62 | All Roads Lead Back Home (Part One)

JUEVES

6:11 PM

Reid Harlow

"God, you reek of cigarettes," Scott comments, once settling into the seat before me. He snapped me out of my thoughtful trance, looking away from the floor-to-ceiling window beside us and turning to my older, more mature, almost-lookalike. A considerate expression passes him. "Since when do you smoke?"

Since I was fifteen, I had it sharp on the tip of my tongue, but I don't tell him. I don't want to discuss my nicotine addiction, or how it's becoming such a compulsory need that my first thought when I wake up in the morning is to smoke a load to ease my temptation, or how the lighter is creating a burn in my back pocket from overuse. There's so much shit I don't say. So much shit I hold back.

"You're late." I say, lowering my gaze and fidgeting with the black hair-tie that rings around my wrist like a second skin. Sometimes, I forget it's even there. "We said six."

My brother laughs at my serious demeanor, "there was traffic, Reid, loosen up. It's not like I could control it." He explains, and when I don't say anything in response, just twisting the hairband in place, Scott heaves a sigh. "It's only eleven minutes."

I clench my jaw but still offer nothing. It's not his fault, I excuse, when that's not the problem at hand right now. I don't give a damn if he's late eleven minutes or an hour—as long as he gets here. The only fucking thing that's clouding my judgement is Dahlia's conspiring words.

She has since left with her mother to stay in the hotel. The entire family was a bit bummed out about her sudden exit—Nico especially—but nonetheless, supported her decision and reminded her that she always had a home here.

And that's fucking it—home. One bullshit argument that stirred a rift between us and caused my girlfriend to sleep with her mother instead of me. It wasn't just Sunday night, it was the day after, and the lack of calls or texts I'm receiving from her. I know I sound pretentious as fuck, wanting her attention, but it's not that. It's the fact that I know why she's upset with me and I don't know what to do with it.

I don't fucking get her rhetorics about home. To me, it's just a fucking building; a shelter; four walls and a roof over your head. The idea that an intimate structure could reproduce the deepest part of your soul sounds delusional, but she has such deep faith inside such allegory that I hesitate to answer her.

What the fuck is a home?

"Reid, I'm sorry," my brother snaps me back into reality, causing my eyes to shift from the band around my wrist to his face. His forest green eyes stares back at me, apologetic, "I didn't know being late would affect you this much—"

"How come you never invite me to your house?" I cut him off to ask, causing him to pull back in surprise. A questioning look crossed him. "We've been to restaurants, to diners, to fucking coffeehouses—" I gesture out a hand to the store we're in now, catching a couple of eyes with my flagrant language. "And you've never let me see the inside of your house. What is that for—I'm your brother."

I stare back at him, nostrils flaring and eyes growing sharp. I didn't seem to recognize it until Dahlia pointed it out—but ever since then, it's been a bother. While I don't understand her entire reference to homes being more than four-walled structures, I do understand the sentiment behind him not inviting me to his house.

"Reid, calm down—"

"I am calm." I snap, jumping to my feet and scrapping the wooden legs against the coffeehouse's polished floor. This caught more attention, including the baristas, and just as I'm ready to scream at them to mind their own fucking business—I feel a hand latch around my arm and begins pulling me towards the exit.

Scott doesn't give me a chance to fight back before we're hauled out of the store and towards a narrow alleyway, away from prying eyes. I open my mouth to scowl him, until he drops his grip and pockets them in his jeans.

I don't say anything and neither does he. My brother takes the opportunity to admire the asphalt withered under his feet and the potholes that's filled with pebbles. I am on the verge of heaving.

"Y'know," my brother drawls, looking to the side, down the alleyway with dumpsters lining the backwalls of stores. "You still have that same attitude you had when you were a kid."

I don't reply, staring at him with a hot-tempered glare.

"Impatient, irrational, temper tantrums."

"I do not have temper tantrums—"

"Yeah, you do," Scott cuts me off this time, turning back and meeting my blue-eyed gaze with his green ones. "You never did change that about yourself in the last six years."

