JULY 4, 1977
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
It was nearly midnight by the time Hopper slipped the key into the lock of his front door, turned it quietly, and entered the apartment, not wanting to wake his wife or daughter.
He need not have worried about the former. There was a light on in the living room, and as Hopper clicked the door closed behind him, he heard the shuffling of papers over the low-key funk of Alan O’Day’s “Undercover Angel,” and a gentle, distinctive tap—the sound of Diane placing a coffee mug down on one of the cow-shaped souvenir ceramic coasters they’d picked up on a trip upstate last year.
He put his keys on the kitchen counter and as he padded into the other room, Diane looked up from her work.
“Hey,” she said.
Hopper walked around the table and kissed Diane on the top of her head. “Sorry,” he said, “I was trying to be quiet.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m nearly done here.”
Hopper cast his gaze over the table, which was covered with stacks of paper, at the center of which was a wide calendar sheet, already covered with Diane’s neat handwriting. By her elbow was a large notebook. He didn’t quite follow what she had been doing, but he knew lesson planning when he saw it.
“How’s it all going?”
Diane dropped her pen into the notebook and sat back. “Pretty good, actually.” She pointed at the calendar. “I’ve reworked the class schedule for next year. I think this works really well now.” She laughed. “Of course, Derek is going to throw a fit when he sees it.”
Hopper grinned. Derek Osterman—the school’s vice principal and a stick-in-the-mud who didn’t like Diane’s ideas, simply because he didn’t have the imagination to come up with them himself—was a not uncommon topic of Diane’s after-work conversations.
“Well, one day you’ll have his job, and will have your own out-of-town upstart to wrestle with.”
Diane laughed, and stood up from the table. She moved to the turntable on the sideboard and returned the stylus to its cradle, then moved over to embrace her husband. She held the hug for a few seconds, then pulled back a little.
“You been drinking?”
“Just one. It was a tough night,” he said, then: “Sara okay?”
Diane smiled. “Molly the rock took up all her attention most of the afternoon, so you’r off the hook,” she said. “Then I let her stay up and watch the fireworks on TV with me, but she was tired from the party and all that cake, and went to bed without a fuss.”
“You read her—”
Diane nodded. “To the end of chapter five, although I’m not sure how much she heard, she was out like a light. I didn’t realize at first and just kept reading.”
Hopper grinned. “Well, it is a good book.” Then his grin faded and he sighed. He gently let his wife’s arms trail off him as he entered the kitchen. He opened the fridge and eyed the last of the six-pack of beer that sat on the top shelf by the light. Then, changing his mind, he closed the door and began opening the top cupboards of the kitchen, making his way around the small space.
Behind him, Diane folded her arms, her mouth creasing into a frown.
“Tough night, huh?”
“Sure was,” said Hopper, still going through the cupboards. Kitchen orbit completed, he frowned and shook his head. “I’ll need to be in tomorrow, too.”
“Happy Independence Day,” said Diane, as she nudged a bottom cupboard with a slippered foot. Hopper paused, then bent down and opened the cupboard, extracting from within a half-dead bottle of scotch.
Diane watched him as he grabbed a glass and poured himself a generous measure. “Seems a lot of nights are tough nights,” she said. “And some of the days, too.”
Hopper paused, looked at her, then took a hot mouthful of scotch. He held it for a moment, enjoying the pleasant burn as it filled his mouth, then swallowed, allowing the fiery sensation to spread out across the chest.
Oh yes, he needed that.
“Well, my dear,” said Hopper, pouring a second time, “New York is a tough city, and being a New York City cop is a tough job.”
Capping the bottle, he drained the glass and turned to lean against the counter, facing Diane. She tightened the fold of her arms and watched her husband.
His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I’m sorry.” He put the glass down and pushed himself away from the counter, moving toward his wife, holding one hand out. She resisted at first, but then lifted her own hand and let it be taken by her husband.
She shook her head, then moved closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders again and turning her head to rest it against his chest. He wrapped his own arms around her.
“It’s okay,” said Diane. “You wanted this job and you’re doing your best and you never have to apologize for that.”
Hopper rested his cheek on the top of Diane’s head. “Nobody said it would be easy.”
Diane laughed, quietly. “We wanted a challenge. It seems like we got one.”
“That we did,” said Hopper. He exhaled loudly. “You ever want to go back to Hawkins?”
Diane pulled away and looked up at her husband. She grimaced. “Are you kidding me, James Hopper?”
He smiled. “Well, you know what I mean,” he said. “Did we make the right decision, coming here? To New York? I mean, Jesus, the place is falling apart around us.”
“Maybe we’re just suckers for punishment,” said Diane. “But I believe in you.”
“Hey, I believe in you too.”
“No, listen. I believe in you—and that means I believe in what you want to do.” Diane shook her head. “We couldn’t stay in Hawkins. I know that and you know that. Not after everything you went through. You wanted to turn that into something that would help others, and as much as the Hawkins PD needed you, you needed something bigger. That was what you said. I believed you then, and I believe you now. And look—I needed something bigger too. This is good, for the both of us. We did the right thing—we’re doing the right thing.”
Hopper embraced his wife. She was right, that was exactly what he had said. It had sounded so damned corny at the time, when he thought back on it—and think back on it he did, probably more often than was good for him.
Hopper drew his wife in for a kiss, deeper this time. He felt the warmth of her body through his plaid shirt, felt the quickening of her pulse under his hands as they roved around her neck.
Yes, it had been a long day, and this—this—was what he needed, more than the booze, more than another round of wondering whether they’d made the right decision in coming here. Hell, they’d been in the city for nearly five years now. If the place was really so bad—if they really had made the wrong decision—then why were they still even here?
Breaking off from their embrace, Diane looked up at Hopper and smiled. He smiled back, looking deep into her eyes.
“Have I mentioned lately,” said Hopper, “that I love you?”
Diane frowned. “Hmm, let me see. You’ve mentioned it now and again, when I think about it.” Then she grinned. “Come to bed.”
She turned and, hand in hand, they left the kitchen and headed toward the bedroom.