Page 110 of Shattered Promise

“I thought he was dead.” It’s the first thing I can think to say.

There’s a small, almost apologetic laugh on the other end. “No, honey. I mean, I thought he was gone, too, for a long time. But I guess some people . . . stick around in their own way.” She trails off, letting the words float between us, thin and brittle.

“Did you talk to him?” I ask, the question sour on my tongue. I’m not sure what answer I want.

“I did, briefly. And before you ask, he asked about you.”

My jaw tightens. “What’d you tell him?”

Another pause. I can hear her thinking, hear the little click of her tongue against her teeth.

“I told him you were doing good. That you were a wonderful father and a better man than he ever was. I told him Cal is the best player on the team and that you’re still in Avalon Falls, running the garage and raising your son, making me proud every single day. I told him you didn’t need anything from him.”

The wind picks up, sharp and sudden, and I catch myself shivering even though it’s not that cold.

“Good,” I say, but my voice cracks right down the middle. The sound of it pisses me off, so I drag the heel of my palm overmy mouth and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, hoping pain will chase back the shame and anger, the hot rush of old grief that never really left.

“You okay, honey?” she asks. Not like it’s a test, but like she already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” I say, and we both know I’m not. “Doesn’t matter.”

She sighs, the kind of tired that lives in your bones. “He’s not coming back, Mason. Not really. You don’t have to worry about that.”

I want to tell her I stopped worrying a long time ago. That I’m nothing like him, that I never even think about him unless someone makes me, but that’s a lie. The truth is, I see him in the mirror every morning. I hear him in the way I say good night to Theo, the way I count seconds with my breath when I’m afraid I’m about to lose my shit. I think about him when I make a promise, even a small one, because I know what it’s like to be the kid waiting for someone to come back and realizing they never will.

“He didn’t ask for anything,” my mother says, voice softer. “He just, I don’t know, wanted to see Cal play, maybe. Or maybe he wanted to see if you were there.” She lets out a huff, almost a laugh, but it cracks and doesn’t recover. “I’m telling you because it felt important. Like I owed it to you to be honest.”

I stand there, staring at the snake pit meadow, like the woods could swallow this conversation whole and give me back a version of myself that doesn’t know how to want a father. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. The cloud cover’s so thick you can’t tell what time it is.

“Yeah. Thanks, Ma.”

We’re quiet for a long time. She doesn’t fill the silence, and it’s the only kindness I can take right now.

When she speaks next, the tone is lighter, but there’s something behind it, a weight she can’t shake. “You know, youcould bring Theo out to visit if you wanted. Cal would love to see him. And so would I.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that, honey.” She lets it linger, then shifts, suddenly brisk. “Alright. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“Yeah, alright. See you later, Ma.”

“Bye, Mason. Give my grandson a kiss for me.”

“I will,” I mutter, my chest feeling tight.

She hangs up, and I stand there a long time, staring at the line where the gravel drive meets the grass.

He’s not coming back. Not really.

But the thing is, he never had to. He lives in the gaps. The echo chambers of every promise I make, every time I look at Theo and swear I’ll never let him down. He’s the ghost at my table, the shadow in every moment I almost believe I could be a good man and then remember I’m carrying a curse like a birthmark.

I scrub my hand over my jaw, the scrape of stubble grounding, then head back into the garage. There’s work to do. A whole stack of it, actually: brake jobs, oil changes, an old F-150 with a transmission that won’t shift into park unless you sweet talk it and threaten violence. I lose myself in the rhythm, the way I always have when things get too loud inside my head. It’s a trick my mother taught me—occupy your hands, and your brain doesn’t have as much room to eat itself alive.

So I wipe down the bench, line up the sockets from largest to smallest, and sink both arms up to the elbow in the Chevelle’s engine bay. The smell of gear oil and old rubber is a comfort, the drone of classic rock in the background a static blanket. For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, I almost forget.

But ghosts are stubborn. You can drown them in axle grease and music and still, under all of it, they’ll find a way to surface.

By the time the clock over the workbench jumps an hour ahead, I’m officially sick of my shit. My head is pounding and my mood is fucking terrible.

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