34 | Red Cable, Black Cable

DOMINGO

8:09 PM

Reid Harlow

I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him.

Clayton Gray is the root of all Dahlia's problems—I fucking know it—and subsequently, mine. He's a grade A classified asshole, with no consideration towards his daughter and acts like a fucking child. I mean, who the fuck shoots at their own daughter? With a fucking NERF gun?

Him, that's who.

But, the problem is: walking into this dinner, he hasn't been.

I can safely say, dinner has been awkward as fuck. Dahlia's been translating most of her mother's questions while her father is passively staring at me, like I had some ulterior motive for being here.

I do, but fuck him for thinking so.

I've been trying to be polite towards her mother—I even wore a dark blue button-down to impress her—because I know how much respect Dahlia has for her mother. And, I know, out of everyone, she loves her mother the most.

Her father on the other end, has been free range.

Most of the conversation has been from Dahlia's mother—Alejandra—asking about the simple things. My ambitions, my goals in life, my home life, and my family. So, in short, it's fucking small talk.

And I hate small talk.

But, I eased into it. I told her I didn't have any ambitions, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with my life, I've been in foster care since I was five, and my own family abandoned me when I was twelve. In short: my life has been a shitshow.

I tried to tell Dahlia to translate that last part, but she refused to swear.

That made me smile. And it almost made the dinner bearable.

Clayton, on the other hand, has absolutely no interest in getting to know me. Which is great, because fuck him, but it's also terrible because he's been actively staring at me for the past fucking hour.

He offers little commentary throughout the entire dinner, just basically watching the interaction between Dahlia's mother and I—but he does make faces when I reply to her queries. I caught some, which were when I told Alejandra that I didn't know what I wanted to do in life and that I'm basically not going to college.

"Harlow, is it?" Clayton prompts, finally contributing to the conversation after progressing as a silent spectator for the past hour. He leans forward.

I scoff, sparing him a casual glance. "Last time I checked," I grumble, which causes Dahlia to hit my arm—low enough so her father couldn't see the interaction under the table. This was the second time she did that—the first after I told her I was going to swear her father out—and I came prepared. I grab her hand and lace our fingers together, stopping her from attempting a third.

"Got a mouth on you, son." Clayton comments, tapping his fingers against the table. His eyes flicker between Dahlia and I.

I give him a sarcastic smile. "That's how God intended, I guess."

"You believe in God?"

"I believe in shutting the fuck up, sometimes," I declare blankly, causing Dahlia to try and wiggle out of my grasp. My grip tightens, not enough to hurt her, but enough to keep her captive. "I believe in fathers taking care of their children, not hurting them."

Clayton narrows his eyes at me, and Dahlia gasps at my words. Her mother—I don't think she knows exactly what I said, but from the reaction of the crowd, she probably figured out it wasn't pleasant. Fuck, that's the only person I care about impressing.

"You trying to say something?"

I scoff, not bothering to reply. "I let you figure that out."

"Dahlia." He snaps, looking to his daughter for clarification. I lay my elbow on the table, showing him I'm unafraid of his antics, but at the same time, reminded that Dahlia has conflicted views about her father. She loves him, even if she hates him. Her world is crossed.

Mine is not.

I hate him. I have to.

He's the type of guy who doesn't treat his own daughter right, the type of guy who screams at his daughter just for asking for help. He minimizes her emotions, he makes her feel conflicted about her own feelings. He's the type of person I never wished to be.

But, I can't help but feel like we're the same.

No, you're not. You're not her father.

You would never hit a girl.

You would never laugh at her pain.

You're not him.

"What does he mean?" Her father queries, his eyes meeting hers. "Did you say something about me? About your old man?"

"No!" She lies, her hand shaking under my touch. I didn't realize how fast the situation turned. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I didn't mean to get her scared. I didn't think he would target her. "I never said anything," her eyes pleaded with his, attempting to pacify him. "He's just like this."

