Chapter Text
Campfire and charbroil battle in Jim’s nostrils as he greets a few members of his congregation and follows Joyce and the boys over to the pit. It’s an impressive fire, he has to admit. Bill did a good job. Joyce sits first, and Will cuddles up next to her, but before Jim can claim her other side, Jonathan cuts in and shoots him a look—a look that says stay the hell away from my mom. Jim just offers a polite smile and takes a seat next to the teen. He’s a tough egg to crack, but Jim is up for the challenge. And really, Jim’s just thankful that even when he’s not around, there’s someone looking out for Joyce. Not that she needs it, but she does so much for everyone else, it’s a comforting thought to know her son, just as stubborn as she is, will always have her back. Though Jim shudders to think what that son of a bitch Lonnie did to make his boy this protective over her.
He waits for a few more people to sit, then stands and offers the small gathering a smile.
“Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming. Smells like we have some good food cooking, but before we eat, let’s say grace.” He bows his head and folds his hands and leads the crowd in a brief prayer, thanking the Lord for bringing their church family together for a weekend of praise, worship, and relaxation. Silently, he thanks God for bringing Joyce and her family. He closes with an amen quicker than Karl Underwood could ever manage, and opens his hands, extending his palms upwards. “Well? Let’s eat before the food’s cold.” Which it would have been if Karl had led the prayer.
He hangs back, sitting down and letting the kids and older church members partake first. He just hopes there’s some of Joyce’s casserole left by the time he gets there. Joyce urges the boys into line, then perches down next to him on a stump.
“You should eat,” he encourages.
“I will. Gonna let the kids go first.” She warms her hands over the roaring fire.
“Cold?” he murmurs in concern.
“Nah, it just feels good. Been a while since I’ve sat by a campfire.” She smiles, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. “There’s nothing like that smell.”
“Right? Makes me kinda nostalgic.” She opens her eyes and watches him curiously. “Boy Scout camp, but also… my dad. He was hard on me, but I miss our fishing and hunting trips. We always had a fire going. Yelled at me if I built it wrong, but… some good memories, too.”
Her smile widens and she reaches over, giving his arm a squeeze. His breath hitches. “Sounds nice.”
“It was, yeah.”
“I usually take my boys camping this weekend.”
“You mentioned that. Where do you guys go?”
“We’d normally head towards Indianapolis—there's this campsite there we like—but my car…”
“It’s the tire, you said?”
She nods, sighing. “It keeps losing pressure.”
“Could be a problem with the wheel.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”
She bites her lip. “Hop, I can’t pay much right now.”
“No, just… as a friend. I’m not a mechanic or anything, but I might be able to knock out the steel, see if it holds pressure better,” he offers.
“Thanks,” she answers shyly. “I’ll… make you another casserole? Or some more cookies?”
“You've got a deal.”
Smiling, they lapse into silence, mesmerized by the flames.
Joyce’s hand doesn’t leave his arm.
Once the line dies down some, they wander together to the food table—long and sprawling with a mouth-watering assortment of hot dogs, burgers, fixings, various casseroles, and even more baked goods for dessert. He helps old Mrs. Burns carry her plate back to the fire, then loads himself up on a little of everything he can fit, saving the most room for a good helping of Joyce’s casserole. He takes a seat next to Jonathan again and leans back in his camping chair, enjoying the melting pot of Midwest flavors that enter his mouth. New York has better options—the best pizza money can buy, cuisines from every culture imaginable, food trucks lining the city wherever you look—but he can’t deny that a church potluck in the woods is packed with absolute comfort food.
“Good, huh?” he murmurs to Jonathan, who grunts noncommittally.
Jenny Higgins, the Sunday vocalist, wanders off and returns with her guitar, and they spend the next half hour singing praise songs around the fire and roasting marshmallows. To Jim’s surprise, Jonathan and Will even quietly sing along to a few, and he wonders if they learned them from VBS.
A station wagon pulls up just as they’re finishing, and Jim recognizes Ted and Karen Wheeler from his congregation when they step out, their three kids in tow. The gangly dark-haired boy comes running over, waving wildly.
