Tulip Season

Steve didn’t mention the baby.

Robin stood at the Family Video counter, gnawing on a pencil, when the navy-blue station wagon pulled in with a rumble that set off the ancient security bell. The car parked across two lines like it didn’t believe in order.

The girl who got out looked nineteen at most. She wore a black horror movie hoodie, sleeves shoved up her arms, a tie-dye scrunchie holding back thick curly hair in a high, half-undone bun. A sippy cup handle hung from her mouth like a pirate’s knife, and she held a crinkled bag of frozen waffles in one hand. A diaper bag bounced on her shoulder.

Robin squinted. Was this Steve’s cousin?

The back door of the car flew open, and a small blur of motion launched herself into view—a toddler with riotous curls, a battered bunny clutched in one hand, and syrup on her cheeks.

“Waffle!” the toddler proclaimed triumphantly to the sky.

“Yeah, babe, we brought the waffles,” the girl said, voice muffled by the cup still in her teeth. She scooped the child into her hip with practiced ease, slammed the car door shut with one swing of her leg, and marched toward the store.

Robin stared.

Steve appeared beside her, tossing a rag onto the counter. “There they are. My cousin and her tiny overlord, Tallulah.”

“You didn’t say she had a kid,” Robin whispered.

“I figured I’d let the drama unfold naturally.”

The girl reached the door, nudging it open with her elbow. She set the child down, crouched, and zipped up the toddler’s jacket with gentle hands.

“Say hi, Tulip.”

“Hi, Steve’s friend!” the girl echoed, beaming as her daughter shoved a slightly smooshed waffle toward Robin.

Robin accepted it like it was treasure.

The girl finally looked up. Her eyes were tired but warm, her face open and knowing.

Robin’s mind blanked for a moment. “Hi. I’m Robin.”

“Nice to meet you,” the girl said. “This is Tulip. She named herself.”

Steve leaned against the counter, grinning. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

📼🍿

Inside, the warm, dusty sunlight filtered through the blinds in soft stripes. The hum of the old ceiling fans mixed with the faint pop ballad on the stereo. The girl sat cross-legged on the counter, sipping a Sprite. Tulip played near the front window with two VHS cases, one in each hand.

“I used to come to Hawkins when I was little,” the girl said, swinging her legs. “Haven’t been back since… before Tulip.”

Robin sat on a stool, pretending not to stare. “What brought you back?”

“Needed a reset. Steve promised waffles and free babysitting.”

“He’s terrible with diapers.”

“Oh, I know,” she grinned. “But he’s good with snacks.”

Robin laughed. “Tulip’s adorable.”

“She’s chaos in a tutu,” the girl said proudly. “She’s also two and a half. I had her when I was sixteen.”

Robin hesitated—then said honestly, “That’s kind of amazing.”

The girl blinked. “Most people say, ‘Wow, that must’ve been hard.’”

“Well… it probably was. But it’s also kind of badass.”

Their eyes met. There was something unspoken there—shared defiance, maybe.

Tulip wandered back over, dragging a VHS case. “Movie,” she declared.

The girl took it—The Secret of NIMH. “A classic.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Robin said.

The girl smiled. “Movie night at Steve’s?”

“Only if I get to bring the popcorn.”

“Real butter. No fake stuff.”

Tulip clapped in approval.

Robin grabbed a sticky note and scribbled her number. She pressed it into the girl’s hand.

“Deal.”