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Eddie Munson isn’t anything like she thought he’d be.
“Mean and scary?” he asks, but there’s no bite to it. Instead, he’s hiding behind his hair, dramatic and silly, and the sincerity in his smile—shy, a little crooked—makes her chest ache. She’s ashamed: she knows better than to think the way a person looks has anything to do with who they really are. Beneath the picnic table, her fingers curl into the sharp pleats of her uniform skirt. Pastel perfect cheerleader. Got the looks, the boyfriend, the world on a string.
She can almost hear Jason’s voice. And she’s just so sweet. Isn’t that right, angel?
A spun-sugar life for a cotton candy kind of girl.
Sweet, she thinks, trembling a little. Acid sloshes in her stomach. Sweet girls don’t imagine spiders crawling across their skin, don’t have clocks chiming low and distorted in the hollows of their skulls. They don’t hear their mothers threatening to gut them like animals.
They don’t—
She chokes down the rest of the thought. It tastes like sugar and bile, and she feels like she’s on the verge of something awful, like she’s going to float out of her own body and never find her way back.
Eddie plunks down on the other side of the table. “Fifteen bucks. You’re robbing me blind here.” His face is kind. So is his teasing, gentle, like he can tell something is wrong and he’s trying to make her feel better.
God, when was the last time someone noticed something was wrong with her? She can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Eddie’s here, and he’s trying to help. She smiles through the taste in her mouth and musters up her courage.
“Do you have anything maybe… stronger?”
He goes still, head cocked to the side like if he looks at her at just the right angle, he’ll be able to figure her out. She shivers, and those warm dark eyes of his track the movement. No judgment, just— watching her. Seeing her, maybe.
Her stomach swoops. “I just, um,” she starts, halting, anxious. “I need to relax. I haven’t been able to sleep and my skin feels like it’s too small, and if you think weed will help then I’ll try it but I need to make this stop, I can’t—”
“Woah,” Eddie interrupts, cutting through her frantic babbling. “Woah, hey, Chrissy, it’s okay. I can help you get something stronger if that’s what you really want, but…” He bites his lip, lets the word trail off. For the first time since he startled her at the beginning of this whole thing, he seems a little bit nervous. Uncomfortable, even, like he might not actually sell to her at all despite what he just said.
Her heart slams painfully against her ribs. She can’t—
She needs this.
“But what?” She does her best to keep her voice even and steady. Jason hates it when she gets shrill.
Tone down the hysterics, Chrissy, it’s fine. Just chill, okay?
Eddie shifts in his seat, drums his fingers against the table. “Look,” he says, “I have this policy where I don’t pry, but it’s just that like, you’re Chrissy Cunningham, you know? Total goody two shoes. And if you want something stronger, I’ll help you, I swear, just…” He pauses again. “Have you tried taking the edge off the old-fashioned way?”
It takes an embarrassingly long moment for her to get it, but when she does, she can feel herself blushing, furious and blotchy all the way up to the roots of her hair.
“Oh,” she squeaks out. “You mean like— like? Sex?”
“Got it in one.”
The quip isn’t mocking or cruel. There’s nothing mean about it at all. Instead, there’s the slightest dusting of red on his cheeks, like he’s blushing a little bit too. Her stomach swoops again.
“Not that it’s really any of my business,” he says quickly, hands a sudden blur of motion as he packs away the little plastic baggie and locks the lunch box. “And far be it from me to tell a lady what to do, but maybe think about it for a little bit for you go right for the hard stuff? Yeah?”
She bites at her lip, worrying it the way her mother always scolds her for. Her lip gloss is tacky against her teeth. The clock is going to come back. She knows it will, knows it deep in her bones, can feel them humming like it’s already chiming and she just can’t hear it yet, but Eddie is looking at her, kind and worried, and the words tumble out of her mouth before she can think twice about them.
