PREV NEXT
JUST PROMISE ME THAT YOU'RE TRUE
CW: Smoking (on Harry's part), and drinking (on James' part—he is drunk during this chapter, but he doesn't do anything reckless).
Harry Mason finally let himself exhale when he felt Heather’s bedroom door click shut.
He stared apprehensively at the knob he gripped so tautly and decidedly pulled away, running a thumb over the creases of that same palm.
Fear. Heather could see his fear. He had hoped he could keep it from her, but she was a perceptive girl. She was far too in tune with the world around her at such a young age. Harry reasoned that trauma such as hers would do that to somebody.
It makes you hypervigilant. Afraid.
Harry scoffed and shook his head in resignation, closing his eyes and pulling down the hair tie that held his ponytail up. He wasn’t mad at his daughter, never at her, just… at all of it. At the state of their situation, at the state of himself. Therapy only had him drawing pictures of that shit time he had at that damn town, never truly explaining what it was to the shrinks or the clients that came across them. They always had to be extrapolations; interpretations of his tortured psyche.
He could easily pull the childhood trauma card and call it a day, because nobody, not even licensed professionals, would understand. Nobody could understand. They'd just think him a fucking crazy person and kick him to the curb.
Maybe they'd throw him in an asylum if he scared them enough.
Harry dragged himself into his bedroom and sat down at his desk. He slid his glasses back on before pressing the power button on his computer tower and stared at the bootup sequence. He almost wanted to roll his eyes when the triumphant "ta-da!" sound played. Harry wasn't in the mood.
This novel he was working on, it was a real pain in the ass. He was a fair ways into the rough draft, a good 30 pages, but with him, inspiration came in short, fickle bursts. The true meat, the true intrigue of the book in progress were the result of those bursts, and he had to make due with this agonizing weight of writer's block.
Not to mention all the other freelance shit he's juggling, but he did get paid a pretty decent penny for editing. In the long run, though, it was anything but sustainable. Had it just been him, sure, fine, but he had a little one that had her own needs and wants, too.
Beats working outside the home, though. He sighed. So spoiled...
While opening the draft document, he chewed at his tongue and drummed a nail on the edge of his keyboard. He was half-tempted to can it; throw it in the bin and start all over, but he felt that temptation every time he opened this document. Impulse control was never Harry's strong suit, but he was glad that as he aged, he could rationalize when and when not to nuke something he absolutely detested.
Ahh, the artistic dilemma: sitting with your own ugly baby and watching it grow into something you're not sure you're proud of. But when you release it into the world, by God, do people love it! It finds its audience and that audience begs for more. Harry scoffed to himself again.
Writing was the one thing he was truly good at, but he hated most of what he wrote. Maybe when his life was better and more secure, he had found joy in it. It was easier when Jodie was there to bounce ideas off of; to bitch to about publishing houses, to rave about new bestsellers that were right up his alley… it was just easier when she was here.
Christ, he was lonely, wasn't he?
Harry sighed this time around and placed his chin on his hand, elbow resting near the keyboard. He scrolled through the draft, reading and re-reading bits and pieces, lines of dialogue, character interaction, flowery prose, blah, blah, blah… Ugh, they'll know that this is just some uninspired cash grab. His lips grew taut. They'll eat me alive. All of them. The house. My readers. They'll all know I'm a sham.
"Fuck me, I can't do this right now. I can't. I need a smoke. Jesus Christ." Harry craned back in his seat and drew his arms up over his eyes. He grunted as he stood from his desk, closing the document and turning his computer back off. He walked around the bed in the middle of the room, toward his nightstand and pulled the drawer of it open, revealing, among a myriad of things, a half-empty pack of Red Marlboros and a flip-open lighter. Harry was quick to scoop up both.
Out he went from his bedroom, through the living room and back toward the coat rack near the front door of the apartment. He pulled off his jacket from the hook and slid cleanly into his boots before pacing toward the sliding glass door to where the balcony sat. Hissing out a curse when he felt a gust of wind breeze past him, he opened and closed the door as quickly and quietly as he could, fumbling for his cigarette and lighter in the plethora of coat pockets his jacket housed.
Forgetful one that he was, it took him a bit longer to get that rush of nicotine in him than he would have liked, but he instantly felt better once the head of the cigarette was lit, and in and out he breathed that delicious smoke. Sliding the lighter back in the breast pocket of his coat, he felt his fingers brush up against a slip of paper. Taking another drag, he bit down the filter of the cigarette firmly as he wrenched out the slip and looked it over in his shivering hands.
(207) 355-8326
James' phone number.
Harry folded the slip back up and shoved it into his front trouser pocket, clutching it like a lifeline as he took another drag. That's right. James wanted to call him. When the cigarette went back in his mouth, he tilted it up and down with his teeth in consideration. In frustration.