“Will, hey! I didn’t know you were coming to this!” he greets in excitement.
“Hey, Mike,” Will replies cheerfully, standing. “Yeah, Mom thought it would be fun.”
Jim stands, too. “Karen, Ted. Welcome,” he beams. “Did you folks eat?”
“Hey, Jim!” Karen answers, smiling and shifting Holly in her arms. Jim can’t look at the little one for too long, because her blonde pigtails are painfully familiar. “We went through the drive-thru on the way here since we were running late. Wasn’t sure if there’d be anything left.”
“Well, help yourself to dessert,” he encourages.
“Karen!” Joyce beams, standing to greet who Jim surmises must be her one friend from the church.
The two ladies are quickly socializing, caught up in their own little world of womanly gossip, and Jim watches as the oldest Wheeler girl fidgets nervously next to her dad, looking out of place.
“Nancy, right?” Jim asks, smiling down at her. She nods and chews on her lip. A thought occurs to him, one that might just earn him brownie points with Jonathan and get the kid off his and Joyce’s backs. A plan gets set into motion, the gears turning in his head. “Hey, you’re about the same age as Jonathan. You two know each other?” he asks casually.
Jonathan shyly stands, eyes darting around on the ground. “Uh, hey, Nancy,” he says awkwardly.
“Hey,” she answers. “We had… English together, right?”
“And pre-calc,” Jonathan adds, gulping.
“Oh, that’s right.” Nancy lets out a shy giggle. “Maybe we’ll be in calculus together next year.”
Jonathan slowly smiles, finally meeting her eyes. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Do you… wanna check out the desserts with me? Think I spotted some lava cake.”
“Sure!” She smiles and tucks a dirty blonde curl behind her ear. “Sounds good.”
Smug, Jim watches as the two teens timidly walk towards the food table side by side, exchanging quiet conversation. Mike and Will head to the playground together, and Ted and Karen leave to get their things unloaded at their cabin, a few down from his and Joyce’s. His plan is working. Jim clears his throat and stands above Joyce, throat dry.
“I could show you around?” he offers, only one destination in mind.
She beams up at him and sucks marshmallow from her sticky fingers. “Sure.”
She rises to her feet, and he leads her down the hill towards the lake, the sparkling, cerulean waters coming into view. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a salmon glow over the lake—orange on blue. A few kayaks and canoes bob peacefully near the sandy shore, and a long dock extends into the water, accompanied by a winding slide that he vaguely remembers diving off of when he was a young boy.
“Wow,” she gasps, taking in the view. “It’s beautiful here.”
“It is,” he agrees, eying a wooden bench swing to the right. “I came here once or twice when my mom was still alive. I was pretty young, but… pretty sure I had a good time. I think the boys are gonna have fun.”
“It’s a nice getaway for us all,” she agrees. He watches as she wanders ahead to the beach and slips off her shoes and socks, digging her toes in the sand. Enchanted, he follows and does the same.
“You deserve some time off,” he murmurs, wading into the ankle-high water. “You work harder than anyone I know.”
“Gotta keep food on the table somehow,” she shrugs. “Besides, I like keeping busy. I go stir-crazy if I have to sit still for too long.”
He smiles and nods, relating, not because he doesn’t like doing nothing, but because doing nothing usually brings about unwanted feelings and memories that he’s too cowardly to face head on. She rolls up the legs of her jeans and joins him in the water.
“Perfect temperature for swimming,” he says cooly, chancing a glance her way.
“Yeah, I’m sure the boys will have fun tomorrow,” she agrees.
He clears his throat. “What, you’re not jumping in?”
“Undecided,” she chuckles, going a bit red. “I haven’t worn a swimsuit in public in, like, over a decade.”
“I’m sure you’d look great,” he offers casually, like the mental image hasn’t been tempting him to sin for the last several days.
Her smile widens, and she bends down to examine something reflecting back at her in the water. She comes up with a small shell, pockets it, and starts probing the water for more.
“Here,” he says, swiping one up that catches his eye. He rinses off the sand and drops it in her hand with a warm smile that she matches.
