CHAPTER FOUR
Mismatched Puzzle Pieces

☾

OF ALL THE ways her night could've gone, the least Rhiannon expected was to find herself sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington's car — a boy she hadn't had a full-blown conversation with in months, if she didn't count the one they had before this.

When she found him outside, standing on the porch with a cup in his hands, he looked like he just had his heart split in two. It was a sight she never thought she would see before.

Steve Harrington, with his pretty brown eyes and strong nose and full lips, had always been handsome, unfairly so. Because of this, he would only need to flash a smile to get someone to do something for him. Whatever he wanted, it didn't matter. There was a reason girls at school ached for him, willing to carve a part of themselves just to feel his touch; and there was no shadow of a doubt in anyone's mind he had broken many hearts here and there. He'd catch interest, make them feel a little weak and like they could worship him, fuck a few of them in parking lots or other questionable places, never call back, and then leave an open wound in the rift between their ribs where the knife cut in.

It was clear for everyone to see - his reputation preceded him. He was, by all accounts, sure of himself (or full of himself, at least).

But at that moment, on the porch, he looked different. Defeated. His eyes were dark and sad. He was wallowing in self-pity.

Rhiannon approached him partly out of curiosity and partly to return a favor. You see, there was a similar situation last year, before the incident, when Steve found her crying in the stairwell. She never forgot it.

Some context: she had stayed at her dad's for the weekend, the dilapidated trailer he called home, and he came stumbling through the door on Sunday night, cradling an empty bottle of whiskey, rambling about stuff she didn't understand. Spewing rants about her half-sister Sara, who died after she got sick. About the family curse and being like his father. About war and radiation. She spent the night hauling him around and sitting on the opposite side of the bathroom floor as he emptied his guts into the toilet. Quality time was making sure he didn't literally drink himself to death.

"You're a mess," Rhiannon spat, lips curled into a scowl. She yanked the whiskey bottle he had clutched to his chest and threw it in the trash. "Seriously, this is getting ridiculous."

"Then why are you still here?" Hopper slurred, his face pressed against the grimy seat. "Just go home."

"You think I want to spend my night like this? Cleaning up your mess? You think I want to be here?"

"Well, I don't want you here either," he grumbled bitterly. "Gotta deal with your shit all the time."

A scoff scraped up her throat. She was trying not to cry ― she'd rather die than let him see that. He passed out then and there, on the floor. She didn't sleep a wink, cradling her knees to her chest as she listened to his snores, fearing he'd die in a puddle of his own vomit if she didn't watch his every move. After that night, she never went back to his trailer. She didn't spend weekends with him anymore. He never apologized. Maybe because he didn't remember, or maybe because he did and couldn't bring himself to do it. She couldn't tell with him.

In the morning she woke him up by tossing cold water in his face, told him he'd be late for work if he didn't move, and left for school without another word. How unfair was it, she thought as she sat in class, that he had left her behind all those years ago to start a life in New York with his new wife and yet now, she was acting like more of a parent than he was. Then her throat started welling up. She asked to go to the bathroom but went to cry in the stairwell instead.

It was supposed to be a neglected one, a place where people went if they wanted to break some rules without getting caught; the same place where she used to share cigarettes with Steve (or joints she'd buy from Eddie Munson, her dealer) between third and fourth period, so she knew she'd be left to cry in peace. Or so she thought.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there on the steps, balling her eyes out, when she heard the sound of the door opening and slamming shut. Followed by footfalls.

"Rhiannon? You okay?" She looked up and it was Steve.

She nodded her head and made a motion like he should just leave her be. He faltered. For a moment she thought he would actually go, but then he took a seat on the step next to her.

"How long have you been crying by yourself here?" His voice was soft, so unlike the person everyone in school saw.

"I'm not crying," Rhiannon replied as she wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.

"Okay," Steve said. "Must be something wrong with my eyes then. I should get them checked."

She regarded him for a moment. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

"I thought it was? Jesus. Tough crowd."

"Maybe comedy isn't your thing. You should try singing."

"Sure, and dancing too. I'll give you permission to laugh if I make an idiot out of myself and fall on my face."