I grit my teeth, noticing fear boiling down her expression and her free hand clenching and unclenching under the table, trying to sedate himself. Fuck.

Clayton swallows, his jaw clenched. He looks upset. He looks pissed off. Fuck, he lowkey looks like me.

"This the type of guy you bring home?" He lectures, raising his volume. I glance at her mother sitting across from me, and how her expression doubles down in worry. Clayton turns to her, "¿Este es el tipo de chico que quieres cerca de nuestra hija?"

Fuck, they're speaking in Spanish.

Dahlia looks visibly uncomfortable, sulking back against the chair so much, it looks like she was trying to become an extended part of the seat. She since stopped trying to resist my touch, but I feel like it was time to let her go.

I stood from my seat, gritting my teeth as I bare the next words. "It was a joke, sir," I said, capturing his attention to mine. His brows raised in surprise, his jaw loosens. I fucking hate myself for groveling to the man. "I'm sorry. My asshole of dad left me when I was a kid, so I was hinting at him. It was nothing to you."

It was a lie, buried underneath portions of truths. Anyone with decent hearing could catch it, especially the last part.

But I don't think Clayton bothered to look. He was impressed. He relaxes his gaze and he takes it. He looks prideful, accomplished. That he managed to beat me down, just because I consulted a couple of words his ears wanted to hear.

I don't think my words truly affected him.

They affected his ego.

I don't hand out apologies—fuck, I don't even apologize—but I rather sulk in my pride than let him target Dahlia just because I didn't consider the situation before I spoke to him. She's under his roof, she's bound by his rules. I can't say shit expecting to walk free.

I can, and I could—but she would never hear the end of it.

The conversation dies out, and everyone looks on the edge. Dahlia hasn't relaxed, despite the issue being resolved, and her mother mirrors her daughter. Alejandra keeps glancing back and forth, between Dahlia and me, and then her husband and me. I think she was drawing the same conclusions I was trying to contrast myself in—am I really that fucking similar to Clayton Gray?

The only person in contemporary bliss, is none other than Clayton Gray.

I sigh, leaning back against my chair and accidentally bump against the table, causing my glass to tip over the edge and fall—shattering into pieces on the floor. "Fuck." I swore, jumping out of my seat.

Dahlia does the same, standing beside me and she immediately rushes over to the ledge to witness the mess. I open my mouth—wanting to say something, but not knowing what the fuck to say—when she doesn't look to me. She crouches down and attempts to grab one of the broken shards.

"Dahlia, stop—" I begin to say, when her mother's Spanish overpowers me.

"DAHLIA, NOH!" Her mother declares sharply, holding out her hand in front of her daughter. She doesn't necessarily look upset, but she does look slightly concerned for her daughter. A bit scared. "No recoges vidrios así. ¿Recuerdas la última vez?"

I picked up two words. Glass, and remember.

Nini uses the latter on me a lot.

"Harlow," I hear a masculine voice queries, forcing me to strip my eyes away from the scene and meet Clayton, who stood up from his seat as well. "We're finished with dinner. Come grab a smoke with me."

My brows pull together, a look of distaste crosses my features. "Should I be helping them?" Shouldn't you?

"They got it," he brushes off. "Come on, I need to have a little chat with you."

I want to object, because I don't want to fucking talk to him, and I turn back to Dahlia. I was about to ask her for her advice—on what to do, because I don't know where the fuck to go from here—when she looks preoccupied. Her mother won't let her touch the glass, and I'm guessing she's protesting by trying to take the dustpan from her. I feel bad.

"Harlow." Clayton demands sharply, drawing me away from the scene for a second time. I snap to him, with a deadly glare—out of cold habit—and remind myself to soften, because this is not a controlled environment.

We stare in silence, our eyes met in a battle of dominance over who is the alpha male. I could care less about providing my masculinity, but it's just following his rules that I'm pissy about. I don't like him, I don't want to fucking talk to him, but I also don't want to make him fucking upset and go off on Dahlia and her mother.

