52 | Reversing On The Highway

TUESDAY

12:54 AM

Reid Harlow

I saw her today.

Fuck, I—

I draw a heavy sigh, trying to regain my composure and keep enough stability till we get home. Presley sat in the driver seat, occasionally sparing glances in my direction, watching as I stare out of the window with a hard glance and a permanent scowl on my face.

My leg bounces in the seat, my fingers itching for the moment I get to step out of this fucking vehicle. My head is spinning with so much bullshit I can't even comprehend—but the worst fucking part was I can't get the look on her face out of my head.

Presley registers the car into park and not a millisecond later, I'm out, barely bothering to close the door behind me.

I sprint up the steps, my fingers fishing out the keys and jabbing it into the lock, twisting and opening the door—the oak slamming against the wall. I can hear everyone coming down, trying to decipher the ruckus, but I don't bother waiting for them—running up the stairs, down the hallway, and instead of taking a turn to my room, I went into Claudia.

She wasn't in here—good, she won't have to witness this—and my eyes search through her four walls. I walk over to her desk, rip out her drawers, scrambling through her items, trying to find my lighter.

The itching necessity felt like a breath of fresh air, and I needed a smoke whether it was good for me or not. Most likely the latter—but I don't fucking care. My throat is clawing at me for a nicotine puff, my heart beating in my ear, and nothing could fucking save me now.

I ransack through her room. I threw worthless shit to the floor, pushing through stationery and makeup applicants that made no use for me. I peel back her covers, trying to search for this fucking lighter and its stupid cigarettes. I needed it more than ever before.

I could've gone to the gas station and bribed the local cashier, but I didn't have time. Fuck time, I didn't have the vehicle. Presley would rather shoot me than play a company to my addiction, and I don't blame him. It's so fucking bad.

I feel footsteps reaching up the stairs, double the regular sound, and I knew it was more than one. An invisible timer beating down on me, the seconds ticking on the clock, and as desperation clings to my throat like the taste of her lips—I fucking found it.

Just as Claudia and Presley step into the room.

Their eyes search her destroyed room, jaw slacking and eyes peering through every inch of chaos I caused. I watched, frozen, as Claudia stepped inside and examined her room—a near moment of clarity reigns on me like a never before light.

But it didn't last long.

I couldn't muster up an apology—coward, I know—and I pushed past them before they got a chance to say something. Easily slipping past Claudia, Presley grabs my arm at the doorway, stopping me in my pursuit of elevation.

"Harlow," his voice strong and authoritative, eyes met mine with grave intent. His jaw clenches, sharpening the outline, and his brown eyes drops and spares a glance at the cigarettes clutched in my hands. "Are you really going to do this?"

I was taller. I was younger. I was so much more fucking cruel than him.

I didn't bother trying to answer his question and ripped his hand off my arm, resuming my steps. I pull the cigarette out of the box mid-step, flicking the lighter alive as I descend down the steps, and lit the cigarette at the door.

I inhale my first smoke in nearly two months, on the porch.

A tear sheds from the corner of my eyes as I took in the nicotine, the irony wasn't lost on me. It was cruel: the first breath I could finally take is the one thing that's killing me.

But I could breathe with Dahlia.

And Dahlia was never cruel.

I sink into the dopamine that the cigarettes gave me, registering the warmth that spreads through my veins while my lungs are lit on fire. I didn't care about the repercussions relapsing may serve, I just needed to breathe.

My chest constricts with this familiar, but terrible air building in my system. My body was getting used to breathing clear air, tasting new things, having her as my supplement. I could live having her by my side, without the cigarettes if I need to—but now, I'm losing her.

And I don't know what the fuck to do next.

"Harlow," I heard Claudia speak behind me, my body instantly going rigid. I don't want to see her right now, especially knowing that I told her I was going to stop. Now, look at me, wasting away on the edge of a porch, breathing on nicotine.

"I don't want to fucking talk," I scowl harshly, desperately wanting them to go away. I haven't even taken in consideration of what Claudia thinks of me ransacking her bedroom, or Presley's disappointment in me. I just need to take this one day at a time.