"Now that's something I'd pay to see." She smiled weakly, puffing out a small sound that barely constituted a laugh.

"There you go," he said, grinning a little. He surveyed the room, propped his arms over his knees. "You know, I still think your dad's gonna find out about this place and bust through the door one day."

"You're in luck. I doubt he cares enough to do that."

Steve shook his head. "What? No way is that true."

Rhiannon never spoke about her dad to anyone; except maybe Lori, who safeguarded her deepest secrets within the private confines of her room. Her dad was a particular tender spot she didn't want anyone poking at. But this stairwell was like a pocket in the universe, a black hole existing separately from what was behind the door. She could say anything in here and it wouldn't matter. It would never leave these four walls.

"It's true," she said, staring blankly at the light fixture on the ceiling. The worst her dad would do, because he didn't care enough to ground her then, was probably call her a brat. "I don't think he cares about anyone but himself."

"What makes you say that?"

"For one thing, he's the reason you found me like this in the first place."

A momentary lapse in the conversation. Suddenly, Steve wore a vexed look. "Dads, man," he said. "They love to screw you over."

Steve's father, a big-shot businessman, had a penchant for either taking off on work trips or cheating on his wife. Or both at the same time, if he pleased. Rhiannon had heard the rumors circulating around town: Mr. Harrington had mistresses worldwide, which was why he was rarely in town. One time, someone said there'd been an argument between Steve and his dad that was so bad it could be heard down the whole street; with Steve yelling and his mom in hysterics as his dad slammed his car door and drove off. Rhiannon couldn't imagine that, Steve getting that angry.

Neither of them were strangers to familial bruises, the kind people get in their childhood, parent-shaped and sore to the bone. Those never really leave you.

"What about you?" she asked with a sniffle. "Don't tell me you came to cry too."

He suddenly seemed ashamed. "Uh... well, Nancy's supposed to meet me here."

"Oh." She wasn't expecting that, but she should've known. This was Steve she was talking to, after all.

"But I'm not kicking you out, I swear."

"It's fine. I better get going anyway. I have to get back to class."

"Do you need anything or...?" Steve started to say, but she was already preparing to leave.

"No, that's okay." She wiped her face again fervently, throwing him a perfect tight-lipped grin like she hadn't been crying minutes ago.

He shut his eyes and sighed. She was near the door when he said, "Listen, my parents are out of town next weekend and I'm throwing a party. You should come if you want."

"Sounds fun. I'll see if I can make it," Rhiannon replied. But they said nothing more, and at last she retreated. She never ended up going to the party.

Which brought her back to now, when she was sitting in his burgundy BMW, bathed in moonlight. He slowed to a stop at the light, its glow illuminating the empty street in a haze of red. She looked at him as he leaned his head back on the seat, draping his left arm over the open window and planting the other on the wheel.

Her gaze dropped to his neck, following the vein that bloomed across his skin. She heard the steady thrum of his pulse, felt the growl beckoning. By some cruel coincidence, "Hungry Eyes" was playing on the radio and she never related more.

She was starving. Eric Carmen had nothing on her because she was just about two seconds from jumping Steve and sucking him dry-

Wait, no. That didn't sound right. She didn't mean it like that. She meant tearing into him the way she almost did to Billy.

This was a terrible thing to think, she knew that. She was a terrible person. Well, actually- it wasn't even her thinking these things! She knew it was the stupid demon slithering into her thoughts, tainting her mind with poisonous ideas. Rhiannon Liu was the coolest girl in school with a glittering resume, the type to wear ribbons in her hair and leave cherry gloss kiss marks on notes. Whatever monster she was now, was nowhere near cool and glittering, but she had no say in the matter.

Really, she didn't want to hurt Steve. She never wanted to hurt anyone, but sometimes her hunger overcame her, the urges tore her apart, and she was scared she couldn't keep her control. Food only alleviated it temporarily. Because in truth, flesh and blood made her feel stronger. She learned it the hard way.

"I think Melvald's is still open. Wanna pass by and find something to eat?" Steve said, breaking her from her reverie.

"What?" She realized she had leaned over the console a little, warmth gathering in her cheeks as she pulled back until she was flush against the door. What she needed was some fresh air.