“Okay,” she promises. “I’ll think about it.” It shouldn’t matter—she’s already made up her mind—but Eddie absolutely beams at her, the same bright grin that the name of his band brought out, and the sight of it makes something warm and giddy bubble up behind her ribs. It sticks with her all the way through the woods and back to class.
I’ll think about it.
.
And she does think about it. Not the way he means, obviously, but she just keeps turning the idea of the old-fashioned way over and over again in her mind.
She thinks about it in fifth period during Mrs. Stanton’s endless history lecture, biting her lip until the gloss is all gone and she has to reapply it before Jason finds her looking ragged and scatterbrained. He hates that. She smells like the bubblegum stuff she keeps in her locker for emergency touch ups when she climbs into his Jeep after the final bell, and she thinks about it the whole ride home, thoughts churning as Jason boasts about how well the pep rally went and how we’re gonna crush the Falcons tonight, right babe?
“Right,” she says, even though she knows Jason wasn’t really looking for an answer. Sometimes she feels less like a girlfriend and more like a prop, something pretty Jason can show off when people look his way. A doll. Placid and agreeable and sweet.
Chrissy leaves him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to be ready when he picks her up at quarter to six. Don’t want to be late for the big game, right angel?
Right.
She watches Jason drive away and slips inside. Her mom is mostly distracted by some new Tammy Faye broadcast, so she manages to escape up to her room without seeing her. It’s a relief, but even the memory of the scene in the bathroom can’t drive Eddie’s suggestion from her mind for too long.
It was just… so casual, even if he blushed and fidgeted after he said it. Easy.
She doesn’t know why she didn’t think of it before.
Except, no, that’s a lie. She didn’t think of it before, because why would she? Sex with Jason is—
Nothing about it is ever easy. If she doesn’t want to fumble around in the backseat, she’s frigid, unfair, a goddamn cocktease. If she doesn’t slap his hands away, she’s gagging for it. He always apologizes, always says he’s sorry for pushing, sorry, sorry, sorry, but mostly it feels like he’s just going through the motions. She ends up with messy hands or a sore jaw, and then Jason kisses her a few times, calls her angel, drives her home.
It’s never been anything like the kind of thing that gets the girls on the squad gossiping, swapping rumors as they stretch. God, did you hear about that new fullback, the transfer? I guess he totally blew Jodi Mason’s back out and No shit? Well damn, now I want a turn on that ride! The kind of thing that makes her friends giggle and squeal.
Jason loves her. He says it all the time. She says it back, because that’s what girls with cotton candy lives do. It’s— fine. It is what it is.
And she may be losing her mind, but she’s not stupid. Even goody two shoes Chrissy Cunningham knows she doesn’t have to leave it all up to Jason, but just the thought of trying to touch herself while the sewing machine clacks away in the next room is enough to make her queasy.
Chrissy, honey, are you ready to try on the dress again? I loosened the back for you.
She can almost feel the porcelain beneath her hands. Can almost hear the wet smack of flesh against the tile.
No clock, not yet, but it’s just a matter of time.
She swallows down a hysterical laugh. It doesn’t matter. Eddie said he’d help. Told her where to find him after the game if she’s really set on doing this.
Something stronger, she thinks, like a mantra. She just needs to make it through the game and then she can finally make this all stop.
.
They win the championship.
She should care more about that than she does, but she can’t find the energy. She leads the squad through a raucous victory celebration, cheering like she’s on top of the world, but all she can think about is getting out of the gym as fast as she can.
Jason waylays her as she tries to slip away. There’s something manic in his eyes. He didn’t make the winning shot. Worse, he missed the one he did take. He isn’t the hero tonight, and she doesn’t know why that scares her, but it does.
“Where are you going?” His grin is fake. “Everyone’s headed to Benny’s to celebrate.”
She fends him off with a flimsy excuse—I got my period, I have to run home and change—and says she’s getting a ride from someone else. That part isn’t even a lie.
“You go ahead and celebrate,” she tells him, soft and careful and sweet. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”
“Alright, angel,” he says. The arm wrapped around her waist squeezes tight, almost crushing as he kisses her cheek. “See you soon.”
