Chapter 31: FALLING APART
The bass thudded through Tina's house like a heartbeat, loud enough to feel in my chest even from the parking lot.
I'd come to the party for reconnaissance more than socializing—high school gatherings were useful for observing dynamics, mapping relationships, figuring out who mattered and who was noise. Two hours in, I'd learned that Tommy H was sleeping with someone who wasn't Carol, that the basketball team's center had a drinking problem, and that Nancy Wheeler had been getting progressively drunker while Steve watched with increasingly desperate eyes.
Now I was outside, getting air that didn't smell like cheap beer and teenage desperation.
That's when I found Steve.
He was leaning against his BMW, bottle dangling from his fingers, staring at nothing in particular. The King Steve posture was gone—no confidence, no swagger, just a guy who'd been hollowed out and left standing through sheer momentum.
"She called us bullshit." His voice was flat. He didn't look at me. "Right in front of everyone. Said everything we have is bullshit."
I walked over and sat on the hood of the Camaro, parked two spaces away. Close enough to hear, far enough to give him space.
"I tried, you know?" Steve continued, still not looking at me. "After everything last year, I tried to be better. Be there for her. Support whatever she was going through." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Turns out what she was going through was realizing she doesn't want me."
The show had covered this—Nancy's guilt over Barb, her growing distance from Steve, the way Jonathan Byers had become her anchor to the trauma they shared. But watching it on a screen was different from seeing it play out three feet away.
"What happened to her friend," I said carefully. "Barb. That wasn't your fault."
Steve's head turned sharply. "How do you know about Barb?"
"Small town. People talk." Not entirely a lie. "I know something happened last year. Something bad. And I know Nancy's been carrying it."
"She thinks it's her fault." Steve took a long drink from his bottle. "Thinks if she hadn't left Barb alone at my party, she'd still be alive. And maybe she's right. Maybe I should have paid more attention. Maybe we both should have."
"Guilt doesn't work that way." I'd learned that in my old life, after years of carrying weight that wasn't mine to carry. "It finds targets whether they deserve it or not. And it doesn't let go just because someone tells it to."
Steve was quiet for a moment. "Maybe I am bullshit. Just some rich kid with good hair who doesn't actually matter."
"You're not."
"How would you know?"
"Because bullshit people don't worry about being bullshit." I leaned back against the Camaro's windshield, looking up at the stars. "They're too busy convincing themselves they're great. The fact that you're out here questioning everything? That means you actually care."
Another silence. The party noise continued behind us, muffled by distance and closed doors.
"She's dealing with her own stuff," I continued. "Trauma she can't process, guilt she can't shake. That's not about you. It's about her."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
"No. It doesn't."
Steve finished his beer and reached into his car for another. He held one out to me—warm, probably cheap, definitely a bad idea. I took it anyway. The taste was exactly as awful as expected, but I drank it because that's what you did when someone offered you a beer while their heart was breaking.
"How do you always know the right thing to say?" Steve asked.
"I don't." I took another drink, grimacing at the taste. "I just know what not to say."
He laughed—genuine this time, surprised out of him. "That's actually smart."
"Don't tell anyone. Ruins my reputation."
"What reputation? The scary California guy who turned out to be weirdly nice?"
"That one."
We sat in the parking lot for another hour, talking about nothing important. Steve unloaded more—the pressure of being King Steve, the loneliness of parents who were never home, the fear that he'd peaked in high school and everything after would be disappointment.
I listened. Asked questions when they seemed right. Offered perspective when I had any. Mostly just sat there, being present, being the kind of friend I wished I'd had in my old life when everything was falling apart.
By midnight, Steve was sober enough to drive—I'd cut him off after the third beer and made sure he ate some chips someone had left in his car. He climbed into the BMW and paused with the door open.
"Thanks, man. For not being an asshole about it."
"Anytime." I meant it.
He pulled out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the road. I sat on the Camaro's hood for another few minutes, processing.
Steve Harrington was going to need friends in the weeks ahead. Real friends, not the Tommy H variety who'd scatter at the first sign of trouble. When the darkness came, when monsters emerged and the world went sideways, Steve would be standing in the middle of it with a nail bat and more courage than sense.
I planned to be standing next to him.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0