"I said I think Melvald's-"

"I know. I mean- why'd you say that?"

His eyes darted off the road, onto her. "Because you said, 'I'm so hungry' like a second ago?"

Shit. She didn't realize what she had done. "Must've been thinking out loud," she said, clearing her throat. "You think it'll take long?"

He shook his head. "We'll be in and out."

It turned out that Melvald's General Store was open in the late hours of the night. It was filled with corny decorations: pumpkins carved with smiles, ghouls made of paper hanging from the ceiling, and skeletons standing in the corner with party hats.

Rhiannon grabbed whatever snacks caught her eye as she walked down the aisle with Steve, precariously balancing the bags in her arms. They spent five minutes in the chip section debating which ones were better.

"Absolutely not. No. No way. It's Cool Ranch," Steve said defensively.

Rhiannon stole the Doritos from his hands and put them back on the shelf, then grabbed the red bag. "What are you on, Harrington? Nacho Cheese is where it's at."

"Not even." He swiped his chips again. "I'm getting Cool Ranch."

"Have fun with that."

"I will, thank you," Steve replied as they walked to the freezers. Frost billowed at their feet when he tugged the door open, searching for the drinks. "Oh man, they only have one coke left."

"You mind sharing?" she said.

"No, I don't," he said.

Rhiannon hauled the bags to the check-out counter, laying them in front of the cashier. He looked at them with his eyebrows high on his wrinkled forehead, mumbling something about late night snacking. Rhiannon gave a tight-lipped smile before reaching into her purse for spare dollar bills.

"I got it," Steve offered, sliding his hand into his jeans pocket so he could pull out his wallet.

"No-" She was ready to protest, but he beat her to it.

"It's fine." And for someone like him, maybe it really was fine. He lived in Loch Nora, the richest neighborhood in Hawkins, meaning this transaction would barely make a dent in his bank account. She shrugged and shoved some candy boxes from the side rack into the pile, for good measure. To his credit, Steve didn't bat an eye.

As they were leaving the store, a group of boys barreled through the door, some their age and others visibly a few years older; Andrew Sheridan, dressed as a cowboy, was the last from the group to go inside, the chime announcing his entrance.

"Rhiannon?" Andrew said, then looked at the boy next to her in confusion. "... And Harrington?"

"What're you doing here?" Rhiannon seethed, not bothering to hide the acidity in her tone.

"Getting drinks for the party," Andrew responded.

"That thing started like three hours ago, man," Steve said.

"Shit, really? We were pregaming at Jason's," Andrew said with a shrug. "Since when did you guys hang out?"

"Seeing as we're not dating anymore, that's none of your business," she said, with her head held high.

Without another word, the pair left the store. Most of the ride was spent tearing into the snacks and exchanging the Coca-Cola can as Steve drove through town. It felt like a fever dream that she would vaguely remember the next day unless she thought hard about it, maybe even laugh at how ridiculous it was.

"And to think, I would've been spending tonight with him if we were still together," Rhiannon said bitterly.

"Sorry to say, but you're stuck with me instead," Steve said.

"You're not the worst person to spend Halloween with," Rhiannon said as she passed over the drink.

"You're not the worst either," Steve said as he brought the can to his lips.

"Even as the resident werewolf?"

"I can look past it."

"Do you think it's the hair? Is that why they say those things about me?"

"Who cares?" Steve shrugged. "Screw them. People always say things. I think it's nice. The hair, I mean. It's different."

"This coming from Steve 'the Hair' Harrington himself? Wow. That's a lot to take in."

"What made you dye it like that anyway?" he mused.

"I needed a change," she lied.

The truth was: she couldn't get rid of the white streaks even if she wanted to. They grew from her roots that way. A week after the incident, she tried to dye the front part of her hair back to the black it once was. She bought several boxes of dye and spent the evening in the bathroom painting her hair. She waited a little longer than what the instructions recommended, just to be sure, before rinsing it out.

When she smeared away the fog of condensation on the mirror, she nearly screamed. The strands were still milky white, entirely untouched by the dye.

"Oh my god!" Rhiannon gasped loudly, startling Steve. He swerved the wheel onto the adjacent road, nearly spitting out the soda. A handful of young trick-or-treaters bolted out of the way with panicked screams.