When she finally makes it out to the parking lot, Eddie’s van is still there. He promised it would be, said something about needing to clean up after his campaign finished, but the relief that slams through her at the sight is almost crippling. Most of the crowd has already melted away, so she lets herself lean against the van and just breathe.
He didn’t leave. She can still make this all stop.
That’s how he finds her: head tipped back against the cold metal, ponytail pressing painfully into her skull, counting each breath in and out so she doesn’t slip and start listening for the clock.
“Well, Chrissy Cunningham, as I live and breathe!” The greeting makes her laugh. It’s surprised, but warm somehow. Affectionate, like he doesn’t mind seeing her here no matter how weird she’s being. “So,” he says, unlocking the van and tossing a box in the back. “I take it you still want something stronger?”
“Yes!” Too loud, too eager. “Please,” she tries again, more careful this time. “Yes, please.”
He studies her for a moment, looking at her like he did in the woods. Seeing her.
She hates it when people stare. It always feels like she’s being flayed open, all her flaws on display, but this is different. It’s not a dissection. She’s not sure what it is, but even in the harsh glare of the sodium lights, his eyes are still so kind.
“Then your chariot awaits.”
It’s a very loud chariot. The engine coughs and groans before it catches, and a song she doesn’t recognize blares through the speakers, all thrashing guitars and a heavy, driving beat.
“Oh shit, sorry,” he says, reaching for the radio. “I forgot I had it up so loud.”
He’s blushing again, just barely visible in the shadows, and it’s— it’s cute.
Oh my god, she thinks faintly. Eddie Munson is cute.
“It’s okay,” she says, voice almost a squeak again. “I mean, it’s no Corroded Coffin, but I don’t mind it.”
He turns to look at her so quickly she’s surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. She bites down on a grin.
“Really?”
“Really,” she says, solemn.
“Well goddamn,” he breathes. “Then I guess Dio can stick around.”
He still turns it down, low enough that she can hear more than just the guitars. Dio’s voice is raw, a little raspy, but the lyrics are surprisingly wistful.
I cry out for magic, he sings as they drive out toward Eddie’s place. I feel it dancing in the light.
“So,” Eddie says, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “What do you listen to when you’re not rocking out to metal?”
“My mom isn’t big on music you can’t sing in church, but I like Fleetwood Mac.”
He hums in response. “You know what? I can see it.”
“Yeah?” Most people expect Madonna or Cyndi Lauper. Bubblegum pop for the cheerleader. She doesn’t mind that kind of thing, but she can only listen to “Material Girl” so many times before it starts to bother her, like she’s making a joke at her own expense.
“Absolutely. You’ve got depths, Chrissy Cunningham. I mean, just look at you right now. Very ‘Gold Dust Woman.’” He does a little jazz hands thing, the kind of fluttery nonsense you see Stevie Nicks do on stage with her ribbons and shawls.
The laugh that spills out of her is breathless and bright. He’s flirting with her, and she thinks maybe she’s flirting back. Jason wouldn’t like it, but for once, the thought doesn’t scare her into stopping.
“Their songs are just kind of… I don’t know? Dreamy, but sharp.” She pauses, listening to Dio as the music winds down. You’re a rainbow in the dark, just a rainbow in the dark. “Like this one.”
“Are you trying to tell me you think Fleetwood Mac is metal? Or that Dio is mellow?” He throws a hand over his heart, scandalized. “The nerve of you!” She’d feel silly, but he’s laughing in that way he has, no meanness at all.
“Well, Fleetwood Mac sounds all soft and nice, but the lyrics are so sad, you know? Listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, players only love you when they’re playing, that kind of thing. And this song is loud,” she says, blushing a little bit as she feels Eddie’s eyes on her, “almost harsh, but he’s singing about magic.”
“And rainbows.”
“Exactly!” she says, that warm giddiness from earlier blooming in her chest again. “And rainbows.”