"Fine," I spat, backing down and pushing the chair in as I walk around to meet Clayton exiting the dining room. I heard him chuckle, and we stood next to each other. We're a couple of inches apart—I'm taller than him by an inch or two—and he has blond hair compared to my brown. He was much fatter than me, while I amassed lean muscles, he owned bulk muscles with an added cushion.

We walked past the living room, where a couple of football jerseys hung on proud glory, and towards the front door, exiting.

A gust of wind greets us on command, and the hollow of the neighborhood is sheltered with a darkening sky and a forest of trees consuming my vision. The streetlamps buzz alive, illuminating the concrete sidewalk and roads with yellow hue and little action keeps the streets alive during this hour.

Clayton pulls out a box of cigarettes, which happens to be Marlboro—the brand I use—and flick the lighter to the end. When it begins to chars, he pockets his lighter and takes a seat on the porch, inhaling his first smoke.

He looks beyond, not bothering to spare me a glance as he stares off to his neighborhood, watching the rustling of the trees and the hum of electricity that runs through the entire street.

"You smoke?" He pulls the cigarette from his lips, tucked between his fingers, and exhales a cloud of smoke. I hesitantly nod, not knowing the direction this is heading. "Then why don't you pull out a pack?"

"Because I don't bring cigarettes to a fucking dinner." I snap on command, before reminding myself to calm down before I cause any more trouble. I sigh heavily. "My bad."

"Here." He ignores the fuck-up, and offers his box. "Take one."

"I don't have a lighter," I excuse, despite the fact that I would love a smoke right about now. The thing is: I'll rather fucking choke than share a cigarette with him.

"Here." He pulls out his lighter, which heightens my hatred for him. "Use mine."

"I don't use green lighters," I said, pushing the offer back to him.

Clayton scoffs, shaking his head and pockets both items. "You're a bit pretentious, aren't you?"

"I have certain values in life," I look away from him, as another gust of wind blows in our direction. I'm fucking freezing, and I know a cigarette would do justice in keeping me warm, but I keep myself contain. Instead, my eyes trail down the sidewalk path, imagining the route Dahlia takes to reach the bench. To get away from reality. To get away from him.

"Ain't a fan of green lighters?"

"I hate the color," I reply honestly, not bothering to add a hint of malice behind every coveted word. The conversation begins to feel neutral, like a casual talk between two friends. "It reminds me of someone."

"A girlfriend?"

I scoff, "I don't date."

"Well, you're interested in my daughter, aren't you?" Clayton suggests boldly, inhaling another puff of nicotine and allowing the dopamine to enwrap his body into a temporary bliss, a running euphoria. Fuck, I want one.

I don't reply immediately. "We just know each other."

He tsk, like he doesn't believe me. That makes two of us.

"Look, Harlow," Clayton turns to me, his brown eyes meeting mine. His expressions wield a casualty of blanks; looking careless, unconcern with life, ambitionless. A little like me. "I don't know what your intentions are with my daughter, but I don't want you to date her."

I don't give two fucks what you want. "How come?"

"Because," he inhales another puff, charring the end of his cigarette, "that's my little girl. That's my princess. I don't want her dating some guy like you. She could do better."

I don't say anything in return, because I'm taking a second to consider if Dahlia ever dates someone. Someone who isn't me.

I could imagine her happy, accepted, in love. She would smile more, be taken by someone who isn't fucked up with a catalyst of issues and only loves her with his whole heart. I can see that.

But, I can also see myself being the one that gives it to her.

"It's her choice," I shrug, crossing my arms over my chest. My heart sinks at the thought. "She finds who she likes, she picks. I don't have any fucking control over that."

"I do. She's my daughter."

"She's not your property."

"I'm trying to protect her."

"From who?" I snap, irritation lacing my tongue like an ivy wrapped around a branch. I push myself off the brick foundation of his home and take casual steps towards him. "From me? You think she considers me the bad guy in this situation?"