"You need to talk to us," Claudia suggests callously, as I hear her footsteps across the porch and she is just a couple of feet behind me. I can feel her. "We're your family."

"I don't want to fucking talk," I snap once more, burying the heavy feeling in my heart when Claudia still calls me apart of her family. It means more to me than she'll ever know.

The silence reigns on us, daunting and tense, but no one moves a muscle. Everyone stood where they're at, withstanding the smoke that exits my lips and blows their way, and the crippling downfall of my sobriety.

"You're smoking again," Presley declares roughly, and I can picture him standing behind me, leaning against any surface, with his arms crossed and a straight, unreadable look on his face.

"Obviously."

"You don't have to do that," Presley offers from behind me, to which I roll my eyes.

"I just...I just fucking need a minute." I croak, rolling the cigarette as I slightly tip my head back and exhale a stench of smoke. I know Dahlia would be fucking disappointed in me right now, witnessing the progress I made and destroying them altogether—but she never knew. I never told her. And if she managed to pick it up, she never said anything about it.

I hope she doesn't know.

I can't bear to see the look on her face at another disappointment I offer.

Fuck. The look on her face.

It drains me just to picture the image once more, and I could see it burning a hole into the side of my brain—never to be forgotten. My free hand pulls into a tight fist as I remember turning my back on her, offering no words and no comfort.

"Dahlia called me," Presley reveals, and in that exact moment, my heart just fucking drops. I turn around, facing Presley leaning against the doorway with a blank but concerned expression etched on his face. "She said you've been ignoring her."

I swallow hard, the cigarette burning down to a butt and I've lost all my craving for nicotine. I drop it to the ground, crushing it underneath my shoe. My eyes pointed to the ground. "So?"

Disbelief washes over Presley's features and he drops his arms to his side, pushing himself off the doorframe, his expression gradually growing more annoyed. "So? Is that all you have to say?"

I clench my jaw, feeling an impending argument about to implode. I don't know who's going to snap. "I said: so? What the fuck do you want me to do about it?"

"Call her!" He snaps, throwing out a hand, gesturing down the street. "You're fucking in love with this girl, and you have the audacity to respond so? What the hell is wrong is you? Who the fuck are you?"

Him. He snapped first.

"It's not that fucking simple," I snap back in response, greeting his fire with my flame. I had so much I wanted to fucking say, who knows if this is the right time to explain them all. "You don't know the situation, so stop fucking prying. Leave it alone."

I turn my back to him, just like I did to Dahlia. The comparison hurts, and I thought this serves as a defining point for him to leave me alone—but I feel his hand on my shoulder, pulling me back.

"Harlow, you can't keep doing this!" Presley shouts, his voice growing exasperated, "you can't keep letting people in just to shut them out. That girl cares so much about you, and I know for sure you care about her too—so what the fuck is the issue?"

I grit my teeth, not responding.

"Harlow."

No response.

"Harlow."

My jaw clenches.

"Harlow."

"She kissed me!" I snapped, jumping to my feet and slipping from Presley's grip. I turn to face the both of them, Claudia and him alike, staring back at me, completely shocked, jaws slightly droop from this declaration.

I grit my teeth, feeling the heated pause between this newfound information and our previous argument. I haven't said anything since that day, and it's been driving me insane. Especially since it was the best fucking thing I've ever experienced.

Claudia tries to evaluate this situation, her brows creasing together, trying to fill in the missing gaps. "She kissed you...and you're ignoring her?"

"It's—" I suck in a tense breath, "it's not that simple. You don't fucking understand."

"You're always saying that we can't understand you," Claudia declares softly, "but you never give us the chance to."

I don't say anything, taking in her words. My eyes shift between the two of them, waiting for an explanation, for me to start—but giving me time to begin at my own pace. I appreciate that, despite how fucking annoying the pair could be.

"I'm afraid I'm not good enough for her."

And so, we begin.

I retold how I wanted to keep my distance between Dahlia and I because I didn't want to get attached to anything. When I started to know her, I knew I was beginning to fall for her—but I never gave us a name.

