The afternoon sun beats down ruthlessly on Harry's bare shoulders, sweat trickling down his spine, his back aching as he reaches for a particularly stubborn weed near his grandmother's azalea bush. He can feel his scalp burning, his skin stinging as he tosses the clump of dirt and stringy roots into his basket. He stops to press a dirty finger to his bicep, watching the skin go white and then fade back to red under the smudge of earth he'd left on his skin.
He'd finished the mowing about an hour ago, and then went ahead and weed-eated around the trees and picnic tables in the backyard. Now the sun is high in the sky, the early June heat baking his skin, and he knows he should probably go in to put on some more sun block, but he's almost done with this bed.
He sighs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and there's something oddly comforting about manual labor, the way it makes him unable to concentrate on anything but the fatigue of his muscles and the ache in his fingers. He likes the idea that if he pushes himself hard enough, he'll be so tired by the end of it, he'll fall into bed and sleep for days. Or at least that's the goal anyway.
"Harry!"
He looks up at the sound of his name, finding his grandfather striding towards him. Brian Selley is a tall man, his six foot two frame stretching long and straight despite his age. He's surprisingly lanky for a man of eighty-two, his movements fluid and easy as opposed to the jerky amble most men his age were prone to do. His work boots have seen better days, the toes dirty and cracked, laces pulled tight before they disappeared under his worn jeans. His olive button down shirt is pressed and clean, buttoned all the way to the neck, even though it's nearly ninety degrees, his silver hair neat and sleek. He has a glass of lemonade in his hand.
"Hey Pops," Harry says, looking back down and grabbing for another weed. He feels the coolness of his shadow as his grandfather stands next to him.
"Boy, you're gonna be crispy as a chippy if you don't put a shirt on," he says, and Harry feels a smile tug at his reluctant lips.
"Can't have any tan lines," he says tugging hard before reaching for the gardening fork, trying to loosen the soil.
"Yeah, the big day's comin up, eh?" Brian says, and Harry hums non-committally, continuing to dig at the earth, his grandfather's shadow weighing on him slightly. "Your Nan wanted me to bring you this," Brian says, and Harry can hear the ice jingle in the glass.
"Oh...thanks," Harry says, sitting back on the balls of his feet, reaching to take the glass.
"Why don't you take a break," Brian says, and before Harry can protest, he's already making his way over to the picnic table shaded by the large maple tree that Harry and Nick used to climb.
This was the part of this trip Harry had been avoiding at all costs. He'd been home nearly five days now, spending the majority of his time out of the house, exploring trails, doing a little fishing and impromptu swimming, smiling politely at the locals when they gawked at him in town.
He'd finally summoned the courage to return Eleanor's calls about a day or so in, listening to her rant and rave for the better part of an hour. He'd apologized profusely over and over, skating around her insistence that he come home immediately by telling her about everything he was doing here, how much better he felt just by getting away from the city. He liked to think that she'd stopped arguing finally because he'd told her it was something he needed to do, but realizes that it was probably more the promise that he'd be back by the next Wednesday at the very latest.
Since then, he'd eaten dinner with his parents every night, keeping his eyes on his food and answering their questions about his day with caution, not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to prompt another probe into his life back in Los Angeles. It hadn't come up again, but he could tell they — his mother especially — were still concerned, but as the days passed, he remained closed off, and they didn't push.
Some nights they would watch television together, sitcoms and dramas, and he'd enjoy the way his father would laugh at the hilarity of dysfunctional families and his mother would gasp at plot twists. He'd gone out a few times, had drinks at some local bars and socialized with college kids home for the summer and blue collar workers just trying to unwind. He'd watch the couples sway to music on the dance floor and wonder how different his life would have turned out if he hadn't left this place so young, hadn't been on that TV show, or joined that group. Would he still be right there having a drink at that bar, or maybe dancing with a pretty dark haired girl with dimples that only showed up when she smiled?
"I say it's good to have you home boy," Brian says, clapping Harry lightly on the back as he settles next to him on the bench, and Harry smiles. "The yard hasn't looked this good in months."
Harry's chest rumbles in a laugh. "Happy to help."
"Your Mum says you've been havin' trouble sleepin'?" he asks and Harry shifts, his back pressing against the table behind him.
"Yeah..." he says slowly, watching his fingers thread together, dirt crusted under his nails. Eleanor would keel over dead if she saw them. "Just nerves I guess."
His grandfather nods, looking out over the lawn and silence descends on them, making Harry shift. He doesn't want to just sit here. He's got a lot to do, put mulch around the trees, fertilize the rose bushes, and he still has to weed the flowerbeds on the other side of the house. He downs the rest of his lemonade in one gulp, the coldness making his chest hurt a little as he stands.
