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."

I wordlessly pull back the phone to read the display, seeing digits spread across the top instead of a contact name. I grit my teeth, dumbass, I scold myself, the one time you didn't check the contact name.

I don't speak into the phone for a couple of seconds, allowing the white noise to muse between our eardrums as I gather my response. I'm not ready to talk to him. I'm not ready to feel like absolute shit again for needing my brother as a kid. That night—as much as I don't want to admit it—fucked me up worse than I thought.

"You still there, Reid?"

I swallow hard, the bile in my throat mainly from the nicotine. "I thought you wanted to find yourself." I snapped, guilt passing through me the exact moment those words left my mouth. "I thought your past was holding you down. Why the fuck are you calling me?"

Scott pauses for a moment. "Well," he begins briefly, not fazed by my aggression. That made me feel even worse. "I was wondering, if you're free, if you want to meet up and talk."

"Talk about what?" I thought we already discussed all we needed to know. And everything else—he dodges. I was the asshole for wanting my brother by my side, while he was the one that left in hopes of pursuing a better life for himself. I already feel like total shit holding him back, no need to add salt to the wound.

"What else?"

I don't say anything, because I don't have a smart-ass comment prepped and ready to unload at him. I'm still hurt. I'm still trying to process everything. My head is spinning like a fucking disc and no one is pressing stop. It's been four days since our reunion and it still feels like I just saw him seconds ago—with the same heavy weight pressed against my chest, and a nebulous filling my lungs. The one time—at this point—that I can truly feel like I'm breathing is with a cigarette tucked between my lips.

Do you find the fucking irony in there?

"Don't you have some cars to fix?" I accuse, wanting to add or get run over by but it was too harsh.

"It's my day off," he replies eloquently, like he predicted this question. "What'd you say?"

No. The word burns the tip of my tongue, waiting to be spit out, but I can't find it in myself to let it. As much as my mind is telling me to move on, to leave it alone and find some sort of peace within me—my heart doesn't follow. Because, at the end of the day, this is still my brother. My blood and bones.

"I can't stay for long," I lie through my teeth. "I have a family dinner I have to attend."

Scott chuckles on the other line, "the same family dinner you were telling to fuck off?"

Shit, that slipped my mind.

Embarrassment creeps onto me like an old friend and I let out a huff, hoping to disguise the heat that releases onto my skin. "Where do you want to meet?" I demand, changing topics, "before I change my mind."

━━━━━

VIERNES

9:41 PM

Reid Harlow

This fucking prick.

I've been to many diners in my life, especially small family-owned businesses because they were the most empathetic towards kids with my situation. I remembered once, being thirteen, running away from a foster home and ending up in a mom and pop shop—starved and exhausted.

They welcomed me in with open arms; it was way past closing time, and they were cleaning up shop, but they went to the back kitchen and made me a large dinner, setting it in one of the booths, and sat with me while I ate. I remember scoffing down the food like it was my last breath of air and I remembered being asked questions here and there, trying to figure out where I came from and how I can get back home.

I don't have a home, I had told them, I'm a foster kid.

They let me spend the night in their diner, giving me a fresh change of clothes and a shower, before morning came—and the cops were at the door, pounding on the glass, wanting to get me back to my foster parents.

So, yeah, I know places. I know where to go to ask for a hot meal and I know where to go and sit until closing hours dawns and I have to get back to the house and face the wrath of my foster parents—and I generally, have a fond memory of these places.

Except this one.

He took me to our mother's favorite diner.

We sat across from each other, in one of the corner booths far from the entrance, with stiff posture and avoiding eyes. At least, that's the case for me. I didn't bother picking up the reading on Scott's face, trying to look everywhere but.

The diner looks the same: the dark oaks that built the walls were glossed with a finishing polish, accented with a steel blue. The bar in the center holds a large decors of a variety of liquors, the shelf being made from the same hard oak. The counters were lined with a dark granite, complimenting the wood, and many sat on the barstools, conversing with the bartender.

It feels the same—the same coffee smell that stings the air, mixes with a tint of alcohol; the brown cushions that line the booths were replaced with a new cover, and the tables look nicer. But, I don't know for sure. Maybe everything I thought it looked like before, was in my imagination.

I was barely scratching five when my mother brought me in here for the last time, with Scott holding my hand, so the memories of this place are faint, almost fleeing.

But not quite.

I like to believe I have a strong memory, and I tend to hold onto things that I have a strong attachment to. While I don't remember much of my mother, and sometimes her face, I do remember the way I felt when she picked me up and how her hair would always smell like lavender on a warm, spring day.

My fingers clutch around the glass, knuckles growing white from the grip, and my eyes train anywhere but my brother's face. I'm still trying to take in the location he picked—our mother's favorite diner of all places—and try to loosen the steel-grip memories of her flooding back. Out of all my family, she is the only one that holds the most untainted memory. I can't say, think or imagine anything bad about her. I rather keep it that way.

"You remember." Scott says, in a matter-of-fact. It didn't take a genius to pick up what he means.