“Thanks. So… will you be jumping in?” she asks, on the hunt for more shells.
He grins. “Oh, yeah. Gotta give the kids hell out here,” he chuckles. “Splash them, play shark… you know. Typical pastoral duties.”
His smile begins to slip, turning wistful. In what now feels like another lifetime, he had a daughter of his own to antagonize at the beach or the swimming pool, his mind floods with memories of wet piggy back rides, teaching her to swim, creeping up on his shrieking little girl as he hummed the Jaws theme. He shakes himself and focuses on finding Joyce a few more shells, before splashing off his face and wading back to shore. It will be a fun weekend because he’ll make it one, but he hadn’t anticipated how all of these family activities would bring up so many complex feelings and memories to weigh down a fragile heart that just won’t seem to heal.
Joyce follows him out of the water, admiring her new collection of shells.
“What are you gonna do with those?” he asks, searching desperately for a subject change.
“I don’t know yet. I just like them. They’re pretty.” She grins and shrugs, and he has to smile. Joyce and her trinkets.
“Maybe you could put them on your shelf in the entryway,” he offers.
“Maybe,” she agrees with a smile, loading them into her jean pocket.
Wordlessly, he swipes up his shoes and heads over to that wooden swing, hoping she’ll follow. She does. and they both settle down facing the water, shoulders brushing. He swings them with his bare foot in the grass, enjoying the cool breeze off the lake.
“So what’s on the schedule tomorrow?” she asks.
“Uh… breakfast, service, water time, lunch, another service, cornhole tournament, then supper, bonfire, and praise songs,” he lists.
“Are you speaking?”
“No, not until Sunday. We’ve got a couple guest speakers coming in.”
“Ah.” She nods, fidgeting. “The boys don’t usually go to church…”
“Well, they don’t have to come to service if they don’t want to, but I will warn you that the congregation will notice and probably won’t be too happy about that,” he tells her regretfully. “Still, their choice. I’d love for them to come, but forcing someone isn’t my style.”
She contemplates. “I’ll talk to them about it tonight. Will will probably be alright with going because he can sit by Mike, but Jonathan…”
Jim smirks. “Something tells me he’s found someone to sit by, too. Did you see him and the Wheeler girl?”
“Nancy? Yeah,” she agrees with a beam. “I didn’t think they traveled in the same circles.”
“They, uh… they don’t. I introduced them,” he answers, trying not to sound too smug.
She snorts and eyes him. He’s been caught. “Are you playing matchmaker, Pastor Jim?”
He chuckles and flushes. “Look, an opportunity presented itself, and I took it. That’s not a sin, is it?”
“You tell me,” she beams.
Pulling a play out of the oldest book around, he stretches, then extends his arm over the back of the swing, his closed fist bumping Joyce’s shoulder. He could swear he feels her inch closer.
“Young love,” she muses fondly. “It’s about time Jonathan finds someone to yank him out of his bedroom.”
He smiles down at her, and this time, it’s definitely not a figment of his imagination, because she undoubtedly curls towards him, a peaceful smile on her face as she watches the waves lap to shore. She’s stunning in this light—the golden hour—her skin cast in gleaming warmth that makes the white of her eyes glow and highlights the sheen of gloss on her plump lips. Emboldened, he opens his fist and encloses it around her shoulder, gentle enough to not be constricting, but firm enough to leave no question of his intent. He watches out of his peripheral as her eyes flutter shut.
“So, when are you gonna ask me out?”
He gapes and sputters, shock rocketing through him. “W-what?”
“Did you forget already?” she teases, opening her eyes and smirking up at him.
“N-no, I just…” He clears his dry throat and hesitates, eyes darting around. “I was giving you time. Like you asked.”
“Jesus, Hop. How much time do you think I need? It's been weeks,” she snorts. “And we’re not getting any younger.”
He knows that. He feels it in the way his joints protest every morning when he wakes up and the way his knees ache after a long walk. Speechless, he fumbles over his words, “So you’re saying…”
“I’m saying.”
He can hardly believe it. He can’t believe it. Gulping, he contemplates his next move, but an unsettling realization creeps in, overcoming his nerves and excitement and anticipation.
