Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

28 | Blind Spots

MARTES
5:57 PM

Reid Harlow

"Sometimes, I'm worried about you." Presley announces, causing my eyes to shift towards him. He surprised me. I thought he would be at his college, doing some dumb shit that college students do. Instead, he's sitting at the breakfast table, his fingers adjusting the squares on the rubik's cube.

"Are you sure you're not worried about Dahlia?" I mutter bitterly under my breath, taking another sip of the water in my hand. I came down for a drink, not for a fucking chat with Presley Young. I guess we can't always get what we want.

"What?" Presley questions, his brows pulled together in a look of confusion. I can see the cube in his hand, swiftly coordinating back to a solid one-color face it was before. He's not even fucking looking at it—he just knows it.

"Nothing." I shake my head, lowering the glass and heading back in the direction I came from. The stairs.

"You're ignoring me." He proclaims, just as I'm one step away from the door. I stop. The chair screeches behind me, and I hear footsteps following.

I don't turn around and inhale a sharp breath. "No, I'm not." My voice slightly pitched at the end, causing me to swear at my inability to lie. Sometimes, it would be fucking great if I could get away with shit I want to get away with.

"Harlow..." Presley warns lowly, like he knows something and he wants me to admit it. I don't say anything, and his hand plants itself on my shoulder.

I turn around at his touch, and strip his hand away from me. My face drops into a scowl and a sharp glare that tells him to back the fuck away from me. "Don't fucking touch me."

A look of irritation passed through his features, but it left just as quickly as it came. Presley closes his eyes for a second, as if he was trying to calm himself, before he opens them back up. His brown eyes staring back at me, his expression tame.

And it's that—it's that exact face right there that pisses me off beyond belief.

It's annoying, artificial, and fake. I want to see him get angry. I want to see him yell, get pissed off, snap at me in return. It's that layer of calmness I was never able to collect, and never will. It's surface-level, and why the fuck does everyone have to be surface-level around me?

Except Dahlia.

Never Dahlia.

So, why her?

"I don't even want to talk to you right now." I turn away, shaking my head as I make another attempt to head out. I knew, if I stayed, my anger would make an appearance and I wouldn't know how to stabilize it. My aggression has always been between my lips, spilled out like the pages of a novel.

But sometimes, my aggression lays between my knuckles.

I exit from the kitchen and enter the living room, where the stairs are a couple of steps away. I hear Presley following after me, the door separating the living room and the kitchen swinging back and forth, whipping against the air. "What the hell did I do? Why are you acting like...like..."

"Like what?" I demand, turning back around so fast, water spills out of the glass and onto my skin. I really need to set this down. "Like an asshole?"

He doesn't answer.

"Well, newsflash, brother." I sneer mockingly, "I've always been like this. Ever since I fucking got here, I made it clear that I never liked any of you and I never wanted to fucking fit in with any of you. I like to stay alone, and I wish you would fucking respect that and leave me alone!"