Chapter Text
Jonathan hisses, the air whistling short and sharp between his teeth as another shock of thunder explodes in the air. He cries out, but for once, there’s no one on the streets of Manhattan to hear him.
Jonathan has to focus. He doesn’t have panic attacks, and he isn’t going to succumb to one now; it’s that simple. He’s walking home from the library. It’s storming. He’s not back in the Upside Down, no matter the thunder or darkness or the fluorescent lights from the nearby bars that cast an eerie glow down the whole street.
He is, however, bleeding. Warm red droplets fall from Jonathan’s eyebrow, landing on his cheek, his lips, his chest. Did he fall, startled by that first crack of thunder? He must have—his hands and knees are scraped raw—but he doesn’t remember.
Lightning flashes across the sky and for just a second everything is bathed in a bright, white light. His nails dig into his palms at the answering roar of thunder. A sudden gust of wind hits him, ruffling through his hair. The raindrops that come with it obscure his vision but wash away the steady stream of blood that runs down his face.
Jonathan starts walking faster—at least, as fast as this storm allows him to. He just wants to go home.
This is fine. He's fine. It doesn't matter that he's getting increasingly dizzy, that each breath is labored, that his heart feels as if it might jump out of his chest. He has handled so much worse, after all.
Nancy.
He’ll find a payphone, call Nancy on his way to the subway. He’ll ask her about the next edition of the paper, and she’ll talk and talk, and then he’ll be fine.
There’s a pay phone at the corner and he stops, fumbling in his pocket for change. With shaky fingers, he dials Nancy. The line rings, but no one answers.
He tastes blood again and brings a distracted hand to his temple—then flinches. It hurts.
He’ll call home. He just needs to know these past two years of peace haven’t been a dream, to confirm that he isn’t back there. With any luck, it will be Will who answers the phone, or even El.
He dials the number, trying his best to ignore the blood still sticking to his fingers. "Come on," Jonathan mumbles as the line continues to ring. "Pick up." What if they're in danger? What if this storm does have something to do with the Upside Down? If it has already reached New York, how bad will it be in Hawkins?
"Hello, you’ve reached the Hopper-Byers house. This is Joyce."
Jonathan freezes. Should he hang up? The last thing he wants to do is scare her.
“Hello?” And yet, worry is already creeping into her voice.
Jonathan squeezes his eyes shut. “M-mom. Hi.”
"Jonathan?" He nods, forgetting for a second that she can't see him over the phone. "What's going on? Is everything okay?" He should've known this would happen. What did he expect? Of course she is going to worry.
"I'm okay," he lies, trying his best to conceal the shaking in his voice. "Are you all...okay?" This whole thing feels incredibly silly, suddenly. He's a grown adult, so terrified of a storm he has to call his parents. (He didn't want his mom to pick up, but that hardly matters now.)
“We’re fine, sweetie.” But Mom’s voice is tighter, and he hates himself for making her anxious right along with him. “What’s going on, where are you?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you are?”
“No—I—I don’t know what’s going on.” A lie. He’s panicking, that’s what. “I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.” Another rumble of thunder booms, and Jonathan flinches.
“Are you outside? Is it storming?”
He forgets to answer, too distracted by the sudden lightheadedness that comes over him. Is it from blood loss, or merely because he can’t breathe? His mom can’t help him here. No one can.
"Jonathan?" Her voice echoes as if from a distance. She's in Hawkins, hours from him, so that makes sense… "Honey, talk to me. What's going on?" Mom repeats her question. She's scared. He's scaring her.
"It's fine," he whispers. Or maybe he doesn't say anything at all, he can't be sure. Either way, she doesn't seem to have noticed because he can hear her calling out for Hopper not even a second later.
A sudden wave of nausea sweeps over him, threatening to take him down with it. What's happening to him? Is he going to die?
A second voice, sharp and commanding, cuts through the fog.
“Kid? What’s goin' on?”
Jonathan shudders. “I’m—fine,” he stutters.
“Cut the crap.”
“I think—panic attack,” he chokes out, mortified. “Where—Will? El?”
"They're okay." Hopper's voice is a lot softer suddenly. Jonathan has heard him talk this way to his mom (to El and Will, even) countless times before. It's how he talks to her when things get bad again, when she starts jumping at every sound, checking in on them every five minutes. "They're in their rooms. You don't need to worry about them. We're all safe."