“Joyce,” he murmurs regretfully, wincing. “This—this isn’t a good time for me.”
She stiffens against him, and he looks down to find her confusion creasing her brows and worry narrowing her eyes. “What do you mean? Did you… did you change your mind?”
“No! No,” he assures her, sighing. He carefully considers his next words, but in the end opts for honesty and vulnerability, only because Joyce Byers would expertly see through his bullshit. She always has. “July is— hard.” He swallows thickly.
She tilts her head. “How so?”
“It’s the anniversary of…” is all he manages, and even that takes every ounce of his strength to admit, but it seems to be enough for her. Her face softens in realization, and she gives him a sympathetic smile.
“Oh, Hop. I-I didn’t realize.”
“I just need to get through the next couple weeks. Then…”
She shakes her head and brings her hand to his chest, and even that small touch leaves him breathless and begins the healing process all over again.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? Take as much time as you need. Well… maybe not too long,” she teases, trying a gentle smile, which he returns. “But, you know I’m here for you, right? If you just need to talk, or-or vent. Or just sit next to someone and not be alone.”
He glances at her in surprise and feels something loosen inside of him. No one—not his old pastor out East, not his church family, not his buddies from the force—had ever given such a genuine offer that he didn’t believe were more than polite necessities to a grieving friend. He swallows hard and nods once. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Also not a figment of his imagination, because she’s real and warm and tangible in his arms, she dips her head and tucks it where his chest meets his shoulder, hand still atop his chest. His stomach does about a million of those damn leaps again.
They stay like that until the sun finishes its descent over the lake, leaving them in near darkness, but night time is not death to the wildlife around them; crickets begin their song, fireflies buzz and dive, nocturnal critters begin to forage in the woods behind them, and the occasional splash on the lake signals a leaping fish catching mosquitoes. He lets it all—both nature and Joyce—calm him, steady him, because he knows what’s to come, what’s just on the horizon.
They finally make their way back to their cabins. Joyce pauses on the steps, the warm light spilling out from her screen door illuminating her even warmer smile.
“See you tomorrow,” she says.
“Goodnight, Joyce.”
“Goodnight.”
She closes the door behind her, and he listens to the murmur of Will and Jonathan’s voices as the family slips into conversation. Feeling at peace, he walks over to his cabin and changes into a Giants t-shirt, strips down to his boxers, and sits at a small desk to review his sermon notes for Sunday. The hour ticks by. There’s a gentle knock, and he sets down his pen. Frowning, he rises and opens the door, surprised to find Joyce standing there with a bag in her arms.
“Hey,” he greets, forehead wrinkled. “Everything okay?”
“Fine!” Her eyes drift down to his state of undress, and he blushes and shifts awkwardly. Shaking herself, she continues, “Uh… the boys fell asleep and I’m still wide awake. Saw your light on, so I was wondering…” She steps into his cabin and rummages through her bag, procuring a deck of cards. “Wanna play?”
He slowly smiles. “Don’t happen to have a cribbage board, do you?”
Proudly, she pulls out a wooden board and shakes it at him, the pegs rattling inside. “Get ready to lose, Pastor.”
He chuckles and clears off the table in the corner, then glances down at himself. “I should probably put on some pants.”
“You’re fine. Not like we’re playing strip poker.” She waves him off with a teasing smile and settles down at the table to set up the game. Blushing wildly and clenching his fist to stop from picturing that scenario playing out, he joins her, shuffling the deck.
“Didn’t know you played,” he murmurs, dealing them each six cards.
“What else is there to do when the power goes out in the winter?” She picks up her cards, organizing them intently, He does the same. “Whose crib?”
“Ladies first.”
“Good.” Smirking, she lies two cards face down and waits for him to pick, which he finally does. He doesn’t have the best hand, but he knows he can make up points later. He tosses her a couple cards and cuts the deck for her. She flips over the top card and reveals a jack, instantly getting points for nobs.
“You rigged that,” he snorts, shaking his head.
“Don’t be a sore loser, Hop,” she shoots back, smirking.
