Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

60 | Familiar Roads, Familiar Turns

VIERNES
5:38 PM

Reid Harlow

Yeah, I fucking lied—I'm not doing good.

Standing outside the gas station, with my back presses against the hood of the black Mustang and a lit cigarette tuck between my fingers, I knew I fucked up. I knew I was losing it.

I'm not surprised that I led myself down this path once more—but the bitter shame comes biting at me faster than it did before. I could still recall the disappointment in Claudia and Prelsey's expression when I first relapsed, nothing can compare to this moment right here—where they aren't here to knock some sense into me.

And it's true, they shouldn't save me. No one can. Not even the love of my fucking life can pull me out of the sea and breathe air into my lungs—but it helps having someone at your side, to see that you are drowning. As much as I hated them in the beginning, I came to realize that they helped me in so many ways. Ways I can't even repay.

The problem here is they can't help me with this.

I bring the butt of the cigarette to my mouth, inhaling a smoke of nicotine and watching the way the ends char the paper with each sharp breath. I hate the way I cling to this as my first response to all my problems, but I can't help it.

Sure, there's other ways to treat your wounds; talk to a psychologist, reach out to a friend, speak to family, but the idea that they'll criticize my coping mechanisms would bring out a bitter defense that I know will only go downwards. Plus, cigarettes don't talk back.

And they can be here—anytime, anywhere. Just bring a lighter.

How can I say the same for people?

The phone buzzes in my back pocket, probably another call from Presley about missing family dinner and the importance of punctuation, when that's the furthest thing from my mind.  I don't give a shit about the Soberano-Godfrey family–I'm trying to figure out my own.

You know, the Harlow family. The broken family with only two living members left—or at least, what I consider is left.

The buzz ends, after seeing that I wasn't going to pick up the call after the umpteenth time—before it rings again. And again. And again, until someone picks up. Fuck, Presley Young persistent today.

The sound coming from my phone is ruining my deep, depressive thoughts, especially trying to figure out what to do next. Plus, the cigarette is nearly lit to the butt of the stick and I wasn't planning on sticking around for much longer.

Dropping it to the ground and crushing it under my weight, I pick up the call without looking at the display. "I'm not fucking coming to family dinner and I'm not changing my mind about this." I snap, tightening my grip around the phone, close to shattering the screen, "either fuck off or I'm going to throw this phone at a wall and you won't ever hear from me or your car again."

The response is radio silence. Until, I hear Presley clear his throat, "I guess a reunion dinner is off the table, huh?"

The voice wasn't my foster brother.

Instead, it was clear and smooth and sounded exactly like the mechanic I met outside of Mason's Motors.

I scoff into the phone, disbelief wavering into my system, "how the fuck did you get my number, Scott?"

"That was the easy part." Scott says casually, "I just had to go to the front desk and search up the Mustang model before finding your number logged under Presley Young. The hard part was getting you to answer."