"But—”
"Listen to me." Hopper cuts him off. "Is there someone with you? Your friends? Anyone at all?" Jonathan looks around the eerily empty street. A few cars speed by from time to time but otherwise it seems like everyone except for him made the wise decision to avoid the storm.
“My friends left. Spring break,” Jonathan gets out. It’s true—he was going to wait a couple days then pick Nancy up to head back to Hawkins.
On the other end of the line, Mom says something he can’t quite make out, but Hopper’s voice cuts through. “The panic attack will pass,” Hopper reminds him calmly. “Are you somewhere safe? Are you hurt?”
Jonathan tries to take stock of his surroundings. It’s not the worst area, but definitely not the best. And his head…again he brings his fingers tips to his brow, and again he pulls them back covered in blood.
"Yes—no—I don't know." He can't exactly think clearly enough to come up with a proper answer.
"Yes or no?" He can hear the worry creep into Hopper's voice now too. "Jon?"
"I don't—my head, I—there's blood?" Jonathan admits quietly, praying that his mom can't hear him. Hopper will know what to do, he always does.
There’s silence for a moment. “Where? How much blood? Is it painful?”
“No,” mumbles Jonathan, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down on the back of his free hand. His vision is still a little blurry, and he sits on the wet pavement, lightheaded, but his heart rate is gradually slowing. “Not—painful. Don’t remember…eyebrow. It won’t stop.”
Hopper lets out a breath. “The eyebrow splits easy. Probably looks worse than it is. Still, you need to call a cab and get to a minor med, okay?”
Jonathan searches through his pockets for any money, but he only finds around two dollars, an old shopping list, and a coupon for the cafe he went to last week.
"Can't." It’s slightly embarrassing to admit. He doesn't want his mom and Hopper to think that he can't handle living on his own. It’s just that he won't get paid for another few days.
"What do you mean you can't?"
"Don't have any money. Not with me."
Jonathan begins to panic at the ensuing silence. Maybe they’re just furious at him—he knows he should always carry cash, after all. And then, maybe—have they been disconnected? What if they were never talking at all, and he imagined it? His heart rate begins to increase again…
But then Hopper’s voice comes through the receiver once more, low and calm. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me exactly where you are, and you’re going to stay there. I know some people in the city. I’m going to call and have someone pick you up. Okay?”
"Okay." Jonathan takes a deep breath. He isn't sure just how much he likes the idea of being picked up by one of Hopper's old buddies from the force, but what other choice does he have? He gives Hopper the cross-streets where he is now.
"I'm going to hang up now so I can get you that ride. Understood? Call us later, as soon as you can."
Jonathan would very much prefer to stay on the phone with them, as childish as it makes him feel. "I will," is all he can get out in response.
There’s a scuffling sound on the other end of the line, and his mom’s voice again, like she knew he needed to hear it. “It’s okay, baby.” Her voice is still tight with worry. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry we can’t be there.”
His guilt grows on top of his overwhelming anxiety (finally calmed from his earlier panic), but he doesn’t have the energy to reassure her. “It’s okay.”
***
Hopper can see the concern etched into Joyce's face as she hands the phone back over to him, her hands trembling. "We have to do something," she whispers.
He takes her hand with his free one, squeezing it slightly. "We are doing something. Just let me make that phone call. I'm sure she'll be able to pick him up."
"She?"
“Diane,” Hopper answers simply. “Last I heard, she and Bill didn’t live too far from where Jonathan is now. She has every reason to hate me, but I can’t imagine she wouldn’t help Jon.”
Joyce’s face remains blank, concealing whatever she really thinks of him calling his ex-wife to get her son. Hop takes the extra second to place a kiss on her cheek, and then he dials Diane before Joyce has a chance to respond.
“Morris residence, Diane speaking.”
He opens his mouth to say something but the words die in his throat. It's been months since they’ve seen each other at Sara’s grave, years since they had a proper conversation, and even longer than that since they had any kind of relationship. But he can't chicken out now. This isn't about him, it's about Jonathan. "Hey, uhm, it's Jim."
"Jim? What are you—?"
He cuts her off mid-sentence. There's no time for that now. "Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I need you to do me a favor. Just this once."
“Jim…are you okay?”
Does she think he’s drinking again, popping pills? He saw her less than a year ago, on Sara’s birthday. Surely she doesn’t think he’s already regressed.