"Well, I better get back to work. Thanks for the-"
"Boy, you are wound tighter than an eight day clock," Brian says peering up at him, and Harry laughs despite himself. "Sit down."
"I really gotta get these beds finished," he says, jutting a thumb over his shoulder at the house, and Brian eyes him hard.
"Sit down, Harold," he says, his voice soft — but stern — and it's not a request. Harry purses his lips, and even though he's thirty five years old, he does as he's told. "What brings you to our neck of the woods?" he questions, and when Harry merely blinks at him he adds, "I only ask because it's not like you to show up out of the blue."
"Oh..." Harry says, looking down at his hands. "Can't...can't I just come home?"
"'Course you can," Brian says with a deep nod, "But like I said, your Mum told me you haven't been sleeping, so I was thinking maybe something was troubling you..." Brian says, and Harry can feel his grandfather's eyes on him, watching him keenly, and Harry sits very still, keeping his face blank and calm. "And your heart always longs to be home when it's troubled."
"I'm not troubled," Harry replies petulantly, and he glances over to find Brian's eyebrows raised. "Like I said before, it's nerves."
"Mmm," Brian hums, looking out over the yard again. "Marriage isn't something you just jump into."
"I know that," Harry says bristling.
"You're promising before God and family to stick with that girl for the rest of your life," Brian goes on, and Harry flashes hot, his vision pulsing with a surge of nervous adrenaline.
"Eleanor and I have been together for years, nearly four," Harry says, his tone slightly argumentative.
"Time doesn't mean much when it comes to this, son," Brian says with a sigh. "Doesn't matter if its three years or thirty, if it isn't right-"
"I love her! Why does everyone keep trying to tell me that I don't?" Harry says heatedly, not ready to admit his secret out loud, his voice raising. Brian looks over at him, his lined face weary, and a chill of fear runs down Harry's spine, just like it always did when he was younger and his mouth had gotten a little ahead of him.
"You watch your tone," Brian warns, and Harry dips his head chastised. "I don't care if you are thirty five years old and about to be married, I will still bend you over and put the belt to you."
Harry chuckles softly, nodding. "Sorry."
"I didn't say that you don't love that little girl," Brian says, looking over at Harry who is looking at his hands again. "God knows you must, because she's a handful." Harry chuckles, a smile tugging at his lips. "But marriage isn't something you do because you ought to. Your Mum and Des are living proof of that."
Harry winces at his honesty, guilt ripping open wounds as old as himself, even though he knows it's not his fault, nothing he could have done differently other than not exist. But that wasn't his choice, and his mother had spent his entire life telling him that while marrying his father was a mistake, he himself was not, and he always believed her. She loved him too much for it not to be true.
And then before he can stop himself, Harry asks the words he's been terrified to ask even himself. "You think I'm making a mistake?"
His voice is quiet, a cold shiver running through him, and he's too afraid to look at his grandfather's face, realizing that he's not too sure he wants to hear the answer to his question.
"You wanna know what I think?" Brian asks, and Harry blinks slowly, still not daring to look at him, the muscles of his shoulders tight. "I think you rarely have to go somewhere, just to go. I think it's cause there's usually something running up on ya," Brian pauses, surveying his grandson slowly, "or somethin' that you wish wasn't..."
Harry swallows hard, pressing his palms together and watching his fingertips align, his heart thumping unevenly in his chest. His mouth is dry, tongue thick as cotton, and that panicked tightness is back in his chest, causing his shoulders to hunch as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He really wants to get back to the flowerbeds, to give his hands something to do, to move.
"You've always been a runner," Brian softly says after a moment, and Harry peers over at him cautiously. "I don't know why. We raised you to stand up and take responsibility," his grandfather nods, looking out over the lawn, hazy in the afternoon sun, "And you have, and we're proud — but boy, you run."
Harry looks down at his hands, feeling shame far greater than any he'd felt since he was a teenager and had been caught smashing mailboxes with Nick. His grandfather had dealt with him then, as well, looking down the wide bridge of his nose at him, fixing him with his steel gray eyes. But there is none of that sternness now, just bafflement, as if he's confused as to how Harry could have turned out this way — something that makes Harry feel even worse.
He can't help but wonder how he'd managed to get himself so turned around, how he'd strayed from the confident, successful man, riding on natural talent and honed skills to...whatever the hell he was now, confused and lonely, looking for answers that never seem to come.
Brian pulls himself to his feet, breaking Harry's train of thought, and startling him so that he sits back, blinking up at his grandfather. "You gotta decide what you're gonna do, Harry," Brian says soberly, and Harry blinks back up at him, the sun burning his eyes. "You gotta stop running, and decide."
And with that Brian turns back towards the house, leaving Harry to stare after him blankly, his thoughts as tangled as ever.
—
A/N
I don't even know what update number this is. I wrote a lot while sick, but didn't have the Internet. :)
Xo