Clayton loses all of his friendly content—at least, the most he produced during this interaction—and drops the cigarette to the floor. He stands from his seat and meets my gaze head on, his eyes burning with a fierce protection, his jaw squared. "You don't deserve her. You barely care about her."

"I don't care about a lot of shit in my life, true," I grit my teeth, agitation gearing my features. "But, I care about her. And I don't give two shits about what you consider me. Dahlia is her own being, her own body. If she ever fucking considers me, you can't be the one to stop her."

Clayton glares. Enough to feel the heat of his impact, but not enough to scare me. "I don't like you," he begins slowly, letting me catch every word he drops. "I can barely tolerate you. You have a vile mouth on you, you are a deadbeat, and Dahlia is my daughter. I have a say in who she can and cannot date. You try anything, I have Glock 47 in my safe and I'm afraid to use it. Are we clear?"

I don't say anything, but in my head, I'm picturing his death. I'm mentally swearing him to the highest order. I don't give two fucks if he's Dahlia's father or the president of the country. I would fucking punch him, right here, right now, if I can.

The only thing holding me back is the thought of what he would do to Dahlia and her mother.

The door swings open and Clayton braces up on a smile, hooking his arm around my shoulders. We turn to see the recipients exiting, just to find Dahlia and her mother standing behind the oak, a hand on the doorknob. A look of confusion and surprise cross their expressions.

"Hey, sweetheart," Clayton grins sweetly to his Dahlia, like she was the light of his life. I can name three other things he cares about more. "Harlow and I were just having a talk, and I think he's about to leave."

The fuck I'm not.

She doesn't say anything, and stares between us. Her face was neutral, but her eyes held more depth. They were wide, innocent, and a little sad. She didn't want me to catch it. I slip out of Clayton's grasp the best I can. "You wanna take a walk?"

Dahlia looks at me, her full lips part. "Aren't you about to leave?"

I shrug. "I could stay a few extra minutes."

"Dahlia. You're not going on a walk with him—" her father begins, a prodding alpha male dominance wagers over him, when her mother cuts in.

"Go!" She shoos at us with her hand, giving us her permission. Funnily enough, that was the only opinion I cared about other than the girl in front of me.

I grab Dahlia's hand and lead her away from the porch, stepping onto the sidewalk leading to the park. I could feel the heat of Clayton's glare on the back of my head, watching my every move—and probably deciding how to load up his gun—till we move out of range.

We don't say anything. The silence stretches against the eeriness of the night, the stillness of the environment, and the intense need to fill the void and say something.

Dahlia doesn't try to disentangle herself from my touch. Her head hung low as her feet scraped against the concrete, her body pulled like a deadweight. She doesn't say anything—but she never had to—for me to recognize that something was wrong, and she's holding it in.

"Anything going on at home?" I prompt, glancing back to the girl beside me. She looks up and meet my gaze, her doe brown eyes staring back at me with starry-eyed tendencies, and fuck, I wanted to protect everything about her.

Her gaze drops and she lowers her head. "Nothing," she answers, disconnected, shutting down.

"Don't fucking do that," I said lightly, "don't hide it with me."

We stop walking, and I turn to her. She doesn't reciprocate my action, her body facing the direction of the park, when I grab her shoulder and maneuver her to face me. Her head continues to hang low, the top of her wild mane is the only thing I could fucking see. "Dahlia..."

She swallows a gulp, before she sucks in a heavy breath. I don't say anything, waiting patiently, until she looks up and meets my gaze. She lifts her chin, trying to intimidate a strong persona, but her jaw trembles. She swallows hard. "You...you probably like him."

That's it? That's why she was upset?

I scoff, shaking my head. "No. No, I fucking don't. I fucking hate him."

Her expression softens, and a look of defensiveness flickers through her irises. Her shoulders drop, "you don't mean that."