“I’m fine,” he says firmly. He goes on to explain the situation—his step-son, stranded and bleeding and disoriented. “I think he’s coming off a panic attack. Don’t know he’s ever had one before,” he adds.
There’s a long silence, then…”Of course, Jim. I’ll go get him right now.”
Hopper breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I'll make it up to you.”
"No need. I'm not doing this for you." He frowns a little but decides not to ask any follow-up questions. Instead, he quickly tells her the address Jonathan gave him. No need to make him wait in the rain any longer than necessary.
Next to him Joyce anxiously picks at her lip. "What is she saying?" she whispers.
He just nods at Joyce and runs a hand along her arm reassuringly.
Diane is still speaking to him, her voice far more gentle than just a minute earlier. “I’ll make sure he calls you once he gets somewhere dry. It shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to find him, and we’ll go from there.”
The last bit of doubt leaves him. Diane's got him. "Thank you. Thank you, Diane." She has saved his ass so many times before, back when they were still together—and even after, but he doesn't like to think about that.
"Don't mention it." With that, she hangs up. It's so quiet, so calm suddenly as Hopper realizes that this is all they can do. Now they have to wait and hope it all works out.
Joyce lets out a small cry, but Hopper squeezes her shoulder.
“I trust Diane,” he says quietly. “She’ll find him, and she’ll get him the help she needs.” Diane is, after all, a wonderful mother. (But he’s gained enough common sense over the years not to voice that thought, however innocent, to his current wife.)
“Once—once we hear back, I want to go,” murmurs Joyce. “To visit him. He shouldn’t have to drive here for break after this. He’s hurt.”
"We'll talk to him about it," he promises. "See what he wants, how bad it really is." Maybe Jonathan was just overreacting because of how panicked he was? He might not want them there at all.
Joyce only seems half convinced. "Hop, you know him. He'll play it down, so we won't worry."
Hopper closes his eyes. If he’s honest with himself, he’s worried too. This is all so out of character for Jonathan, who had seemed to be flourishing at NYU.
“Alright. Let’s wait here, so Diane can call us. Then we can go.”
***
Jonathan has been sitting on the concrete, leaning against the building behind him, for a while now. Could be minutes, could be an hour. His initial panic has worn off and been replaced by a simple, suffocating exhaustion.
Car after car passes him by, and he can’t help hoping each will be whoever Hopper called. What if Hopper couldn't reach anyone? What if no one is coming to help him? What if they told Hopper they would but got into an accident—just got distracted, even—on their way here? What then?
Just as those thoughts threaten to send him into another downward spiral, a car stops at the side of the road, right where he's sitting. A woman steps out. Jonathan knows her face, but he can’t place it.
“Jonathan?” the woman asks, stepping towards him like he’s a frightened animal. “Jonathan Byers?”
He nods, wary, and she must believe him because she quickly closes the distance between them and kneels close, holding out a rag and examining his cut.
“I’m Diane. Your dad—Hopper called me.”
“He’s not my dad,” Jonathan mumbles. Not a protest, just an explanation. He accepts the towel and presses it gingerly to his forehead. As his adrenaline had worn off, the pain had begun to sink in.
"Well, okay. Let's get you into the car first and then we'll see what we can do." She gets up and offers him her hand. He doesn't take it, instead pulling himself up with the help of the wall.
A little cautious—she's still a stranger, after all—Jonathan pulls open the car door and sits down on the passenger seat. It's warm and dry inside, and that's enough for him to feel at least a little more comfortable right away.
"So," the woman, Diane, begins, "Do you want me to take you to a minor med? You should probably get that checked out."
Jonathan hesitates, removing the towel from his forehead—yeah, definitely still bleeding. He immediately presses the fabric back to his eye, hissing slightly. The last thing he wants is to bleed all over this woman’s car.
“You—you can just take me to my apartment. If it’s not better I’ll get myself to the med later.”
She sighs, giving him the same look he gets from his mom when she's worried about him. Why does no one ever trust him to know what's best for himself? "No, honey—"
"Don't call me that."
"Right. Sorry. But you should really go to a doctor now. Trust me, I was married to a police officer, I know a cut that needs stitches when I see one."
