61 | Rerouting Route Home

DOMINGO

2:01 AM

Dahlia Gray

I'm not a possessive girlfriend, or a jealous one. I have no reason to be. I trust Harlow with my entire living, and I know he knows I do. He wouldn't do anything to betray my trust. At the same time, Reid Harlow isn't the most available person out there, and I doubt any other girls would try to talk to him, given his exterior and personality.

It still surprises me how we came to be.

But, that's not the situation at hand.

Like I said, I'm not a very jealous girlfriend. Harlow owes me nothing—except for his loyalty. I don't ask for much, and I try not to, given all he's done for me.

But right now, I'm a very frustrated girlfriend.

The cold nips at my skin as I lean back against the park bench, taking in the celestial stars. I unleash a sigh, my breath condensing in the air in the shape of a smoky cloud, while the skin around my cheeks pricks with the weather and causing all loss of warmth and color around them. I'm not surprised—I've been out for a long time.

Because of Harlow, but not the exact reason one may think.

When Harlow came home that Friday night, it was almost six am. The sunset was creeping through the blinds of the living room, shades of pastel brushed across the rising sky, and the grandfather clock in their home dong at the hour. He stepped into the  foyer, attempting to make silent movements, only for every motion to produce a small sound—enough to wake me up.

I was already on edge, barely entering my slumber, due to not knowing where Harlow was. When I came home from work, I learned from the family that he wasn't picking up any calls nor replying to any texts—and my first initial thought was something bad happened. Something went wrong.

I tried to call him myself, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried to text him, and I did a thousand times, but it was left on delivery, and the painstaking edge creeping around my heart at the thought of losing my person was unbearable. I couldn't sleep. I forgot how.

So, when he came home, perfectly intact, just a bit cold from struggling to get the key through the lock, I tackled him into a hug. I knocked him against the front door (doing a service, actually, closing it behind him), and whimpered into the crook of his neck, whispering you're okay, you're okay, over and over again.

Harlow didn't comprehend much. He returned my embrace, with a little less urgency than I had, because he was too worn-out from his night out. I could still feel his hand rubbing my back, soothing me, despite not knowing what exactly had me troubled.

He carried me to the couch, because I refused to leave his embrace, and he was too tired to argue. When he sat me down, on his lap of all places, he pulled back to have a good look of my face and tucked away all the wild hair behind my ear, taking me in.

"Hey," he said to me, trying to calm my irrational fears with his voice. I could've been dreaming, I remembered thinking in that moment, but when he spoke, he grounded me with reality that a breath of relief left my lips and I lowered myself back to his shoulder, burying myself into the crease of his neck.

"I thought something happened," I mumble into his feverish skin, "you weren't picking up your calls, and you weren't answering mine, and you always–you always try to answer mine and I just—"

I had to force myself to pause and take a sharp breath, regaining all the lost oxygen from my frantic speech. Harlow, in response, rubbed my back comfortingly, soothing out all the pains and irrational thoughts I had conjured in his period of absence.

"I'm sorry." He apologized, feeling his voice cords vibrating throughout my body, "I put my phone on silent and I think it died halfway through. I didn't see anything until I got into the car and charged it."

I nodded into the crook of his neck, having taken in his words. I had nothing else to add to that, other than the fact that he's okay.

I didn't leave the spot between his shoulders, and he didn't asked me to. The silence consumed us in the spirit of morning glories, before I built up my courage to ask: "where were you?"

He swallowed hard. I remember feeling his Adam's apple bobbing underneath me, before he answered. "I was with my brother."

That one sentence paralyzed me in place. I couldn't even pull back to get a good reading on his expression, to become the person of reason in this relationship, before he quickly went to explain himself.

When Harlow finished detailing everything from their first meet at the diner to ending the night, he made me promise not to tell the rest of the family. He wanted to keep this to himself—at least, for now.

I hesitated before giving him an affirmative, and he must've seen the look in my eyes before his voice dropped into a low, delicate plea, "please."

At that point, I had to agree.

But, that's where my frustration runs deep.

As much as I understand my boyfriend's insatiable need to keep this portion of his life private—he's a foster child that had his deepest traumas and bad decisions listed in a file like a menu for anyone to read—I didn't like what it was about.

His brother of all people.

I groan, slumping back into the park bench and attempting to shake off the memories of his family coming at me—trying to figure out what is going on with Harlow lately.

