Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

44 | Down The Tunnel

MIÉRCOLES
7:43 PM

Reid Harlow

"Who the fuck keeps ringing the doorbell?!" I shout over my shoulders, expecting an answer from one of my family members, only to hear the churning noises of the heater resetting back to life in the attic.

I glance behind me, finding the emptiness of the kitchen and the family room—a complete contrast to the chaos happening moments ago. Where Nini was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets searching for her finest chinaware, with Sebastian racing around the room, scavenging for his keys through the compartments of the furniture, and the kids were off idling with miscellaneous tasks to complete before Christmas day.

Another ring of the bells sounds from the foyer, and with an absent-minded gesture I lower Nico to the floor, his tiny legs begin swinging against the air, scrambling to catch the ground. I pull my hands from his waist, while the little boy clings onto two round, glitter ornaments in his hands.

"I thought everyone was home for the weekend," I muse to him, to which he simply shrugs in reply. I didn't know what else to expect from Nico Suarez. Another ring of the doorbell is heard through the echoes of the foyer. I glare at the hallway entrance. "Do you know who's at the door?"

Nico shakes his head, dropping the ornaments on the coffee table, right beside the plastic storage box containing an array of Christmas decorations the family still hasn't put up. Despite the day being Christmas Eve.

From what I heard—they do Christmas a bit differently.

Nico studies his palms, noticing some silver glitter has left the ornaments and contaminated his hands. He slams them together, rubbing them in hopes of getting them off—but it didn't work. His next decision was to rub them against his pants, to which I quickly scramble to grab his hands before he made a mess of things with his clothes.

"No," I shake my head, capturing both his wrists in one hand. His wide green eyes stare back at me. "Nini is going to have a really hard time getting that out of your clothes, so let's go wash your hands first."

"Oh." His lips part and I nod alongside his realization, pulling him towards the kitchen and lifting him up to wash his hands with soap.

Another ring of the doorbell is heard.

"God, who the fuck is so persistent?" I mumble under my breath, ripping a paper towel from the bundle. I hand it to Nico, dropping him back on the floor. Making my way into the hallway and approaching the door, my fingers wrap around the knob. My jaw set, annoyance flares in my features as I rip open the door. "Whoever the fuck keeps doing that—"

I cut myself short. Whoever the fuck I thought was behind the door—didn't matter. Dahlia and her mother stood behind the oak, culprits to the continuous ringing. I seem to have caught her in the act as her finger stopped mid-air, aiming for the bell.

She drops her hand, tucking it behind her back. My expression softens significantly, as my eyes travel to Dahlia—reading her from head to toe. She's wearing an army-green matching sweatpants and sweatshirt, and her nose is blush red. Her cheeks are pale of any color and she's shivering on the porch, bouncing on the heel of her feet.

"Hi." Dahlia greets, a breath of cold air escapes her lips. She since pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, balling the cuffs in the middle of her palms. "I, um," she swallows her words.

The last time we talked, we were at the bench—where Dahlia finally spoke her mind about what she wanted. She hated smoking, that much I already knew—but this time, she wanted me to stop smoking. To stop elevating myself on a high that rides on the spite of my brother. To stop killing myself with each breath I take.