Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

62 | All Roads Lead Back Home (Part Two)

SÁBADO
4:43 PM

Reid Harlow

I'm leaving. I'm leaving. I'm leaving.

I have to.

I thought leaving was the easy part: just get up, grab your shit, and go.

It wasn't.

I've been trying to work up the courage to go inside for the past half hour, but I've remained rooted on the planks of the porch. No everyone was home today, except for Presley and Nini. I spotted their car out in the driveway, on my walk home, and I knew it was going to be a rough day.

I have less than three hours.

"Come on, Harlow," I give myself a little prep-talk, flicking the lighter alive with a flick of my thumb but not quite catching a cigarette over the flame. I'm not tempted yet. "It's now or never."

I swallow every ounce of pride—or whatever it is I feel in my stomach—and stand from my spot, entering into the unlocked house. I didn't bother to greet Nini, who was in the kitchen, cooking something with the sounds of sizzling oil snapping in the atmosphere. It made me almost curious.

Ascending up the steps, two at a time, I felt a rush inside of me, telling me to quicken my pace and move swiftly. I shove the way into the bedroom, noting Presley sitting at his desk and drawing calligraphy on a notebook, but I don't bother to greet him. Everything had to be quick.

I pulled the duffle bag from under my bed and unzip, checking to see if there was anything I was missing during my hasty pack. I transferred a lot of my books from the trash bag, packed a few clothes, but still, there hung a missing puzzle in the air.

Hurriedly, I threw open my drawers and searched through the hollow wood, finding nothing more than a couple of textbooks, stationery—before finding the drawing Nico had given me. My shoulders instantly slouch. I almost forgot about this.

I took a long look of the artwork, feeling my heart clench at the sight of the drawing: the way he drew the house with the stereotypical white picket fences and the mailbox that seems disproportionately large, the way the family lines in front of the house, with little recognizable features with the exception of our comparable height and the little tags of our names hanging over the stick figures. It almost made me feel like I belong.

I can feel the hastiness inside of me begin to mellow, and as I carefully place it into the duffle bag, I take one long sigh before zipping up the bag and throwing the strap over my shoulder, readying my departure.

"What are you doing?"

I freeze. I anticipated this reaction, but refuse to turn and acknowledge him. I know if I do, Presley will have some clever way of talking me out of this decision or try to make me reconsider my options when that's the last thing I want. I don't say anything to him, lunging forward towards the door—when Presley grabs a hold of my shoulder, stopping me in place. His grip firm. "Harlow."

The air hung with a large tensity, and I could feel it in the way he stiffens behind me. Presley doesn't move the hand off my shoulder and I don't move to shove him. I know I owe him an explanation, out of everyone, but I couldn't face him. "I'm leaving."

"Why?"

My jaw clenches without a thought. I can't give him a valid excuse for this. I've been thinking everything over—to choose between Scott or this family—and I've always drawn an inconclusive line. Nothing makes sense. Both sides offered so much, and I had to pick.

But Scott's my brother out of everything.

"I found my brother," I reveal, letting my voice roll out evenly. "He asked me to live with him, and I'm going."