They grin at each other for a moment before Eddie finally looks back at the road. They’re lucky Hawkins is always so quiet.
“Alright,” he agrees. “Alright! I concede the point! No need to twist my arm.” His eyes flicker back to her for a moment before darting away again when he sees her smile still firmly in place, like her delight was the whole point.
Her stomach swoops again. They’re definitely flirting. It’s almost enough to make her forget about why she’s in his van in the first place. Almost. Her smile slips, and she can feel the mood shift toward something tense and somber.
“So, um, what are you— what are you thinking I should try?”
He can’t really study her when he has to focus on driving, but she gets the feeling that he wants to. Instead, he tells her about ketamine and why he thinks it might help. He keeps talking—rambling, really—until gravel crunches beneath the van’s tires as they turn on to the road that leads to the trailer park.
They lurch to a stop. No spiders, no clock. The sharp barking of a nearby dog makes her heart rate shoot up anyway.
“This is, uh, my castle,” he says, bowing a little, and she can’t help but grin despite the fear starting to eat at her.
She watches as he rummages around, swearing under his breath when he can’t find what he’s looking for. Her pulse spikes again. God, please, let him have it.
“Shit,” he says again.
“You’re sure you have it?” She knows the moment the words are out of her mouth that her voice is too shrill. Shit. A knot of tension winds in her belly and she just stands there like an idiot, hands fisted in the sleeves of her sweater. He’s been so nice to her, so kind, and she just yelled at him—
The dog is barking again.
The sound grates against her nerves, sharp and relentless. It sounds like her mother telling her she needs to let the seams out again. For God’s sake, Chrissy, I thought we talked about this. It sounds like Jason telling her to fix her face. There’s bile in her mouth again, acid and sugar. Bubblegum and rot.
“No, no,” Eddie says, brows furrowed. Worried, almost, like he doesn’t want to disappoint her. “I got it.”
The dog keeps barking, frantic now. Eddie turns, still frowning, and she feels it: the first low chime, tolling in her skull. She’s losing her mind.
“Wait,” she bursts out, jolting forward to catch his sleeve. The leather is worn and soft beneath her fingers. It feels real. She clings to it, holding on to it like a lifeline. Spiders chitter at the edges of her vision, black and menacing, but she forces herself to focus on Eddie, on his warm dark eyes. The old-fashioned way, she thinks.
“Chrissy? Are you okay?”
She’s splitting apart at the seams. She’s ragged and scattered, gloss almost gone.
“No,” she says, and kisses him.
Leather creaks as she tightens her grip, swaying into him. For the longest moment, he’s still as a statue beneath her touch, and then—
It’s rushed, messy, but it’s good. His lips are a little chapped, dry against what’s left of the sticky pink she applied before the game, but his mouth is warm and gentle, and she can’t help but moan when his arms come up around her, holding her safe.
The clock chimes again, but it’s far away. Distant.
It’s not real, she thinks muzzily as the kiss turns filthy, his tongue sliding against hers. It feels like there are fireworks going off in her chest, bright and concussive. She mewls a little when he pulls away, the clock chiming ominously once more, but he doesn’t go far.
Eyes wide, he does that searching thing again; looking at her. Seeing her.
Her fingers tighten in his jacket, grip so fierce she knows without looking that her knuckles are white with the strain.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says, voice a little hoarse, “but, uh. What was that?”
She bites her lip, ugly habit, and hides her face in his chest. He smells like weed and laundry detergent and boy. Jason wears cologne, thick and overpowering. She’s taught herself not to choke on the smell of it.
“Chrissy?”
Jason doesn’t hold her like this. He doesn’t see her. Doesn’t make her feel safe. Somehow, acknowledging that makes her feel worse than the spiders, worse than that awful clock. Maybe, she thinks bitterly, I’ve been losing my mind for a long time.
She's sick of it.