"What? What? What?" Steve jumped in his spot, looking around in a panicked frenzy as he brought the car back to the right side.

"Nothing. This song is really good," Rhiannon said. She laughed at the look on his face; on the radio, Billy Idol was singing about eyes without a face.

"Are you serious? I could've run somebody over!" Steve admonished with a glare. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"I know," she said, watching him pretend to get even more annoyed but the remnants of a smile ghosted his lips. "I should stop doing that before I give people heart attacks."

"I feel like I've already had a few of those tonight," he muttered, tapping his finger on the wheel as he stopped in front of her house.

"Thanks for the ride. And the food," she said. She stepped off and leaned against the window, then ducked a little to see him, the same way he had to crane his neck to see her.

"See, and you didn't have to talk to any weirdos hanging around in the dark."

"Only the guy with sunglasses," she said, earning an exaggerated eye roll from him. "Hey, if anything, those weirdos out there should be scared."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

Rhiannon flashed a smile. "Maybe I'm the thing in the dark."

Steve's gaze fell on the black ribbon in his passenger seat. "Hey, you left your... headband," he trailed off, glancing up to hand it back to her, but she was already gone, leaving the lonely street in her place.

☾

The next morning, Rhiannon woke up at the break of dawn to gather a box with items she deemed important enough to give to El. Her dad told her it wouldn't be necessary because according to him, El already "had everything she needed," but Rhiannon stood her ground, deciding she'd pay a visit to the cabin and pass over some of her belongings before school. She felt responsible for the girl now. Not that she minded it. Plus, she refused to let El live in his hand-me-downs forever — especially when she had perfectly good and, most importantly, stylish clothes from her childhood to donate.

Hopper was cooking breakfast for them, stirring the scrambled eggs with a spatula. The picture of domesticity. Rhiannon hated him for it, for robbing her of this before. She hated him for a lot of things. Just because he was trying now didn't mean the past would be swiped clean from her mind.

The story behind how she was born was complicated, but this was how it went: Jim Hopper and Heather Liu went out for drinks on a Saturday night in 1967. They were drunk and careless, both in their twenties, so they went back to his trailer. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. When Heather first told her the story, she called her a surprise baby (her favorite surprise to date, at that) to spare her feelings, but it became obvious to her as she got older that she was an accident. So imagine her dad's surprise when her mom showed up at his doorstep with the news. Her hostile mom said, "The baby's yours." Her irresponsible dad said, "No, it can't be. Are you sure?" An argument ensued.

Her mom once said the two of them were like mismatched puzzle pieces — they came from the same set, and shared a few similarities here and there, but they just couldn't fit together no matter how hard you tried to connect the jagged edges. It was why they never married. That would've been a train wreck waiting to happen.

Here's where things get messy. When Rhiannon was born, Heather said she'd never forget that look in his eyes when he held her in his arms, the way he smiled when her tiny baby finger wrapped around his thumb. He wanted to be around as she grew older, so Heather would let her stay with him on the weekends and they'd go get ice cream or go to the park or see a sports game or he'd sing Fleetwood Mac to her at the top of his lungs in the car on the way home. Things were nice, as nice as they could be — until he met someone else. Until he married Diane and then left for New York to start a new life because she was offered a job in the city. He made his choice, and that was that.

It wasn't like he didn't want to be her dad anymore — he did, but the distance did what it always does. It made things difficult. Sure, he called every week and sent money and visited with Sara over the holidays, but it wasn't the same. When he returned to Hawkins years later — newly divorced and mourning — he tried to be a dad again, but Rhiannon was twelve by then, no longer a naive little girl who hoped he'd see her crayon drawings and school projects. No, she was angry and carried the type of glare that was as sharp as razor blades. She had the domestic rage she inherited from him. And he, well, he was a reckless mess of a man — something having to do with Sara's death — so he went all boozy. Drowned his sorrows in liquor and pills. His messiness was a plague. It seeped into everything he touched.

But she'd take care of him anyway. She'd do it because nobody else would — even if she didn't want to because she was so mad at him.

"You know about Fleetwood Mac, right?"

El shook her head.