What would he gain from calling James? Something to worry about if he ever thought to extend the hand of friendship, but… Harry needed a friend, too. He wasn't the most social person in the world; he would've liked to be, he was far more fun when he was more out in the open like he was in his twenties, but that was a bygone time. Harry was creeping up on fourty and he didn't have time to play meet and greet. He was a father hiding from a fucking demon cult that wants him dead and his daughter to do their bidding. Harry wasn't in the mood for sad-looking guys named James who reeked of suspicion. But even then… he thought everyone reeked of suspicion.
Heather was right. When would he stop being so scared?
He tore the cigarette out of his mouth and drove the head of it into the hand railing, snuffing out the light. "Dammit, dammit, dammit, Harry! God…" He angrily flicked the cig off the balcony and into the nothingness of the cold winter night and raised his frigid hands to drag over his frigid face. He held them on the rise of his cheeks and groaned miserably.
"You desperate son of a bitch."
Making his way back inside of the apartment, he allowed himself an exasperated sigh as he wrenched out the now crinkled slip from his trousers, gliding over to where the landline phone sat in the kitchen after he tossed his jacket on the backrest of the overstuffed chair. He plucked the phone from the switch and stared apprehensively at the keypad. He looked to the slip sitting flat on the counter and back to the pad, and carded his fingers through his hair in serious deliberation. Harry wished he hadn't wasted that cigarette like he did, because he could really use another just about now.
He had to kick the habit at some point, though. Not just for him, but for Heather.
Harry rubbed his thumb over the 2 key, wracking his brain for any kind of conversational topics. What would he even say to a guy like James? He barely knew him, and he in turn barely knew Harry. They didn’t share much in the conversations they had previously, and on Harry's part, it was very deliberate.
Would Harry start with a hi? Hello? Hey? What kind of greeting would James be the most receptive to?
Hey, It's Chris. I'm just checking in.
… No, that's too familiar.
Hello, James! How are you?
... Nope. Doesn't feel right, either. Too clinical, too plastic.
Hi, it's Christopher from therapy! You know, the one where we draw pictures? Wicked, right?
Christ alive.
Harry's mouth formed into a nervous grimace and he looked at the slip of paper again. Another sigh escaped him and he brought the phone up to his face with both hands and shut his eyes tight, sigh turning into a frustrated groan. Making phone calls should not be this hard. It really shouldn't. He doesn't even have to call James right now! Harry could call him whenever he was ready!
But when would Harry ever be ready?
The most damning question of all, he reasoned, and he pulled the phone away from his face. Life, regardless of gods, cults, or haunted towns, always came with its risks. He scrutinized the keypad with conviction.
2…0…7
He has to take those risks sometimes.
3…5…5
Even if it could hurt him.
83… 26…
Even if it could hurt Heather.
TALK.
He brought the phone up to his ear, tugging at the collar of his sweater.
RING…
Don't pick up.
RING…
Please don't pick up.
RING…
Please.
It took a moment for James Sunderland to register that the phone was blaring on the coffee table.
The awkward crunch of an empty beer can nestled between his forearm and torso greeted him when he craned up from the couch. He shook his head a few times, clumsily swiping the bangs out of his eyes, and fumbled for the landline telephone. When his fingers made contact with the base of it, he unceremoniously yanked it from its charging port and squinted at the number on the screen.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
James blinked a few times. What was he...? oh, right. Drinking. Drinking, drinking, drinking—a beauteous return to basics! Numb the pain? Booze. Deafen the noise? Booze some more. Knock yourself out for a solid 4 hours? Yep, booze it up. This kind of night was a heavy hitter of all three of those reasons he took to the sweet aluminum lips of a beer can for comfort, but that was nothing special, nor anything new. James certainly wasn't picky. He smacked his mouth as he did his best to recall the taste of it in the sludge that was his brain. Ahhh, it was cheap, alright.
God, he was hammered, and it felt fucking amazing.
What wasn't amazing, however, was this damn phone of his. He clicked his tongue as the ringtone blared at him once again. Christ, and right when he was about to nod off, too! Who the Hell would be trying to call him at…
He glanced over at the VCR clock.
…7:48 PM! Man, the nerve of some people. Maybe telling the guy on the other end off would make him feel better. Then again… it could just be some poor old telemarketer on the other end trying to get through yet another round of unanswered phone calls. The thought made James' heart bleed with pity and remorse. The phone rang once more and he tilted his head, wracking the slosh in his head to figure out who was on the other end...
Who gave enough of a shit to care about calling a guy like him?
He got nothing, but it wasn't like he was going to let it go to voicemail, either. Maybe he could allow himself some fun tonight. Yeah. Yeah, James liked fun. Everybody liked fun.