My jaw sharpens, and I can hear glass cracking under my pressure. "It's hard not to." I say through gritted teeth, looking down at the clean, polished table with no markings left on top. It has to be new. "Mom brings us here every time we have something to celebrate."

Scott chuckles softly, "her celebrations were excuses for anything. Remember that time you learned how to say Mama and she was so happy, she picked you up and took you here for some midnight pancakes."

My jaw loosens, before I shake my head. "No. I don't."

Even if I don't see it, I could feel his smile dropping. "Oh."

I don't say anything, taking a sip of water, seeing the tiny cracks filtered through the glass—not yet leaking. I instantly loosen my grip, apologizing to the owners, and somewhat to my mother, in my head.

"She loved you a lot, ya know." Scott declares, lowering the heat of his gaze on me. I grow rigid—not from his statement, but his intense stare. I feel like a kid in trouble. "I know you probably don't remember much about her, but she loved you a lot. You were her baby and her everything."

I take in a breath, "you were her son too."

"Yeah," I can feel him shrug, "but it's...it's different."

I don't know why, but that made me look up. I meet my brother's green-eyed gaze and my brows pull together, challenging him. "How?"

Scott swallows, shifting his eyes to the side before returning back to me. "Reid," he says my name, and in this place out of anywhere else, it stings the worst. "You know why."

"No," I shake my head. "I don't."

My brother watches me, the muscles in his jaw ticks—just ever-so-slightly. "I had more time with her," he swallows hard, dropping his stare to the table with both hands cupping the glass in a light grip. "She knew your time with her would be cut short."

I wince, closing my eyes. I want to say I felt more hearing that from him, but I didn't. I didn't know her that well. There's a small jab in my chest, reminding me of all I lost, but not enough to hurt. And that might be my most pitiful story.

The boy that cannot feel the loss of his mother.

"Did you..." He adjusts himself in his seat, the glass clinks with the table in his movement, "do you remember how you got your name?"

How could I forget?

"When Mom found out she was pregnant with you, you were about five months. You were unplanned. She had no idea what to name you." Scott recalls fondly, adding a small chuckle at the end. "She asked me. I was—what? Five, six? I only knew the names of cartoon characters, and I remember one of my favorite, so I said—"

"Allister." I finish for him, sucking in an even breath. I don't remember exactly who told me—my mother or Scott. It could've been both. "But Mom didn't like the name. Said it reminded her of a serial killer, so you suggested Reid instead, your second favorite character." I say, slowly peeling my eyes open and meeting my brother's gaze. I exhale sharply. "I know what happens after too."

His face completely drops, and so does his hand clinging onto his glass. He doesn't look like he was prepared for this conversation and for once—just this once—I caught him off-guard. "Reid, you don't have to—"

"Dad left, right?" I cut him off, hanging the rhetorical question in the air, knowing damn well I didn't need an answer. "He couldn't handle a second kid, the workload was getting too much, the pay wasn't enough and instead of settling down and talking it out with Mom—he just up and left."

If I don't think about it too much, I don't get hurt. And I try not to. My father was nothing more but a name on my birth certificate, a hush whisper spoken in secret. I don't know what he looks like and I don't remember anything about him. I get little details from social workers here and there, but not enough to conjure an image or a background.

I like to keep it that way.

Scott doesn't say anything in return. He lowers his gaze and cups the glass, drawing the liquid to his lips and taking a low sip, allowing the silence to stretch uncomfortably across the table.

"I don't think I could ever forgive him for leaving Mom." My brother reveals in the midst of our silence, lowering the glass. "That one—I'll always hate him for that."

It was the truth. He didn't look like he was lying, or sound like he was; there was rare vulnerability in his voice the way he confesses to me—like he needed to let that off his chest. I didn't know that about him. He never told me. To be fair, I was young when he left. I couldn't be the person he confided in or understand what he felt with all these memories, pressure and decisions. I was only a kid.

I'm starting to sympathize more on why he left.

I wanted to add more about our father, leave an insult or two, but it was clear that it hurts Scott more than it hurts me to discuss our parental heritage. So, instead of dwelling on a past that both of us can't change—let's talk present.

"Why did you bring me here, Scott?"

My brother doesn't respond immediately, dropping his gaze on the table, both hands latch around the cup, fingers intertwined together. "I wanted to talk," he answers feebly, less confident than before, "plus, this was the only place I could think of that the both of us knew."

I exhale a forceful sigh, looking around the place once more. It does hold some fond memories, and I could almost feel my mother's presence in the room, but it's not the same. This is not what we came here to do.

"You never answered my question," I declare, turning back to him, "at the shop."

Scott raises his head, brows pull together. I can see how we look alike. "What question?"

"Do you regret it?" I repeat, muscles in my jaw subconsciously ticks once the words are spoken. Even my body knows I don't want to hear the answer.

His green eyes flicked down my face for a brief second, reading my expression, before returning back to hold my gaze. I can see, from the corner of my eyes, how his broad shoulders slightly shudders and he hesitates before opening his mouth.