Rhiannon's brows shot up. "What the fu—"

"Language," Hopper cautioned, pointing his spatula at her.

"—fudge?" Rhiannon saved herself. "They're only, like, the greatest thing to ever happen to music," she added, fervent as a fire.

From the kitchen, Hopper rolled his eyes at the dramatics. El seemed all too excited about her new belongings, especially because she wouldn't have to live drowning in the excess fabric of Hopper's outfits anymore. She skimmed through the box eagerly, looking at the various trinkets, magazines, stuffed animals, and spare clothes with a toothy smile.

Rhiannon pulled out her Rumours vinyl, an irreplaceable holy grail, and hugged it tight to her chest. "I want you to have it so you can experience listening to it for the first time. Guard it with your life."

El nodded, wide-eyed and clinging to every word. "I will."

"Stevie Nicks's words are law, do you understand?"

"I understand," said El, even though she actually did not understand.

"Stop trying to brainwash the kid," Hopper called out, scooping up the scrambled eggs onto a plate.

"I'm not! She needs to know good music, that's all," she defended, putting her hands on her hips.

"Yeah! Good music," El repeated, mirroring Rhiannon's tone and stance.

"Good music can wait 'cause breakfast is ready."

At this, the girls left the box behind and went to the bathroom to wash their hands. As Rhiannon leaned over the sink, El reached over and ran her finger along the scar on Rhiannon's throat, and then her eyes widened.

"Oh, this?" Rhiannon brushed off, scrubbing her palms with soap. "It's nothing."

"Friends don't lie," El said sternly.

The girl had no intention of backing down, and Rhiannon couldn't ignore the way she demanded an answer. So, begrudgingly, she said, "Some psychos tried to kill me. One of them had a knife. He did this."

"Why?" said El, her lips curved into a grim line.

"They were bad people. They hurt me and my best friend, Lori," said Rhiannon, glancing at her locket. "She didn't make it. It should've killed me too— but for some reason, it didn't."

El turned her head in the direction of the door, where Hopper was setting the plates on the table outside. "Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"That you're different," she whispered.

Rhiannon stiffened, looking at the girl with a severe expression. "How do you know that?"

El didn't supply an answer. She leaned on the counter, putting her chin on her palm as Rhiannon dried her hands on a towel. "Does he?"

"I don't want him to. It's better this way. Safer. I don't want him to treat me differently," she said. "Your turn now."

El pushed her sleeve back to reveal her wrist. A tattoo with the number eleven was stamped across the skin. "Different, too."

"I see." Rhiannon examined the tattoo, crouched in front of El. "Can we keep this between us? It'll be our little secret."

She nodded. "I promise."

"You pinky promise?"

"Pinky... promise?" El repeated slowly, as if she was testing out the words.

"When you make a promise and really mean it, you use your pinky," Rhiannon said, holding out her finger. El paused for a moment, then wrapped her finger around hers, and held it there.

"What happened to the bad men?" El asked.

Rhiannon sent her a dark look. "Let's just say they won't hurt me or anyone else again."

But El wasn't afraid of the words or what they implied. She just gave a nod. Rhiannon wondered what kind of things this girl had seen for her not to be phased by this.

The answers would have to wait. That was her dad's deal: she could know about El staying at the cabin, but she couldn't ask questions. He said she was sensitive about it or something. Maybe she wasn't a Russian spy, but, like Rhiannon, there was something other about her.

"Hey, what's with all the whispering?" Hopper said at the table, his eyes bouncing between them. "You guys keeping secrets from me now?"

"It's girl stuff. You wouldn't get it," Rhiannon replied, winking at El when he wasn't looking before she shoved her fork into the eggs. El grinned back.

Hopper ruffled El's hair and Rhiannon chewed on her food quietly. For dessert, he brought out two plates for them. Eggos for El, because she was obsessed with them. Strawberry Pop Tarts for Rhiannon, because they were her favorite and he went out and got them for her as if to say, Sorry for lying this whole time, maybe this will make up for it, without actually saying it.

She hadn't known he remembered those were her favorite. She hated him, but he was her dad. It was complicated. They were complicated. A set of puzzle pieces, trying to find a way to form the bigger picture.