"I'm fucking pissed off," I swore at him, studying his expression to see if it changes—if what he thinks of me has change. He didn't do anything. Not even a flinch. "I thought I wouldn't care but yeah, for some fucking reason, I do. Why haven't you invited me to your house?"

My brother stares at me, hard. His expression is unreadable and there's a heavy sense of superiority complex radiating off of him. I know he has seniority here, but I'm not a fucking child anymore. I'm eighteen and that, in terms of legal eyes, means I'm an adult.

Heaving a sigh, he rolls back his shoulders, "why the sudden care—"

"Because I never had a fucking home!" Once they exit from my mouth, it was a surprise—even for me. "Ever...Ever since you left me, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. There's always that fear riding in the back of my mind, reminding me that, once I get settled, something will happen—and I'm going to get kicked out. Shipped off to the next one. I'm never safe."

Scott stares at me, without uttering a word. Studying me from his spot, a small flash of pity flickers through his emerald eyes before he closes them and shook his head, picking the bridge of his nose with a sigh. I thought I was losing him.

"But you're my brother," I say solemnly, beginning to draw a conclusion. Suddenly, Dahlia's words begin to piece together. "I feel safe with you because you're my brother."

Silence. It's been a whole ten minutes and still, no one talked. It's taking him way too fucking long to process everything I said, and either he has already drawn his conclusion from this speech or he's going to make another breakaway and forever lose me. I hope to God it's not the latter.

"Reid," my brother turns back to me, his expression unreadable, "I thought I would have more time, or needed more time, until I invited you over. I thought you weren't comfortable with me."

A sudden spurt of hope grew inside of me, "no, that's not the case—"

He holds out a hand, halting my sentence eloquently. "If you're ready then, of course. I want you over to my house. You're my brother, how could I not?"

I can't believe what I'm hearing. I was certain he was going to leave, thinking I was pushing our boundaries across the line—when that's not the case. He wants me over, he wants me to live with him.

"I—" Emotions swell up in my throat, leaving me unable to speak. I blink back the tears threatening to release from my honest state of ecstasy. "When?"

"Um," he looks thoughtful, "Saturday, if you're free."

"Yeah, I'll—" Fucking bile. "I'll be there."

"Just meet me at seven, at Mason's Motors, and I'll take you there."

I nod, too frantically, but I don't fucking care.

"Alright," Scott declares, brushing out the wrinkles in his shirt. "Are you calm now? Do you think we can get a drink without you causing a scene?"

I send a lighthearted glare at my brother, but nonetheless, nod my answer in compliance. He chuckles at my reaction before moving around me, heading back to the store—before I caught his arm.

He turns to me, puzzled. "Can I...can I also stay?"

Just to make sure. Just to confirm everything in and out. I don't want my hope to choke me by the throat when I come over, and I definitely don't want to look at the sky thinking it's a comet when it's a meteor. I have to know.

He doesn't take more than two seconds to think about it, "you're my brother, of course."

━━━━━

JUEVES

1:07 AM

Reid Harlow

When I got back to the house, my heart was still racing in the same fuel of adrenaline I felt when Scott told me he wanted me to live with him. I still can't believe it—the memory is imprinted so deeply in the subconscious of my psyche, yet I can't believe my brother agreed out of everything.

My brother wants me.

I can't count the amount of times I've sat in the middle of the foyer, of a foster home, silently waiting for my brother to come back and take me with him. I would skip dinners, ignore my foster siblings, and say absolutely nothing to any living soul, thinking I would be betraying my brother in actively seeking a reason to stay. I could never do it.

My childhood self would be crying right now.

I slip the keys back into my pocket, entering the house. The light on the porch still illuminates against the oak, and I flip off the switch once I stepped inside.

The house was eerily silent, almost to the point of suspicion. I knew the family, at the beginning, would stay up waiting for me, but once they picked up that this was going to be a daily habit—and I was going to eventually return—they started rerouting their routines back to normal.

In three days, that wouldn't be the case.