"Sometimes." Scott answers delicately, "I know I missed out on a lot. When you first entered high school, learning how to drive—all the milestones. I think about that on some days."

I tap the table twice, "and on other days?"

My brother swallows hard, taking in a deep breath, and flexes his jaw. "If I had stayed, or taken you with me, I wouldn't be where I'm at now. I have a job that actually pays well, I have my own house, I'm even thinking of going back to college and getting my associate's degree." He pauses, holding my gaze in true honesty. "I don't regret that."

The answer burns a deep, charring hole in my chest and nothing—liquor, cigarettes, or even Dahlia—could save me from that. I feel my hands bottling into fists and my jaw tightens, hoping to make it go away. I don't want to feel this. I hate feeling vulnerable, and much more, I hate feeling hurt when I asked for this.

Ignoring the flame inside of me, I say, "you pretty much got your life sorted out, don't you?"

Scott looks thoughtful. "A bit."

I wanted to open my mouth and ask: were you ever going to come back for me? But the question weighed heavy on the tip of my tongue, unable to process through. It didn't feel like the right moment, and I'm not sure I want to hear him explicitly say it.

But I'm certain he would've.

I nod, not saying anything else, before I begin to slide across the seat and stand from the booth, Scott's eyes follow me with a look of confusion. "I guess," I announce quietly, feeling like I took down shots of vodka, "I guess we're done here."

"What are you talking about?"

"The talk?" I reaffirm, gesturing out to the table pathetically. It didn't need to hurt more than it does. "I asked all the questions I wanted, you answered. I'm done."

"But I'm not," Scott stands from his own seat, allowing me to measure our difference. He's about two inches taller than me, a bit stronger, and owns a hell of a lot more dark circles than I do. He's an adult, older; it's expected. I just got here. "I want to know more about you, Little Reid. We lost six years."

I'm taken back. I didn't expect to hear that coming out of his mouth—especially my nickname. I haven't heard that in ages, almost forgetting the adorned name my brother coined through our days in foster care.

My knees buckle underneath me, also taken back by his objective on initiating this conversation. I thought this talk was meant for my closure, for me to pick and choose what I want to say and ask, and get it over with. I didn't think he wanted to do the same.

"I—" I cut myself off, unable to speak. It might be from the swell of emotions in my throat, rendering me dumbstruck. Scott doesn't pay attention to that and gestures towards the booth, waiting for me to retake my seat.

I wordlessly follow directions, sliding back onto the same cushion, and Scott waits until I'm fully seated before he does the same. He reclaims the space in front of me, locking his hands together on the table.

"You thought that was it?" Scott questions, his expression looking taken back. "That was our talk?"

I don't know how to respond to that. "I...I guess?"

He scoffs, moving closer, "Reid, this wasn't just for you—it was also for me. I got to meet my little brother again, after six years, and you think I wouldn't have some questions?"

My heart—fuck—it melts. I don't know how else to describe it; my brother, after six years, didn't forget me. He has questions, he wants answers—he still fucking cares.

I clench down my jaw, because I knew if I didn't, I was going to burst out crying—out of happiness. I truly did think he forgot about me, he didn't care that much. I mean, he left for six whole years without contact or a note so whatever I thought this meeting was—wasn't.

It was a real talk.

My brother.

I suck in a levelled breath, trying to stabilize myself, before prompting the discussion, "so," I swallow hard, my voice a bit pitched, "what do you want to know?"

"God," he sighs out a breath of fresh air, with a smile on his face. I could feel myself mimicking his expression. "Everything? Anything. I don't know where to start. Should we start off when I left?"

I knew it was a joke; it has to be. Though the joke was cutting a bit close, I couldn't help but let a chuckle escape me. My brother reads my reaction before finding his own, and when it is safe, he releases a comfortable laugh. I feel the tension in my shoulders completely melt, the walls and borders I left up for my own sanity and protection—begins to crumble down.

My brother.

"I got a girlfriend," I confess, starting from the beginning of the year, not wishing to retrace my steps back to that very day. I want to tell stories that feel interesting, worth-knowing, and pleasant. The better of my life—not the tragedies and the heartaches.

"I noticed," Scott says with a laugh, his green eyes bright. "Can I ask how did you two meet?"

The memory easily returns to me, backed with a smile, and I nod, "sure," I answer, running circles on the inside of my right palm. "It all started with this park bench..."

And I told the story. And the next. And the next.

We ordered dinner sometime after that and asked for a pitch of water. A couple, actually. No one can accurately detail how much we talked that night—expressing our past and present, dabbling into our future; our truths and our lies. It felt like eons had passed in that diner.

I don't remember what time I left, or what time I got home, but I remember the feeling. The feeling of contentment that warms my chest, the feeling of optimism that lights up on my lungs to allow me to breathe, and the feeling of liberation—from breaking down all those dusted walls and tower-high bricks and letting myself go.

The world—somehow, still shitty—was starting to look up.

And I could finally face the sky without anticipating the weight of its crush.

My brother.