Jonathan stares at her, realization dawning. She’s in that photograph on the nightstand on Hopper’s side of the bed—the photograph of Sara. “Oh. You’re…that Diane,” he says, the pieces clicking into place.
She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Yes.”
He isn't entirely sure what to say to that, so he simply doesn't say anything at all. Hopper needs someone to help his wife's son and the first person he thinks of is his ex-wife? How does Mom feel about this? Does she care? Should she care? Should he?
They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the never-ceasing rain that is running down the car windows and the occasional, distant rumble of thunder.
Again, Diane is the one to take the initiative. "Well, I can't force you. Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the minor med?"
Jonathan hesitates. His mom and Hopper might actually kill him if he makes Diane go to all this trouble just to drive him home. "I'll go," he agrees quietly.
She nods, restarting the car. The storm has slowed, but she still has to turn on the windshield wipers.
"I'm really sorry," Jonathan adds. He clears his throat. "This—I didn't mean to worry them so much."
Diane casts him a sideways glance. "What did happen, if you don't mind me asking?"
He shrugs. "The storm freaked me out a little, I guess." It's such a painfully obvious understatement he might just burst out laughing. Obviously, Hopper has to have told her at least some of what happened.
"Then I fell or something, hit my head. I don't really remember all the details." His brain had been one blurry mess of panic. "I feel better now," he feels the need to add. "About the storm. And it really doesn't hurt all that much."
“That’s good,” Diane says softly, pulling back out onto the road. “It’s a bit scary that you can’t remember what happened, no? Might want to get checked for a concussion.”
“Right.” Jonathan leans into the window, unable to move past his utter embarrassment and lingering fear.
“I hear there was some pretty traumatic stuff that went down in Hawkins a couple years ago,” Diane adds, almost casually.
He tenses, glancing back over to her. How much does she know? Surely not the truth, right? She can't.
"Yeah," he mumbles, trying his best to remember the lie they are supposed to tell everyone who wasn't involved. The headache that is slowly starting to build up isn't exactly helping.
"The earthquakes, and those storms—scary enough to make national headlines," she says gently. If only that was all. No Vecna, no Upside Down. Just nature. “So the thunder,” she continues, “maybe that—“
“Yes!” Jonathan snaps. It’s none of her business. Then he immediately feels awful. She didn’t have to come for him, she doesn’t even know him. She’s just trying to be kind. “I’m—I’m so sorry. This has never happened before.” Why does that feel so important?
"Don't worry," Diane chuckles. "It's fine. I'm not mad." Why does she have to be so, over-the-top nice? He’s a stranger, her ex’s new kid, and now she's driving him around—why? Because Hopper told her to?
"Thank you," he says quietly, not because he doesn't mean it, but because he's a bit ashamed to be needing her help at all. "You don't have to do this, you know?"
“I know,” she says. “But do you honestly think I could live with myself if I went on with my day knowing a kid is sitting out in the rain, scared and hurt? I’m a mom.”
She shrugs, and Jonathan takes advantage of her attention to the road to watch her. Her words were matter-of-fact, not cruel, but her assessment doesn’t exactly make him feel great. “What, uh, did Hopper tell you?”
"Not all that much. He said that you were stranded and hurt. And that you needed someone to pick you up." That sounds as if he were some child wanting to be picked up from a sleepover or something. But it's not exactly wrong, either, and maybe that's the worst part.
"I was pretty surprised when he called me," Diane adds suddenly. "I mean, we haven't had a real conversation in a long time, and... Sorry, you probably don't care about any of this."
He scoffs. He would rather talk about pretty much anything but himself right now. “Honestly? I have so many questions.”
She raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Guess he never really talked about me, huh?" Now Jonathan feels a little bad and he isn't even fully sure why.
"Not really, no. I mean, we aren't that close. My mom and him have only been together for a few years and then I moved here..." He cringes—he hadn’t meant to sound so dismissive about Hop. Why is he trying to explain any of it, at all? And does he have any right to talk to Hopper's ex-wife about their past? He should ask Hopper if he’s going to ask anyone.
Still, his curiosity gets the better of him. "How long were you guys even together?"
It’s obvious she has some follow up questions for him , but she’s polite enough to shake them off. “Ten years and change.”
“Wow.” But then again, weren’t his mom and Lonnie together even longer? It’s a little frightening. Things with Nancy seem so permanent. He would never want to leave her. And yet…
They hit a bump, and he flinches at a flash of pain in his head.
