Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

62 | All Roads Lead Back Home (Part Three)

SÁBADO
9:21 PM

Reid Harlow

Lucas Moretti is exactly how you would picture him: standing over six-feet with a radiating aura of arrogance, a well-tailored suit that he could afford off the salary of an executive position, a stubble beard that outlines the sharpness of his jaw—something Scott and I got from him—and dark, root-brown hair the same shade of my brother and me.

He's also the man that didn't recognize me.

Lucas stares at me with a frown, lines forming between his brows as his eyes travel down the rest of my body. He taps his leather shoe against the tiled floor, trying to comprehend who I am.

It's fair, he doesn't know me. From the limited knowledge I was exposed to, Lucas didn't show up at my birth nor was he there to see me before he left. Instead, he took the coward act of packing his shit and leaving at midnight—while my mom was at the hospital. When she came home, she found the house nearly vacant of everything, and she became a single mother overnight.

I'm sure he knew I existed, but not enough.

"Scott," my father calls for, which causes my brother to step out of the kitchen and enter into the hallway, his eyes directly ignoring me. "Is this your friend?"

God, I can't believe how pathetic I feel when his suggestion actually hurt me. It's one thing to not know of me, but it's another to be dumb enough to not connect the dots. We share similar features, for fuck sake. I have his eyes, his shade of hair, his height. I fucking look like Scott, saved for a few differences that makes us our own person, but nonetheless, still fucking presentable. Even Randy knew it.

"Dad," Scott lets out a breath. "I thought you had a business trip this weekend."

"Yeah, it got cancelled until next month," my father loosens his tie, still eyeing me cautiously—like I'm a fucking threat. "Who are you?"

This time, I let out a scoff of my own. If I'm putting the pieces together correctly—which I think I am—this means, Scott never wanted me to live with him. If our father didn't know of my arrival, nor recognize me, I doubt he wants me to stay here in this house.

I fucking left Presley and Nico for this.

I don't feel anything; my chest is void of emotions. I don't feel the surge of regret electrifying itself through my veins or the burden of hurt that normally hits center at my heart. I don't feel anything.

"Well, dad, this is, um—"

"Harlow," I answer for my brother, with a scowl and hardened jaw, "my name is Harlow."

"Harlow?" Lucas repeats, brows wrinkling together as he, himself, pulls together the connection. "As in—"

"Emilia Harlow," I nod in confirmation, my hands returning back into fists. "Your ex-wife."

The room grows tense, a stillness settles in the air as Lucas comprehends the matter of information being thrown at him. His second son, the mention of his ex-wife, the reason for his departure. I wonder, for a second, if he regretted it.

"What are you doing here?" My father asks me, his face unreadable.

I scoff, hurt trinkles into my system, igniting a lost sensation, "that's the first thing you ask me? After meeting your son for the first time?"

His expression stoic, "I asked it, didn't I?"

I don't know whether to laugh out of disbelief or cry, because I can feel the emotions rushing into me at this moment. I don't know what triggered it—to see my father here, standing, and still disregards me as a mistake or the fact that I have that attitude.