"Mmmnh, hello?" James' greeting came out rumbly and slurred, punctuated by the apt rubbing of an eye as he did his best to rouse himself from his sleepy stupor.
"James?"
The aforementioned James pursed his lips and furrowed his brows.
"Yeeees, that's me," he responded with a degree of hesitation. He shifted around on the couch, brushing away the can in annoyance when he heard it crinkle again.
"Oh… right! Right, sorry. I should've said so earlier, um… It’s Chris. Christopher. You know… from therapy?"
James stilled for a moment, and in an instant, it all flooded back to him.
"Holy shit! Oh, my God! Chris! Hi! Hello!" He practically bolted upright off the couch and sat poised on the edge of one of the cushions, but not before getting a hefty headrush as punishment for his excitement. He never liked the bite this particular brand had; it always made him feel worse the longer it lay prone along with him.
"You alright there?" Chris had very much heard the groan James made on the other end of the line, and his face flushed, but not from alcohol.
"Y- Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Totally fine. All… all good on my end." He nervously scratched at the roots of his hair and leaned back against the couch. "I… heh, I honestly didn't think you'd call me back this quickly!"
James heard a chuckle on the other end, and it brought a smile to his face. "Yeah. I'm kinda surprised, too. Normally I'd… throw the number in the bin but, you know, I said last session that I need to get out of my own head sometimes. Thought I'd make good on my promise."
"Mmm, you're very upstanding, Chris. Upstanding indeed…" James let his head loll onto the backrest as he spoke. "And kind!" He perked up to match the enthusiasm of his sentence. "Very, very kind."
Another chuckle. "Upstanding's a new word for me, I'll admit."
"Really? Really?" James seemed to take great issue with this revelation. His face contorted with offense and he shifted much more indignantly this time around on the couch cushion. "Nobody's thought of you as upstanding?"
"Well," Chris began somewhat nervously. "I just… I don't think of myself as all that upstanding, per se. Really, I'm as average as they get. Just a dad trying to get by with his daughter, you know?" His voice grew apprehensive, and even in his drunken state, James could tell.
That didn't stop him from asking egregious questions, though.
"Are you single?" It slipped out before James could realize the implications of such wording and the other end went completely silent.
"Excuse me?" When Chris finally spoke again, he sounded absolutely bewildered and only then did James realize his mistake. He completely blanched.
"Father! Single father! Are you a single father!?" His free hand flew about as he sputtered. "Oh, my God, I- Chris, I'm so sorry, I'm just-"
He cut himself off when he heard the sound of laughing from the receiver, and he stilled for a moment, feeling it flood his chest with its warmth.
"James, you're alright! You're alright, you're absolutely fine, I just… holy Hell, I wasn't expecting you to put it like that!" Chris finally managed as he caught his breath. "But… to answer your question, if you're so curious, yes. I am."
James couldn't help but smile at Chris' answer. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, taking his time to formulate what he wanted to say. He had since reasoned that it would be best to be deliberate with his choice of words from here on out.
"Well, I'd say that's pretty upstanding, yeah?" He finally said, a triumphant grin blossoming in full on his face. Chris was quiet for a moment, but it was a contemplative quiet that James welcomed in this state of mind.
"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose that is pretty upstanding."
"And if anybody says otherwise, I'll sock 'em for it." James threw a mock punch with his free hand now balled into a fist.
Chris chuckled heartily. "Really? You'd sock somebody for me?"
"Damn right I would."
"We haven't known each other a full week and you'd already fight for me, huh?"
"I…" James grew red in the face once more. "Well, okay, I'm a bit, uh, intoxicated right now," He finally admitted and Chris made a noise of understanding as if everything made sense now. "If Sober James were on the line with you right now, then, well, I'd reckon the conversation would be far more drab. But hey," He pressed a secretive finger to his mouth. "Sober James isn't here right now."
"Mmmm…" James could hear Chris nod on the other end. "What do you think of him? Of Sober James?"
"Ohhh, wow. Good question. Really good question." James threw his head against the backrest in full and stared up at the ceiling. "I think… I think he's afraid, y'know? Afraid of it all. Of living life, of fucking up… of getting second chances."
His face grew solemn. "Second chances he doesn't deserve."
The quiet on the other end made James a bit nervous this time around. This kind of quiet always followed whenever James spoke about himself any further than he usually did, and most people were often made aghast or contemptuous by his statements. He didn't blame them, they were often harrowing, but... he would've liked to believe Chris wasn't like them, but maybe in this instance, he was no different.
Shit.
James was just about ready to pull the phone away from his ear and end the call altogether, but Chris finally cut through the uncomfortable silence,
"I think we have a lot in common… me and Sober James."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do."
James was incredulous.
"... That makes me really happy."
A short, gentle hum was all that Chris responded with, and James couldn’t have asked for more.