"You okay?" She sounds honestly worried. Jonathan groans, his hand buried in his hair, his palm pressed against his forehead. As if that would do anything to soothe the pain. "I'm fine. Sorry."
"What are you sorry for?" He shrugs. What is he sorry for? Bothering her, demanding her attention like this? He has no idea, truthfully. But she accepts his shrug as an answer, or at least decides not to push any further. “Hang in there. It isn’t far now."
True to her word, it’s only a couple minutes later she finds some street parking—luckily, right in front of the clinic. “Thank you. Really.” Jonathan offers her a small smile, which she returns, and then he heaves himself out of the car, one hand still holding a bloody towel to his forehead.
…only to make it around the car to find her waiting for him, keys in hand.
He blinks at her, a little confused. "You don't have to go in with me." He's not a child, and the last time he checked, she wasn't his mom.
"But I want to. Plus, you do need a ride back once you're done in there, so I'll wait." Why? Why is she doing all this for him? It doesn't make any sense. He didn't ask for this. He doesn't need this.
“And we have to call your parents,” she adds. “Unless you really want to be alone…” For the first time, she looks uncomfortable.
“I’m sure you have things to get back to.” A husband. A child, right?
But if he’s honest with himself? He, for some inexplicable reason, wants her to stay.
"I don't have any work left to do, and Bill can handle the situation at home, I'm sure." Bill—that must be her husband.
Before Diane can change her mind (and Jonathan can add another person to the list of people he has driven away), Jonathan decides to stop fighting against what appears to be simple kindness. "Yeah, okay. You can come."
Diane smiles and heads for the steps leading up towards the clinic. She offers him her arm, which he takes without thinking—his legs are still a little shaky.
“I’m glad,” she’s saying. “You look terrible…sorry. Oh! I have some dry clothes you can change into once we check in.”
"Thank you. That's... really nice, actually." How will he ever be able to pay her back for any of this?
"It's the least I could do." How is this the least ? She's doing so much and not even accepting a thank you. It’s overwhelming.
The inside of the clinic is cold, and Jonathan fights off a shiver. As much as he doesn’t want to accept the dry clothes…well, he really must look terrible because he’s already drawing stares from other patients in the waiting room, and he doesn’t feel so great either.
He checks in at reception, Diane waiting a respectful distance behind him, and receives a temporary bandage and directions to the restroom, where he will be able to change.
Once he closes the door behind him, Jonathan wastes no time getting out of his soaking wet clothes. They're dirty, and his shirt is stained with blood. The pants are scraped from when he must have landed on his knees during his fall.
He changes quickly into the clothes Diane brought (that fit him surprisingly well) and then slips back into the waiting room where she is still sitting.
“Thanks,” he repeats quietly, stuffing the plastic bag of clothes under the hard plastic seat.
“You’re welcome,” Diane says evenly. “There’s a pay phone down the hall. Do you want to go call your parents? Or I can.”
The word "parents" bugs him a little—why does she keep assuming Hopper fits that bill?—but there’s no point in trying to explain it now. "No, it's fine, I can call them. Just, uhm, do you have some change? I can pay you back, I swear."
He hates that he has to ask any more of her after she has already done so much. She looks almost offended, as she hands him some quarters. "You don't have to pay me back, Jonathan."
“I know,” he says shortly, parroting her earlier sentiment back at her. “I’ll be back.” He strides away without waiting for an answer.
Now that he’s in dry clothes and a safe environment, his legs are far more steady. Still, he sits down after taking the phone off the hook and dialing his house. Mom answers immediately.
"Jonathan, is that you?" She only sounds slightly less panicked than she had during their last call.
"Yeah, Mom. It's me."
"Where are you? Are you okay? Are you safe?" The bombardment of questions is too much, not that his headache is helping.
"Joyce..." he can faintly hear Hopper's voice in the background.
"Right. Sorry,” answers Mom.
“I’m okay. I’m at the minor med to get my cut checked out. Uh, Diane brought me. I haven’t seen a doctor yet though.”
“Good.” Joyce lets out a long breath. So, she did know who Hopper called. “That is…it’s good you’re there. We’re going to drive up, okay?”
“What? No!”
Why is he even surprised? He should've known she would say something like this. "Jonathan," Mom pleads.