My boyfriend has been leaving a lot to go visit his brother, without telling the family, and they're becoming more concerned about the sudden act of independence. It's only natural, to want to partake and understand about a minor living under your guidance—but he won't tell them.

Even when Presley threatened to take the car, he slipped out of the house and took the bus.

Even when Nini said she was going to confiscate his phone, as punishment for withholding secrets, he casually stated he was going to get a new one before walking out the front door.

He wasn't afraid of losing them.

And that's what I was afraid of.

When they didn't have the answers they heeded, they turned to me in search of them, and in promise to my boyfriend, I had to keep my lips sealed shut. Despite the fact that I'm not the best liar out there—B average at best—and the fact that I wanted to tell them so badly, I knew he wouldn't want that, and just like how Harlow doesn't want to betray my trust, I don't want to betray his.

Unless I absolutely, utterly need to.

Visiting your brother isn't that bad, right?

At least, that's what I hope.

I wince, closing my eyes in hops of shutting out the possible, pessimistic outcomes that spawn from the corner of my brain. I don't want to think about this—especially after barely escaping the Soberano-Godfrey's residence and their relentless bombarding questions.

Tucking a delicate hand under my denim jacket and above the fabric of my tee, right before my heart, I inhale and exhale steadily, calming my racing heartbeat and closing my eyes to allow myself to meditate to the peace of my essence.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

A buzz in my pocket snaps me out of my state, causing me to straight up in my seat and fish out the device to read the display name, squinting at the light. Aysa Kamali.

I heave a sigh and accept the call, bringing the phone to my ear. "Hello—"

"Did you get cleared for your apartment?" Aysa gets straight to the point, not even allowing me to greet her.

I didn't want to think about that, being reminded of my own matter. I haven't had time to think about my living situation in the past two weeks, due to Harlow's regular visits to his older brother.

Tucking a wild strand of hair behind my ear, I nod, "I did," I say cautiously, drowsiness biting my tone, "I read the automated text, but I haven't come to the office to get everything prepared yet."

"Why the hell not?"

I wince, disliking Aysa's brash get-to-the-point manner right now. I'm a bit sensitive today. "I just...I just been dealing with another issue right now, and I haven't given much thought about it."

She doesn't say anything in return. A pause is held thick in the air, anticipating her next words, until she drawls cautiously, "is it about...your father?"

I knew where the concern came from, but instantaneously, I shook my head in response, before recognizing that she didn't see me. "No! No," I exclaim, settling my tone, "it's not about my dad, it's about someone—something else."

"Hmm," Aysa muses over the phone, sounding unconvinced at my attempted cover-up. "Does this something happen to deal with an asshole starting with an H, and ending with an W?"

She is never going to let that go. I sigh, "maybe?"

"Well," she draws casually, and I can hear her shifting from the other end, probably on the couch of her apartment. "Stop thinking about that something and start thinking about yourself, kid. Don't you want to leave that house? Isn't it suffocating?"

Now? More than ever.

"Yeah..." I say, trailing off, feeling the same spout of guilt I did that day in her apartment. "It's a lot going on right now, and I can't talk about it, and his family is asking so many questions and—"

I cut myself off, inhaling a deep breath, calming down. Aysa says nothing in contribution. "I think I'm going to rent a hotel room for my mom and me."

A moment of silence. "Okay." I can see her nodding on the other end, somewhat proud of my conclusion, from the steadiness of her voice. "Rent the hotel room, get your head in a good space, and then finish what you started. Remember, this apartment is almost yours."

I take in her words, like prayers of my mother's church, and dip my head with purpose. "I will." I promise, "thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet," she says, the audio growing more distant, "thank me when you get the apartment."

And she ends the call.

━━━━━

DOMINGO

4:48 AM

Dahlia Gray

SAINT LABORATORIES:

Hello, Dahlia Gray, this is an automated message from SAINT Laboratories. We ask you to come in to finalize the signatures and paperwork for independent leisure. We request your presence as soon as possible, this is urgent.

SAINT LABORATORIES:

Hello, Dahlia Gray, this is an automated message from SAINT Laboratories. We have not seen you in office, we request your presence as soon as possible. This is urgent.

SAINT LABORATORIES:

Hello, Dahlia Gray, this is an automated message from SAINT Laboratories. Please contact the recipient office as soon as possible. We must schedule a meeting. This is urgent.