Stepping down the narrow hallway, I almost expected to see Dahlia slouching on the couch. It was a familiar sight to see, a borrowed consistency, but now knowing that her place of comfort is on a random mattress in some fancy-ass hotel, the thoughts dims on me.

I humorlessly laugh to myself, playing on the thought that she might've been my last piece of attachment I had to this place. That she left at the perfect moment.

I've always told this family that I was going to leave. In one form or another. No one truly wants me, I understood that, and I came to this resolution well beyond my years. Lately, it was fun—having them by my side for my birthday, during our cabin holiday—but all fun things come to an end. And I have to get back to where I belong.

With my family.

I drop myself on the couch with a loud thud, sinking into the cushion. I take in the familiar setting, something I've grown used to staring at. I could faintly remember the first time I saw them all crowded in the living room together, watching some movie as I dragged Presley out of the room and asked for his help—for a girl. A girl I never thought would be the love of my life.

But, she was.

I never really watched that movie with Ariah, did I?

I shake my head out of my depressive thoughts, trying to remind myself of what the end goal is. I'm leaving—for my brother, not because I'm running away from them or they're kicking me out. It's a real, conscious choice, and something I'm capable of doing since I've now suppressed the age of adolescence.

Nini and Sebastian stopped receiving those checks, months ago.

I pulled out the phone and clicked on my girlfriend's contact, ringing her as I brought the device to my ear and awaited the buzz of the call. It took three, seven, almost nine rings—close to cutting me into the voicemail box option—before she answers.

"Hello?" Dahlia answers drowsily into the speaker, a yawn escaping her, revealing the fact that she probably has been sleeping and I'm interrupting her mid-slumber.

"Shit, sorry, were you asleep?"

"No, it's fine," she brushes it off. I could hear the sheets rustling on the other end, and a faint click, like she just turned on a lamp nearby. "Did you get home safely?"

I won't lie and say it didn't absolutely fucking warms my heart with just her concern. I know she's my girlfriend, and she has every intention of caring for my safety and health—but to know, to hear it, and experience this type of love is something I'm not entirely used to.

"Yeah. I'm fine." I clear my throat, clenching and unclenching my left hand. I miss holding her hand in mine. "I just wanted to tell you something."

"Is it good or bad?"

"It's good, I hope." I say, adding caution in consideration. "I finally got what you mean."

She hums back questioningly.

"Home. I get what you mean by it." I repeat, dropping my attention to my lap. My girlfriend doesn't add anything on the other line, probably awaiting for me to clarify. "Can you make homes out of people?"

"Of course." Dahlia answers, without hesitation. I feel proud, getting on this track. I smile at the mental image, my fingers itching to light a cigarette in celebration.

"Well, then, I think I found mine."

a/n: so much to say, so little space. okay let's start.

first, if you do follow me on twitter and saw my spiral of decisions on whether or not to finish G78MPH, hello! if you didn't, i want to tell the wattpad family that i feel very not-proud of this portion of harlow's arc. i do not like how it's going bc i feel like it lacks foreshadow progression and lacks the foundation in the beginning of the story—however, i'm going to continue and write past this arc so i can finish and rewrite in the future, having this as a draft to look back on. so, just for clarity, this portion—harlow's arc with his brother—is the least unstable, thought-out plot of the entire book. i will fix it, when i'm finished. i'm not very proud of it.

secondly, i'm planning on finishing this story within the next two months. in doing so, i am not 100% i'll be satisfied with the story. in publishing, it will change, right now, you're just witnessing my writing progress and how i'm trying to play around with ideas. all of this is first thoughts, first drafts. in publishing it'll be more polished.

thirdly, after this arc, theyll be much more darlow content. content i'm really excited of writing. so i hope you'll stay for that long!

that's all!! thank you for your tremendous amount of support through my rants and spirals and i'm so happy you're still on this ride!! i'm just... playing around with this story and trying to fit missing pieces so i apologize if it's not up to your standards. again, i'm writing for me and writing so one day i can do a better draft!! everything is a first draft, so not too harsh of criticism, thank you!!