I remind them that she has issues with her father, and her issues with her father stems deeply into her belief system. I told them about the park bench conversation, when I asked her if she believed in love and she said she didn't want to marry someone like her father.

Then, I told them my biggest fear: I was just like her father.

Presley knew, but Claudia listened.

I never had that insecurity before, not until the day I snuck into her bedroom, and we reveal the deep travesty of our lives. I told them how she told me that she hated me because of how similar her father and I acted. When I asked her if she does—she couldn't answer me.

And that itself, was the answer I needed.

Our lives are complex, and each decision branches out into different outcomes. When Dahlia said that, I couldn't get it out of my head and ever since, I've been hyper-aware of everything I've done to provoke her thoughts. I analyze, I grieve, I drive myself mad trying to draw a line between the two of us—but the day she had her first panic attack with me, I knew the lines had already been entangled and there's nothing I could do about it.

"So, I kept my distance." I finish, chest heaving for my breath, shoulders slouching, "I made sure to paint a line between us, not allowing either of us to cross. It hurts, because there's so many fucking times I wanted to kiss her, and there were so many opportunities—but I had to hold back. She deserves better."

I clench my jaw, rubbing the flexed muscle, gaze drop to the ground in an act of cowardice, "and when she kissed me...I didn't know what to do. I don't know where we stand, and I don't think we can ever go back. I've been fucking freaking out for the past two weeks, and I told myself to come up with a plan every single passing day but I couldn't." My voice cracks, "I don't want to lose her, but I know I don't deserve her."

I can picture Dahlia's face so vividly, her doe eyes soft and delicate, her lips part with a slight tremble, her hands shaking by her side as she attempts to work up the courage to talk to me. I've traded seats, dashed out of the room before the bell rings, and in this loose moment where she caught me—I didn't even have the courage to look her in the eyes as I turn my back to her, absently letting the silence speak on my behalf.

I could feel our hearts breaking in that moment.

"Harlow," Presley falls to the seat beside me, his hands between his legs. "If she kissed you, that means she wants you."

"I know."

"And if she's so afraid of you becoming like her father, she won't have taken that chance with you." Presley said, trying to provide the voice of reason.

"You didn't—you think I didn't think about that?" I scoff, turning to Presley with glassy eyes and a devastated soul. I knew where the road leads. "I'm not trying to say we can't work out now, I'm saying—I've seen him. I saw Clayton Gray in action, and I see everything we have in common."

I swallow hard, "why would Dahlia's mom stay with a man like that? Abusing his daughter, hurting her in ways unimaginable? Why did she marry him in the first place if all he does is hurt them?"

Presley didn't have an answer. And when I turned to Claudia, neither did she.

"She must've loved him, at some point in her life. She stayed with him unhappy and unfilled, because she probably hopes for a day where he goes back to the man she fell in love with...imagine how conflicted she must've felt." I pause, voice cracking, jaw grinding against each other, "what if that's Dahlia with me?"

No one answers.

"And I know," I whisper weakly, feeding onto the deafening silence everyone is giving me. "I could be good for her. I think I can. But, I've hurt her too. I see it in myself, to do the same in the future, and I don't ever want my selfishness to collide with Dahlia's health. I love her too fucking much for that."

The tension in the atmosphere resumes; and the proclamation stings the air.

I love her.

"She deserves someone who won't remind her of her father, someone who loves her so fucking much, it heals." I said, taking one second to ponder that idea that I could've give her that. I don't think I can. "She deserves a love unquestioned."

Everyone's quiet, and no one said a thing. Presley sits beside me, Claudia a couple of feet away from us, and the silence commences. There's absolutely nothing else to think about, to talk about, to suggest.

"What are you going to do?" Presley asks quietly.

My chest constricts. "I don't fucking know."

"What do you want us to do?" Claudia offers as a counterclaim.

It took me a second to take in consideration of her words. I thought being alone was the best option, but having them here made me feel better—despite the complication of the situation.

"Can you guys...can you just stay with me?"

A small smile basks her features, and she nods solemnly. "Of course."

a/n: i think the next chapter hurts worse.