A yawn escapes me as my eyes keep attempting to read over the automated messages, barely registering the content before having to return back to the very first word and rereading it again.

It's been a tiring day; it's almost five am and I've just finished paying for a hotel room for my mother and me—this is my first time ever doing so—for a total of ten days. I'm hoping that's how long it'll take from till the day I get my apartment.

I leave tomorrow.

I haven't told my mother, but I'm sure she'll follow wherever I lead, and I haven't told Harlow either, because—surprise, surprise—he's not home.

The family stayed up till two am, awaiting the return of my boyfriend, only for him to stand them up cold-feet. Literally. They hobbled back to their respective rooms, with frozen toes and tired expressions. I felt so bad, especially knowing information they seek and being incapable of doing anything.

Because, even me being his girlfriend, who am I to control his decisions?

Another yawn escapes me as I set the laptop onto the coffee table, leaning back against the armrest of the couch, throwing my forearm over my eyes. I need sleep. "If I squint hard enough, I can pretend there's stars under my eyelids." I mumble to myself, trying to convince my body to trade darkness with imaginary stars and tension with serenity. It's hard to feel at ease when your boyfriend is out for how long—with someone you don't like.

It didn't work.

I grunt, rolling onto my side, setting a flat palm onto the cushion of the couch as I squint open my eyes, staring back at the laptop display with a browser of a confirmed hotel booking and a messaging app overlaying my acceptance and finalizing details on the apartment.

Guilt pools into my system the moment my eyes grasp the automated messages, feeling terrible at my desire to leave the house—especially during a time where it feels the most unstable.

I don't mean to pick selfishly, but I can't handle the mental stress of trying to lie for my boyfriend while also appreciating the lending hand of his family. I can't pick and choose when and where. I hate doing this, being bombarded with questions and being unable to give answers, so I have to conclude to the last resort: a hotel stay.

It'll be better for everyone involved.

"You're sleeping on the couch more often," the low, familiar voice of Harlow appears out of nowhere. I didn't even hear him open the door. It snapped me out of my thoughts, I admit, but I refuse to budge from my spot; bottling my hand set on the firm cushion, into a fist. "Dahlia?"

"I'm tired," I mumble, with a half-lie intent. I squeeze my eyes close, clenching my jaw. Maybe, knowing Harlow is home, I could finally go to sleep peacefully. "Go to bed, Harlow."

I'm not mad at him. I swear. I'm just incredibly frustrated with everything; with the apartment, the lies, his brother. I know I don't get to dictate what he does, but it doesn't mean I don't get to feel about it. That's what I've learnt throughout my entire journey—I'm allowed to bring my emotions to the table.

I can hear his footsteps rounding the furniture, stepping closer to me before he takes a seat at the empty space beside my legs—resulting in the cushion to dip under his weight. A hand plants itself onto my waist, sending tingles up my spine, before I exhale a steady breath. Stop it, Dahlia.

"Baby," he muses softly, clamping his fingers around the handle of my waist, my tee riding up and his touch brazing my skin. A flutter erupts in my stomach, my heart shortly stopped beating. "Are you mad at me?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating how calming his touch surrenders me and how much of the guilt in my stomach unravels. I could almost go back to normal, right then and there. But, I don't.

"I'm not mad," I mumble under my breath, trying to undress the tension in this room. "I just think—" a sigh escapes me, clenching back my jaw. "We have school tomorrow, let's go to sleep."

Harlow doesn't say anything, for a good solid minute, before his hand slips from my waist and the weight of his spot unloads. I knew he was standing up, I can hear him grab something with his hands, knocking his fingers against some clickable keys.

My laptop.

"Fuck that," he swore, just as the realization dawns on me and my eyes snap open, seeing Harlow standing over me with the laptop in resting on his hand, turned around to show me the evidential screen. "Are you mad at me?"

His tone was stern and commanding, but it wasn't aggressive. I knew he wanted the answer, because we've been through a stage like this before, and we know how much it hurts us both in the end.

I push myself into a sitting position, leaning against the armrest, "I'm not mad," I tell him, "that's the truth."

"Then why the fuck did you book a hotel room?" He points to the screen, his voice cracking at the end and his expression yelps in hurt. A delicate look traces his features for a good second, before his gaze drops to the keyboard. "Dahlia..."