"Yes, the fuck I do. I hate him, I hate him with everything I have." I spat, reassuring her.

"He hasn't done anything to you."

"He hurt you, didn't he?"

Dahlia froze, loosening her features comparably. "You can't hate him for that," she whispers softly, her free hand clenching and unclenching by her side. "That's not a valid excuse."

"It doesn't need to be fucking valid, it's just how I feel." I snap, a little sharper than I intended. I instantly felt a smothering of regret rain down on me, but I'm too much of a coward to take it back.

Dahlia does say anything, frowning, and she looks away—resuming our route to the park.

We return back to the silence, as the night wagers over us and the darken sky hangs over our heads. The moon shines in its full crescent, the sky clear with little-to-no clouds, and twinkling stars contrast against the dark.

In the heaviness of our silence, I can't help but think back to Clayton, the man who I remind Dahlia of. I try to analyze every little detail I could remember: what he said, how he presents himself. I'm trying to differentiate between Clayton and I, and hope to still come to the same conclusion.

I am nothing like him.

I'm an asshole, I admit that, but I'm not that asshole. I don't act like him, I don't behave like him, I'm not like him.

But, how the fuck are we different?

"Did you get all the glass?" I ask, remembering how Clayton dragged me away before I had a chance to help them. It was a shitty move, and I had to ask myself: would I do the same?

Dahlia takes a second to answer. "Yeah," she said, glancing down at her hand. "We got it."

I study her. "Your mom seems pretty scared about you handling glass," I begin. She quiets down, her gaze moves to the floor as I notice her hands involuntarily pull into tics. "I'm guessing it's fucking valid."

She shakes her head, shaking her head. "It's stupid."

I glance down at her hands, compulsorily pulling into spasms. "No, it's not."

Dahlia pulls her free hand into a fist, and tightens her grip around my hand. She doesn't add anything else as we continue to walk and walk, the looming presence of the park begins to appear through our vision.

"Sometimes, in his fit of fury, my dad would throw glasses." Dahlia begins slowly. "Like, not to hit us—but to hit the wall, or the table, or the chair behind us." She told, sucking in a deep breath as she unclenches and clenches her hands once more. "And one time, he threw it at me and it hit the wall. He left, and I went to clean it up, but I cut myself on the shard."

"You didn't use a broom?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral when inside, I'm fucking petrified. I did the same fucking thing with Presley.

"I was fourteen," she defends sharply, "I didn't think about it. I just...I just remember knowing I needed to clean it up and I did. I cut myself and it went really deep. Like, I needed stitches-deep."

She grimaces at the mental image, and her grip around my hand tightens painfully. Like she was trying to take away the memory, to take away the pain.

I don't say anything, nor do I pull away. We enter into the park, desolated and quiet as always, and she finally pulls away from me. She runs to the bench, like a child chasing her favorite toy, and sits down on the wooden planks that are nothing but screws and metal.

I follow closely after her, a heavy heart with the entrails of her story.

I'm going through an identity crisis because of the sharp contrast and comparison between her father and I. The cigarettes, the brand, the way we move through life, how we act—the fucking glass.

I'm nothing like him.

I have never hurt Dahlia.

I will never hurt Dahlia.

I take a seat beside her, and watch how she adjusts herself to look up at the stars. Her hands on her lap, bubbled in tight fists, and her eyes staring straight above—gleaming over the twinkling stars and the abundance of constellations. Her neck pressed against the back of the seat, her back angled at an uncomfortable position, and her wild hair flowing against the wind. She was happy.

"What's your greatest fears?" Dahlia prompts, tilting her head slightly to face me.

"Are we back to your mom's small talk?" I ask, cocking a brow at her spontaneous question.

"It's not small talk." Dahlia shakes her head, turning back to the stars. A whimsy smile catches her face. "Not everyone can tell their greatest fears over rice and chicken. It's deep. Real. Something more."

I huff. "What's yours?"

