Prologue #2
“It what?” I furrow my brows, wondering why she paused.
“It meant you were still alive and trusted me enough to call again.”
My gut tightens at what she must’ve heard from the other caller. “Did the previous guy not make it?”
She swallows thickly. “I’m not sure. The operator disconnected when she confirmed paramedics were on the scene.”
“What was his drug or weapon of choice?” I ask curiously.
“You know I can’t share that confidential information.”
Her sadness pours through the speaker and it breaks my heart.
“Okay, let’s get your mind on somethin’ happier,” I suggest, hoping she’ll take the bait so it takes my focus off my own tortured thoughts. “Tell me what you did today.”
“We’re supposed to be talkin’ about you,” she counters, her voice back to sweet and tender. “Why don’t you tell me about your day instead?”
“Only if you tell me about yours after?” I counter.
She sighs, but I hear the smile in that one calm breath. “Okay, fine.”
“Hello, you reached the Haven Grace prayer crisis hotline. How can I assist you in prayer today?”
“Delly!” I cheer and then hiccup.
“Luke?”
“Mm-hmm. I’m so glad you picked up.”
“Are you…drunk?”
“Eh, kinda.”
Considering I’m slurring my words, it’s no surprise she quickly caught on.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Fuck, I dunno. Lost count.”
“It’s seven in the evening on a Wednesday.”
“Okay, and?”
“How’re you this drunk already?”
“I thought this was supposed to be a judge-free zone?” I quip stupidly.
She clears her throat. “This is, Luke. I’m just tryin’ to figure out what happened to cause you to be this drunk so early. Did you harm yourself?”
“No…unless you count the substance abuse. I took a few fireball shots, too.”
Which is still burning my stomach.
“Do you drink often?”
“Uh…yeah.” I breathe out a laugh. “But it’s better than cuttin’ up my thigh, ain’t it?”
“Are you at home?” she asks without responding.
“Yep. Why? You wanna come over?” I ask seductively.
“No, I wanna make sure you’re not gonna drive drunk.”
“Nah. My brother usually picks me up if I’m out drinkin’, but tonight I stayed in. Just me and Mr. Jack Daniel’s.”
“Are you havin’ thoughts about harmin’ yourself?”
“Not anymore. That’s why I’m drinkin’, Delly. When I get close to passin’ out, it numbs the sadness and thoughts. Can’t be depressed if I’m drunk.”
“So you traded in one vice for another.”
“Alcohol has longer lastin’ effects, too. You should be happy about that. Less blood,” I muse.
“I’m happy you’re safe at home but not that you’re usin’ alcohol as a copin’ mechanism. There are many ways that being an alcoholic can lead to other issues.”
“What other option do I have?”
“Therapy. Medication. Journaling. Support groups. Church. Praying.”
“Yeah, I’m not doin’ any of that,” I scoff, looking up at my ceiling and realizing my bedroom is spinning.
“Why? Think it makes you weak or less of a man for needin’ help?” she challenges.
Instead of responding, I hang up the phone and chuck it across my room.
“Hello, you reached the Haven Grace prayer crisis hotline. How can I assist you in prayer today?”
“Delly?” I ask pitifully like a dog with its tail between his legs.
“Hi, Luke.”
Her soft voice instantly relaxes my shoulders, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“I’m so sorry for the other night. I feel like a jackass for callin’ you when I was drunk like that.”
“No need to apologize. That’s why I’m here.”
“Don’t do that. You didn’t deserve my drunken rambles or me makin’ you worry. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, and I’m sorry for callin’ when I was in that condition.”
“You needed to talk to someone, and I was happy to be that person, even if you did hang up on me.”
The line stays silent, several seconds pass, and then minutes—and she doesn’t rush me—before I finally speak up.
“I’m a coward.”
“What?”
“I’m a coward,” I repeat louder. “That’s why I don’t do those things you suggested.”
“You can change that, ya know? Even if it’s just baby steps. Callin’ here was a good first step. You’ve shared a lot with me already. Maybe your next step could be seein’ a professional?”
“It’s easy to talk to you because you can’t see me and have no idea who I am. I don’t think I could face someone in person and tell ’em all the ways I’ve fucked up in life. I don’t have to see the look of shame and pity on your probably beautiful face.”
“Probably beautiful? Are you seriously hittin’ on me?”
I gulp. Most girls melt into a puddle when I say sweet bullshit to them.
“Just payin’ you a compliment. Based on the sound of your beautiful voice, I imagine the rest of you is, too.”
She doesn’t respond for several seconds.
“Well…as nice as that is, this ain’t a datin’ phone service, Luke.”
“Probably a good thing. Based on my record, we wouldn’t have talked again after the first conversation.”