"I feel suffocated here, okay?" I confess, pulling my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I can feel the heat of his stare shifting from the device in his hand, to me. "And it's gotten so much worse since you asked me to not tell them."

He doesn't say anything, as my eyes drop to the scene in front of me; the cushions of the couch, the blanket draped over the other armrest at the end of me, and the stairs down the end of the narrow hallway. I swallow hard.

"I don't like lying about these types of things, okay? I hate it. These are the exact type of lies I would tell my friends whenever they ask about my dad. The excuses and the switching topics," I scoff, hating how I turned around and made this about me. But it's not—at least, that's not what I'm trying to do. The comparison is supposed to bring him to a clearing; I hope it picks it up.

"Scott is not your dad,"

"We don't know that."

"Yes, I do,"

"How?"

"Because he's my brother!" Harlow snaps defensively, his nostrils flaring and his expression sharp. He closes the laptop and drops it onto the coffee table with a thump—where I nearly wince at the sound. I had to force myself to close my eyes instead, levelling my breathing with a firm hand on my heart.

"Harlow," I whisper, sensitivity running through every inch of my core being, "you're acting like him."

It didn't take him much to understand what I meant.

One, two, three.

Alive.

He drops back into the seat in front of me, my toes skimming the opening of his pocket, before he places a gentle hand on my knee, running his thumb across my skin. "Dahlia."

I don't respond, taking the moment to gather myself. It didn't hit me until it did—and when the parallel struck, my breath got caught up in my throat. It hurts both of us to think about it.

"I'm sorry, baby," he apologizes, each word sincerely leaving his lips. I could feel the ache in his heart, knowing the same is beating in mine. "I didn't mean—it's my fault—fuck, I'm so sorry."

My eyes slowly open, as his thumb caresses my kneecap, and when I meet his awaiting gaze, a breath of relief leaves his lungs. "I'm sorry, Dahlia." He apologizes once more, catching my sight, "I didn't meant to do that, and I'm so fucking sorry. I never want to hurt you."

I dip my chin into the space between my knees, "I know."

He catches my gaze and the storm in his eyes calm. Harlow leans forward and catches my face with a brush of his hand against the side of my cheek; in a mere whisper, he says, "I wish you trust me."

"I do trust you," I slip away, feeling the cold breeze on my cheek, before gesturing a hand out in the open. "I just don't trust him. He has walked away from your life and he hasn't contacted you in six years. He works just a couple hours from here—why couldn't he at least call?"

His jaw flexes. "He was sorting out his life."

"You're his little brother," I state, "a little communication doesn't hurt."

"Dahlia, he had as much communication skills as we did during our break and that shit stings. So, what? We're teenagers, but so was he."

Harlow got me there.

I stare back at him, as he awaits my next argument, but I couldn't find any. Maybe I'm not giving him the benefit of the doubt because he hurt Harlow in the past, but that's just me. It's hard to give someone a chance when they hurt the people you love.

"To be fair, I tried to contact you," I point a finger at him, a brow cocks in reply, "you were the one ignoring my calls. And texts. And you turned your back on me—what was that all about?"

A small, loose smile cuts at my lips at my attempt to ease the tension and he notices, before the same duplicate smile mirrors on his face. We stay in silence. Harlow doesn't say anything, before he inches forward and cups my chin in his palm, blue eyes staring back at me before the brush of his breath fans against my skin and he whispers, "can I kiss you this time, or are you still mad?"

Butterflies. No matter how long we've been together, or how short, I don't think that'll ever stop.

"If you don't kiss me, I'm going to get really mad." I whisper back at him, causing a chuckle leaves his lips and he leans forward and captures my lips with his.

All the muscles straining my body unwinds; my grip, my hold, everything. I melt completely into his palm like a puddle of goo, and my eyes shutters close as his grip around my chin grows firm.

Harlow pulls himself closer to me, strengthening our kiss, and his hand slips from under my chin to the handle of my neck, brushing away my wild strands and caressing the skin above my collarbone. Every stroke sends my nerves on fire, and catches my breath in the back of my throat. I was surprised at how much he was holding back because—for a flick of a moment, in one sharp idea—I was willing to risk it all.

He pulls back from our kiss and levels our gaze. We don't say anything for a good couple of seconds, holding the stare in the aftermath of our kiss. I could still tell, even after that, he still wasn't at ease.