Grinning, he begins his count, managing to score a few points from a run and two of a kind, but in the end, her hand and crib absolutely demolish him, and she finishes the first round fourteen points ahead. He grumbles and shuffles, and she teases him more. However, with the crib in his favor this round, he manages to nearly catch up.
“Don’t celebrate yet, Joyce,” he warns, pushing her the deck. “Still too early. Wouldn’t wanna get overconfident.”
“You talk a big game. Let’s see if you can keep up without cheating.”
“I’m not a cheat!” he laughs, watching her shuffle and deal. “Cheating is a sin.” He collects his hand and examines his cards, but aside from a run of three, he has no other viable options to score big. Sighing, he discards to her crib and waits for her to do the same, hoping she flips a card that turns this around for him.
“You know, you have a terrible poker face. I know your hand sucks,” she boasts.
“Well, like you said, good thing we’re not playing poker.”
“Otherwise you’d be sitting there in your birthday suit by now.”
He catches her smirking at him over the top of her deck and feels his cheeks warm. “You picturing me naked, Joyce? Now that is a sin,” he goads, unable to believe himself.
“I’m picturing winning.”
“Well, dream on, sweetheart.”
It’s he who should be dreaming. He comes away from that round with a measly four points, thanks to nobs, and she rounds the first corner of the board with her twelve point hand. He grumbles again, which surprisingly earns him a kick under the table that brings him back to their desks in high school.
“I told you. Don’t be a sore loser.”
“I’m not! I’m just getting shit cards!”
“Maybe it’s not the cards that are the problem. Maybe you’re just out of practice.”
Scoffing, he shuffles the deck and deals, this time at least managing to score a hand of eight thanks to his crib, but she’s painfully leading and they both know it. He still tries his best to keep up, even manages a couple impressive hands with double and triple runs, but he can’t compete with her. He’s gotta admit: she’s good. And getting insanely lucky hands. It’s almost like she has divine intervention on her side.
They’re in the final home stretch now, the last line on the board, and he has first count to his advantage. He stares down at his cards and bites his lip, because he just thinks he could win it, but Joyce is having so much fun mocking him, that he sacrifices a couple key cards to her crib. It doesn’t matter anyway, because she ends up counting out on a series of pairs and winning the game before they even get to tallying their hands. Damn her.
“Don’t worry,” she mocks, collecting up the pegs. “We can always play again.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he groans through a smirk, watching her. “This was fun. Thanks.”
“Even though you lost?”
“Hey, I barely lost. It’s not like you skunked me!”
“A win’s a win,” she boasts, packing up the board. She pauses, leaning back in the chair with a yawn. “I’d offer a rematch, but I think I’m ready to crawl into bed.”
“Probably not a bad idea. The breakfast bell rings at eight o’ clock sharp.”
She stands, and he rises to his feet to join her, following her to the door. “Rematch tomorrow night?” he asks hopefully.
“You’re on.”
“Goodnight again, Joyce.”
“Night, Hop.”
Beaming tiredly, she follows the path back to her cabin, and he watches to make sure she gets it in safe. The dancing beam of a flashlight from the bathrooms across the camp catches his eye, and he can just make out Karl Underwood under the orange glow of a nearby street lamp, pausing on the path to observe. Jim gulps, realizing how bad this looks, Joyce leaving his cabin near midnight while he stands there in only his boxers. Jim quickly steps onto his porch and boldly offers a cheerful wave. “Goodnight, Karl!”
Karl shifts uneasily. “Goodnight, Pastor.” He carries on his way to his cabin, and Jim closes his door, rubbing his face. He ponders whether or not he should have a private conversation with the deacon tomorrow, explain the situation, but thinks it’s best to leave it be.
As he turns off his lights and crawls into bed, he thinks maybe their rematch tomorrow night should be over at the mess hall—a nice, public place where anyone can bear witness. Those thoughts don’t linger for long, however, the pull of sleep too tempting. He quickly gives in and dreams of running—but this time, not after his dead daughter and wife, but through the halls of Hawkins High with Joyce, her girlish laughter and mischievous smile and flowy skirt leaving an eternal imprint in his mind.