“Can we—” She stutters around the words, hauling in an unsteady breath. Eddie’s arms are warm and sure around her. “Can we try the old-fashioned way? Like you said before?”
He wheezes out a startled sounding laugh, and she cringes a little bit, but then his hands are cupping her cheeks, palms big and warm and so gentle. She can practically hear all the questions he’s biting back—are you sure? what about Jason? why me?—but she doesn’t feel judged. She just feels seen.
“We can do whatever you want, Chrissy Cunningham.” His eyes are wide and dark. Sincere. She almost feels like crying.
“Please,” she says, shaking in his grip. “Help me.”
“What do you need, sweetheart? Just tell me what you need and it’s yours.” He sounds like he means it. He sounds like watching her shatter is breaking his heart.
“Just make me feel good, please, just—”
He kisses her quiet, and the world melts away. No clock. No spiders. Just Eddie, tall and lean against her, fingers tangling with hers as he walks her back toward the couch. They collapse on it in a messy sprawl of limbs, and she sinks into the cushions as he stretches out on top of her, kissing his way down her throat.
Little fires trail in his wake, like he’s a live wire and his touch is going to set her ablaze. She’s panting by the time he skates a hand under her skirt, callused and heavy with rings.
“This alright?”
“God, yes,” she says, and the word sounds a little bit like a sob. “C’mon Eddie, please—”
The clock is far away. There no room for it; Eddie’s the only thing she can see. The only thing she can feel.
“Yeah,” he soothes, voice low and scratchy. “I hear you, sweetheart.” She squirms against him as he tugs her panties aside to cup her where she’s wet and dripping.
“Christ,” Eddie says as she shudders against his palm. They both moan when he brushes her clit, circling there for a moment before he swears again and slides a finger into her, slow and steady. She has a fleeting thought about his rings, worries for a second that it’ll hurt, but instead it just feels different. New. The metal is cool and hard, strange until it isn’t, until it’s good, and she wants more—
It’s never been like this. She startles herself with a sinuous roll of her hips, unconscious and electric, bucking into that delicious pressure. The movement makes her blood sing, so she does it again, once, twice, again and again until his other hand splays across her hips, holds her still.
“Easy,” he tells her when she whines. “Let me— fuck—” He eases another finger in, breath fanning out over her throat as he talks. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he says, and he sounds like gravel, like the heavy metal he loves, raspy and wrecked.
His rings are bulky. It’s a tight fit, but she doesn’t care. She tries to roll her hips again, but he just presses her down, keeps holding her still. Holding her in her own body. Somehow, even that feels amazing. She stops squirming. “Good,” he says, and oh—
The whine that escapes her is high and frantic, and it shocks him into stillness. He hovers over her, pupils blown so wide and dark it’s like she’s giving him some kind of contact high.
“Do you,” he starts. Swallows. Licks his lips. Tries again. “You want to be good for me?”
It’s like a key in a lock she didn’t even know existed. The world goes quiet, just Eddie’s question and the thrumming of the blood in her veins. She wants that so badly her teeth ache. She wants to be good enough. She wants to be good.
“Please,” she says, voice small. “Please, Eddie.”
He lets out a shaky breath, expression awed and hungry. He’s not looking at her like she’s good enough; he’s looking at her like she’s everything.
“Stay still for me, okay?” She nods furiously. “Good girl.”
It feels like music washing over her, dreamy and sharp, just like she described it in the car. She gasps and shudders, but she stays still for him as he works a third finger inside her, filling her up until she’s flushed and trembling and she can feel herself dripping all over his knuckles, making a mess of the couch, until she feels so good she thinks she might die.
“Okay, baby,” he says. “Go ahead and take what you need.”
And god, god, she does. She works herself against his hand until she’s flying, heart racing and lungs aching like she’s just done a tumbling pass, his touch anchoring her while it gives her wings, sends her soaring so high and free that nothing bad can touch her.