"I need you to trust me," Harlow whispers with traces of delicacy, he wasn't afraid to be vulnerable in my eyes, "I need you to trust me to know what I'm doing."

I swallow a gulp, but I don't answer. "Dahlia, please. You're the only person I'll listen to."

"That doesn't put any pressure on me at all," I muse ruefully, trying to relax his rigid composure that still strains his muscles. He stares back with a complete, stoic expression. I sigh, "Harlow, you know what I'm going to say."

"I know," he nods, but he doesn't give in, "but I want you to think about it."

"I—" I tear my gaze away from him and look around the living room, trying to conceptualize a palpable idea. I don't know an answer that'll please him and stay true to myself, so I took this shallow moment to think. Think of what this foretells, and how it's going to go. I know I have my own cards to deal with, and I'm not always the best person in judgment, and maybe it was because I was blind.

But for others, I can do better.

I drop my gaze to the laptop.

"Have you been to his house yet?" I ask, turning back to my boyfriend. His brows furrow, giving me the answer I need.

"Why?"

"What else?" I rebuttal, keeping eye contact. I don't like his brother. "Harlow, what is a home to you?"

"Four walls and a roof over your head. What else can it be?"

To say I was disappointed was an understatement, and while I can't imagine what he went through to draw this sad, pessimistic conclusion, I can only hope to recover it. "A home reveals a lot about a person. The way the dishes are stacked in the sink, the positioning of the furniture. Even the type of chinaware they use. It can be welcoming or chilling, but nonetheless, it reveals the truest, rawest form of their energy."

I picture my own home, living with my father, and consider what's in store for the home that awaits me. "Inviting someone into your home is like welcoming someone into your soul. It's with complete trust and love. A home is supposed to be where you feel most safest, most comfortable, most at peace and unconditionally loved. That's the purpose of finding your home. So, if someone is inviting you to their most sacred, vulnerable place, that's an open trust for everything—for you to see them through their darkest, deepest and roughest times."

After finishing, I study him, seeing the gears in his head shifting and trying to understand my philosophy. I doubt he truly does. "So, what? You want me to be invited into his house in order for you to trust him? Is that when you'll trust me?"

"No, I want you to think about it." I say, throwing his words back at him. He scoffs, and I can see it, even now, that he doesn't believe or understand anything I was trying to preach. He didn't get the underline message.

"Dahlia, this is ridiculous. A home is nothing but a fucking house with four walls and a shelter to live under. Why the fuck are you making a building have so much more meaning? I don't get it."

I stare back at him, owning this depleting feeling in my stomach, and having nothing else to say. There truly isn't. Harlow has visualized this concept of homes being just buildings and structures when it's much more than that. It's home.

Exhaustion ticks inside of me, and I never longer fantasinate the mood to dwell on this topic. I don't want to talk about this anymore—especially if Harlow doesn't see the endsight in mind.

"I want my mom." I mutter under my breath with this sudden conclusion, slipping off the couch and coming in contact with the ground. I don't spare a glance to Harlow, taking the laptop from the coffee table, tucking it under my arm, and heading straight towards the narrow hallway.

"Dahlia," Harlow calls from behind me, causing me to halt in my steps. "Don't...Don't go to sleep upset."

"I'm not upset," I say, tightening the grip around my laptop. It's not a lie. "I'm just...I wish you understand what a home is. I wish you understand how important it is—to me, at least."

He doesn't say anything in return, and I took this moment to continue my route up the steps and towards the bedroom where my mother and I share.

Creaking the door as slow as possible, in order to not produce any sounds from the lack of oil in the screws, I tiptoe into the bedroom where my mother sleeps soundly on the bed.

I drop the laptop off at Claudia's desk and head over to my mother, settling down onto the mattress and moving towards her—until I'm just a breath away from her and her rest expression stares back from me.

"Mami," I mumble, poking her shoulder with a finger, stirring up her awake.

"¿Qué es?" What is it? She replies drowsily, eyes still pinned shut.

"¿Puedo dormir contigo esta noche?" Can I sleep with you tonight? I whisper back, just as she nods sluggishly, opening her arms to allow me to snuggle in. As I do so, she wraps her arm back around me and pulls the blanket up to my shoulders as well, quickly dozing back to sleep. A couple, soundless snores accompany her.

I smile, before closing my own eyes, with one final thought in mind.

Reid Harlow, do you know your home?