Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

60 | Familiar Roads, Familiar Turns

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.