Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

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.