“Is that right?” she drawls, and I hear the amusement in her tone. “You’re a hit-it-and-quit-it kinda guy?”
“Guess ya could say that,” I admit sheepishly.
“One of your mechanisms to avoid rejection, shame, and guilt?”
I clear my throat, growing agitated that she’s sounding a lot like my old therapist.
“It’s easier not givin’ them hope. I can’t promise anythin’ more than one night. I’m already a burden to my family. I don’t wanna burden a partner, so might as well give ’em a good time for a night.”
“Well, without the burden of proof, I don’t believe your family feels that way. And you callin’ here—more than once—is proof that deep down you know you’re not. Your family loves you unconditionally.”
“You’re wrong.”
I know I am.
I can see it in the way my brother looks at me. The way he follows me like a shadow because he doesn’t trust I won’t do something stupid or risky. And it’s the way I let him because I don’t trust myself either.
He hasn’t even introduced me to his new girlfriend because he doesn’t trust me not to fuck it up for him.
“Am I?” By the tone of her voice, I imagine her lifting a scolding brow at me. “If that’s true, then you’d stop callin’ me.”
“Hello, you reached the Haven Grace prayer crisis hotline. How can I assist you in prayer today?”
“This is the fourth night you’ve volunteered this week.”
“And this is the fourth night you’ve called this week.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice but just a little to where it’s not inappropriate to say to someone who’s been calling a crisis hotline for two months.
It’s actually the sixth night I’ve called. When she’s not there, I hang up.
I have no interest in talking to someone new and starting over. But I also didn’t want to scare her off by asking which nights she’d be there.
“The holidays are the most stressful time of the year,” I say, only half-joking.
“Are you feelin’ stressed or more worried than usual? Do you have the urge to—”
“No, no. I haven’t felt that since I started talkin’ to you.”
“Oh. Really?” she asks as if that shocks her. Truthfully, it shocks me too.
“Yes, really. I look forward to talkin’ to you. I’m finally not lettin’ someone down for once.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“I don’t wanna disappoint you. I appreciate the way you listen to me without judgment, so the least I can do is make you proud.”
It makes me think twice before grabbing my razor because I’ll get to talk to her without feeling like a failure.
The line goes dead silent, and I worry we got disconnected.
“Delly?”
“Ya know, that kinda sounds like somethin’ a therapist would also do for you. Have you thought any more about seein’ one?”
“Why do I need one when I have you? You’ve done more for me in two months than my psychiatrist did in two years.”
“Because I won’t be here forever and you’ll still need someone.”
“I’ll magically be healed before that time comes.”
“Is that so?” A laugh slips out of her mouth and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Mm-hmm. Maybe you could be my sponsor. Then you’d have to gimme your number.”
“You’ve tried that before, remember?”
“I’m nothin’ if not persistent.”
“So I’ve learned. But right now, we’re supposed to be talkin’ about you and your feelings.”
I exhale through my nose because I hate doing that the most. I’d much rather just listen to her.
“Pass,” I quip.
“Nice try,” she says sternly. “How ’bout you start by tellin’ me about your day?”
“Hello, you reached the Haven Grace prayer crisis hotline. How can I assist you in prayer today?”
“I need you to talk me off the ledge, Delly.”
“Luke? Are you in danger?”
I hate how panicked she sounds but also grateful she picked up and recognized my voice. I almost didn’t call because I didn’t want to torture myself even more with her sweet voice.
“I’m really drunk.” Again.
“Where’re you right now?”
“Lyin’ in my bathtub.”
“Are you holdin’ a razor blade?”
“Yeah…I don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop tonight if I start,” I admit.
“What happened? Talk me through it.” The fear in her tone makes me regret calling her, but if I have any chance of stopping myself, I need to hear her voice.
“The sadness and dread are so fuckin’ heavy. My chest burns. My heart’s racin’ so damn fast. My throat is dry and somehow wet at the same time. I’m sweatin’ through my shirt. My mind is scrambled with thoughts. And…I just wanna make it stop.”
“Luke, you’re havin’ a panic attack. I want you to put down the razor blade, close your eyes, and then listen to the sound of my voice.”
“Alright.”
After following her orders, I lean my head back against the cool porcelain and wait.
“I’m gonna count back from thirty. I want you to inhale a deep breath on the first five counts and then release it on the next five, and so on.”
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Deep inhale,” she demands. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six and now exhale…”
I do as she says, listening to her counts and breathing in time with them. Clinging to her voice gives me something to focus on besides how foolish I feel for needing to be talked down.
When she gets to zero, my breathing goes back to normal.
“Good, Luke. How do you feel?”