When she comes back down, her fingers are wound tight in his vest, holding him close as he scrambles to get his jeans undone, trying and failing to undo the fly with just one hand. The sight has her clenching down around his fingers, still buried snug inside her. They both gasp, and she lets go of her death grip on his vest so she can reach out and help him. Eddie whines at her touch, frantic, and comes in long, sticky pulses across their hands.
“Shit,” he breathes out. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Eddie Munson,” she interrupts him, back to tugging at his vest, “don’t you dare. That was perfect.”
It feels strange to be laughing after sex, strange not to care about the mess on her hands, but mostly it just feels good. It’s like waking up from a nightmare. Maybe she’s still losing her mind, but right here, right now, she’s never felt better.
“Chrissy Cunningham,” he says, all five syllables of her name soft on his tongue, like they’re precious. Like she is, maybe. “You stole my goddamn line.”
“Well,” she fires back. “You did say I have depths.”
“Oh, no, you cannot quote my own bullshit back at me, that’s just not fair.”
She sobers a little bit. “You think that was bullshit?”
“No,” he says instantly, no hesitation at all. “You’re a veritable ocean. A Marianas Trench kind of girl, even. I’m just—” He stops, glancing down at his hand, still trapped between her thighs. “This is probably a very stupid thing to ask right now, but, um. Are you okay? You seemed pretty upset.”
He ducks his head a little bit, hair falling in front of his eyes, and the thought strikes her again: Eddie Munson is cute. And more than cute, he’s kind.
“No.” He tenses, but she keeps going. “But I’m feeling better.” His gaze darts up to hers, eyes still so warm and dark. “Really,” she says. “I promise.”
.
Cleaning up afterwards is a bit of an awkward affair. They’re both sticky and disheveled, and she almost dies on the spot when she realizes how messy the couch is, but Eddie brushes it off like it’s no big deal.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says as he washes his hands, rings gleaming dully under the stream of the faucet. She has the sudden, insane urge to lick them clean. Next time, she thinks to herself. The thought settles over her the way good girl did, dreamy, sharp, a key in a lock. It feels better than good: it feels right.
He dries his hands and turns to smile sheepishly at her. “I can get you that Special K if you still want it, or I can give you a ride back to the school—”
“I’m going to break up with Jason,” she blurts out, voice high and shrill again, but this time she’s not anxious. She’s excited. “And I’d love a ride,” she says. “But first can we maybe just, I don’t know. Hang out for a bit?”
She’s not really sure how to parse everything that’s happened today, but the dog has stopped barking. The clock is gone. She doesn’t feel the way she did in the woods anymore, awful, like she was going to float away and never be herself again. Eddie looks at her with the kind of reverent, awed hunger he had on the couch, and then he’s beaming again, wild and delighted and bright.
“Whatever you want, Chrissy Cunningham,” he says, helplessly fond. “Whatever you want.”
She beams back at him, smiling wide even though she knows her lip gloss is long gone and the rest of her makeup is definitely a smudgy wreck. She doesn’t care. In fact, the only thing she can really think about is that she never got to put her hands in all that hair of his. She wants to, so she walks over to where he’s lounging against the counter and does, meets him halfway to a kiss that has them both grinning, giggling into each other’s mouths.
“Whatever I want, huh?” His hair is curly and surprisingly soft.
“Yep.”
“Anything? Really?”
He pulls away to meet her gaze. “Really, sweetheart,” he says, diving back in to feather kisses across her cheeks. He presses them into her skin in a little pattern, almost like he’s following the faint spattering of freckles her mom always insists she cover up. The ones she doesn’t think Jason has ever even noticed. “Just say the word.”
Sweetheart sounds good. It's only one more syllable, but somehow it's more than just sweet. There's a heart in there too, and hearts are allowed to be messy. When he says it, it sounds like someone who has freckles she doesn’t have to hide. Someone who likes Fleetwood Mac and kissing Eddie Munson, who’s maybe losing her mind but is starting to find her footing. It sounds so much better than angel.
“Good,” she says, shivery and happy, and kisses him again.