Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

34 | Red Cable, Black Cable

DOMINGO
8:09 PM

Reid Harlow

I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him.

Clayton Gray is the root of all Dahlia's problems—I fucking know it—and subsequently, mine. He's a grade A classified asshole, with no consideration towards his daughter and acts like a fucking child. I mean, who the fuck shoots at their own daughter? With a fucking NERF gun?

Him, that's who.

But, the problem is: walking into this dinner, he hasn't been.

I can safely say, dinner has been awkward as fuck. Dahlia's been translating most of her mother's questions while her father is passively staring at me, like I had some ulterior motive for being here.

I do, but fuck him for thinking so.

I've been trying to be polite towards her mother—I even wore a dark blue button-down to impress her—because I know how much respect Dahlia has for her mother. And, I know, out of everyone, she loves her mother the most.

Her father on the other end, has been free range.

Most of the conversation has been from Dahlia's mother—Alejandra—asking about the simple things. My ambitions, my goals in life, my home life, and my family. So, in short, it's fucking small talk.

And I hate small talk.

But, I eased into it. I told her I didn't have any ambitions, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with my life, I've been in foster care since I was five, and my own family abandoned me when I was twelve. In short: my life has been a shitshow.

I tried to tell Dahlia to translate that last part, but she refused to swear.

That made me smile. And it almost made the dinner bearable.

Clayton, on the other hand, has absolutely no interest in getting to know me. Which is great, because fuck him, but it's also terrible because he's been actively staring at me for the past fucking hour.

He offers little commentary throughout the entire dinner, just basically watching the interaction between Dahlia's mother and I—but he does make faces when I reply to her queries. I caught some, which were when I told Alejandra that I didn't know what I wanted to do in life and that I'm basically not going to college.

"Harlow, is it?" Clayton prompts, finally contributing to the conversation after progressing as a silent spectator for the past hour. He leans forward.

I scoff, sparing him a casual glance. "Last time I checked," I grumble, which causes Dahlia to hit my arm—low enough so her father couldn't see the interaction under the table. This was the second time she did that—the first after I told her I was going to swear her father out—and I came prepared. I grab her hand and lace our fingers together, stopping her from attempting a third.

"Got a mouth on you, son." Clayton comments, tapping his fingers against the table. His eyes flicker between Dahlia and I.

I give him a sarcastic smile. "That's how God intended, I guess."

"You believe in God?"

"I believe in shutting the fuck up, sometimes," I declare blankly, causing Dahlia to try and wiggle out of my grasp. My grip tightens, not enough to hurt her, but enough to keep her captive. "I believe in fathers taking care of their children, not hurting them."

Clayton narrows his eyes at me, and Dahlia gasps at my words. Her mother—I don't think she knows exactly what I said, but from the reaction of the crowd, she probably figured out it wasn't pleasant. Fuck, that's the only person I care about impressing.