"Uh-uh," she shakes her head, "equal trade in a relationship, remember?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes, but consider her question seriously: what are my greatest fears?

All my life, after my brother left, I never had anything worth losing. Life is a constant variable that depends on other equations to add meaning, and when you're stripped of everything you've ever had, you lose dependents. You lose yourself. You lose potential.

"I think I'm afraid of becoming attached to someone again." I begin slowly and low, considering all options. I swallow hard. "To lose someone close to me. I don't know. Sometimes, I think I'm already living my greatest fear."

Dahlia doesn't say anything, but pulls herself together and turns to me completely. Her eyes met mine in an empathic gaze, and she parts her lips in surprise. "I...I didn't think you would go so deep."

I scoff, chuckling at her reaction. "You wanted the truth."

"I kind of thought you would tell me you are afraid of heights, or spiders, or something—because, you're you!" She tries to defend herself, using hand gestures with her unclenched fists. I notice that. "Now, I feel like mine is kind of stupid."

"No, it's not," I shake my head. "What's that thing that you fucking say? Equal trade in a relationship?"

She softly smiles, scrunching her nose as she shakes her head. "Not my words against me," she said playfully, scooting closer towards me. I think it's because I didn't smoke today—at all—and for a second, I'm fucking glad I didn't take Clayton up on his offer.

She pulls up beside me, her proximity so close, her arm pressing against mine and she inhales a sharp breath. "It's stupid, okay?" She warns, like I care. I could listen to Dahlia Gray speak for hours, stupid or not. "But, I'm afraid of marrying someone like my dad."

I was surprised. I thought when she referred to stupid fears, she meant something like she's afraid of falling into a manhole or she's afraid of dying before eighteen. Her true fear—it's different. It made the mechanics in my brain begin to spin, and thoughts begin to compare and contrast, trying to situate myself between the two. Who I was to that statement.

She said she's afraid of marrying someone like her father.

Not falling in love.

Marriage.

"It's not stupid," I shake my head, "it's honest. Fuck everyone else who thinks differently."

Dahlia smiles, but doesn't say anything else. Instead, she leans her head against my shoulders and looks back to the stars, at least, as much as she can.

The world goes quiet, and I'm weighing down the depths of the silence. The pitch of emptiness, the tranquility behind the surface. Sometimes, it's beautiful, and comforting, and perfect. Other times, it's intense, and rigid, and awkward. I always found myself dancing on the line between these two—especially with Dahlia.

But, I'm happy to report, this was the former.

"Do you believe in love?" I ask, out of the blue, tilting my head a couple of degrees to look at her. The heaviness on my shoulder compares to nothing to the heaviness of her trust in me. Something I won't ever plan to break.

She hesitates to answer, the words stuck in her throat. "I don't." She answers gently, careless against the whispers. "I don't know if it's real, you know? Seeing my parents, and how their marriage is, I've never—I don't know—seen real love."

She doesn't sound sad about it, nor does she sound upset. It beats off the idea that she came to terms with her ideology a long time ago, a beaten bush ready for another swing.

"That's just one form of love, against millions and billions of others." I counter, feeling the need to convince her. I don't necessarily wish to find love, but if it happens, it happens. "You can't base your definition of love on one example."

She pauses, considering my words. "I don't know." She sighs, sounding unconvinced. "Maybe, there is. Maybe there are such things as love and people do find it. They live it, they cherish it. But...I don't think I'm something worth loving."

And it hit me, harder than I expected.

Because I'm looking at this girl, and she's one of the best things in my life. I care about her more than I've cared for anyone, and I think she's absolutely fucking perfect. She's funny, kind, and sweet. She's everything and more. And hearing that, hearing her not feel worthy of love because she can't see herself being loved by anyone—just fucking hits me.

I grab her hand, and intertwine her fingers with mine. The mold of her small hand matches mine, fitting perfectly.

And I bring her hand to my lips, planting a chaste kiss.

"You deserve a love unquestioned."