"I said no," he repeats more firmly. "I'm fine, I promise. I'll be home in a few days." Well, if he has the concussion Diane thinks he does, that might be a little difficult. But he doesn't have to mention that and worry them even more.
"We're coming. Whether you like it or not. It’s not up for debate."
“Mom!” he groans. “No. Besides, I have to get Nancy. Is Hopper there? What did he say?”
Jonathan realizes only after he says it how belittling that last part must have sounded. It’s not like Hopper controls his mom, after all.
She scoffs. "I don't think Hopper has much say on where I do and do not go." He probably deserved that one.
"Sorry, Mom. You know that's not what I meant."
"Yes. I know. But listen, baby, Hopper and I are both coming up. We can be there by tomorrow. Then we can see where we go from there. I’ll call Nancy and let her know the situation. She can decide for herself what she wants to do about it."
“Mom. I’m not dying. I’m barely bleeding anymore. I’m fine.” Why, why had he ever called home? (Then again, if he hadn’t, he might still be sitting out in the rain.)
“Jonathan Byers!” Not his mother’s voice, but a nurse’s.
“I have to go,” says Jonathan. “They just called me back.”
"Okay, bye honey. But I'll see—” He hangs up before he can hear the rest of her sentence.
He follows the nurse until she stops in front of a door. "Alright, do you want your mother to come in with you?" His mother is hours away from him, what is she talking about? How would she...?
Oh.
Jonathan glances back at Diane, who blinks quickly. “She’s not my mom,” he tells the nurse. It sounds too harsh, too strange. “But, uh, yeah. She can come.”
The nurse shrugs and steps aside to let them in the room, and Jonathan takes a seat on the exam table. “You definitely don’t have to stay,” he reassures Diane.
"How often do I have to tell you? I want to do this." She almost sounds like his actual mom had only a few minutes ago. Just…calmer. What is going on with everyone today? They're not usually all treating him like a child—they haven’t in a long time, actually. He’s the mature one, the one that doesn't cause any problems, the one you don't have to worry about.
He’s made entirely of questions tonight, no answers, and it causes his head to hurt even more. He just needs the stupid doctor to show up. He drums his fingers against his thighs. Diane waits patiently in the small chair in the corner of the room, and he can feel her eyes on him.
“You don’t trust easily, do you?” Her voice isn’t accusatory, just curious.
“It doesn’t really have anything to do with trust.”
"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow and for one chilling moment, he feels as if she were looking right through him, through the facade he has worked so hard on building for what has to have been most of his life. "So what does it have to do with?"
What is he doing? This is not a conversation he’s having with Hopper’s ex. Besides…what does it have to do with? How does he explain an abusive father, a mother stretched too thin, a brother who disappeared?
“I don’t know. It’s a long story.”
“Which is it? You don’t know? Or it’s a long story?”
Jonathan groans. "I don't know," he repeats. "Both, I guess. It's complicated."
"You don't have to talk about it. I was just thinking—”
"Yeah, I know I don't," he snaps and immediately regrets it. Diane has done nothing wrong. She's only trying to help. He takes a breath. "I’m sorry. It's just—It's not that easy. I mean, I barely know you, and I haven't really talked to anyone about this. I don’t know why I brought it up."
Diane only shrugs. “It can be easier to talk to someone you don’t know. But you don’t have to,” she adds, a small smile flickering to her face.
Jonathan can’t help but smile—just a little—back. “Okay. But, um, it really is just a mess. A lot of names you don’t know.”
She chuckles. "Trust me, I can handle a mess." For just a second he asks himself if that's supposed to be a dig at Hopper, but he isn't so sure if he wants to find out.
"I mean, I guess it's all kind of my dad’s fault. My actual dad’s," he says slowly. Blaming Lonnie is the one thing he can do with absolute certainty. "He was a pretty big jerk. My mom and he got together when she was still in high school. He was in his mid-twenties or something. I'm honestly not sure why they even got married in the first place. Guess they had to have loved each other at some point."
Diane nods as he speaks, her expression betraying neither pity nor boredom. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says softly. “For what it’s worth…well, Hopper is a good man. Your mom—and you—are lucky.” She nods once. “Sorry if that’s overstepping—“
Before she can finish, three knocks sound and a doctor immediately steps in. He takes one look at Jonathan and sighs. “Yes, that’ll need stitches.”