"