Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

38 | Engine Fumes

I care about Dahlia, more than I've ever cared about anyone. I want her to feel safe, and I want her to be her own person. If she ever does find love, or fall in love—I want her to be with someone who deserves her. Who'll cherish and love her in ways unimaginable, and who won't remind her of her father.

It...can't be me.

"Harlow." Presley declares securely, "you're not her father."

"No, you don't fucking understand." I heaved a heavy breath, "I am like her father. In so many fucking ways, I can't even imagine. I'm an asshole, I smoke the same cigarette brand, we have the same empty look in our eyes when we look out in the world and the way we act—it's so fucking close. We're so fucking similar."

The thoughts that've been consuming me and driving me to insanity comes to surface, the words bobbled at my throat with a cry. I hated that I act this way, but the similarities are too fucking close to be ignored. No matter what I feel for Dahlia, I can't let anything else happen.

She doesn't deserve that.

"It's the glass," I choke on my words, pushing myself up from the bed and into a sitting position, my legs swinging off the edge and finding the surface of the floor. "It's the fucking glass, and it's the driving and I remind her of her father in so many ways. She even fucking told me."

I'm staring at my foster brother from across the room and tears are welling in my eyes, glassy and gloss. I'm fighting to keep my composure, hold the fucking torch that I'm fucking strong—but I didn't care at this moment. I don't fucking care about the reputation I produced or how Presley saw me—I don't. I care about Dahlia, and about her only and it's fucking suffocating me to realize that this is who I am.

This is how she saw me.

Presley pushes himself off the bed and mimics my position, his expression filled with intense concern. His eyes study me, trying to produce an appropriate reaction—when he remains silent. A silence that tells a thousand words.

"She had a panic attack the other day," I told, the words unraveling and hard to control. "We were driving and she swerved into the other lane, and I pulled us to safety but I went off at her. I was so pissed, so afraid and she wasn't concentrating on the road—and everything spilled." The memories flooding back in waves, collapsing my chest. "She left the car in tears, Presley. She was fucking crying—because of me."

Presley opened his mouth, but no words fell from his lips. He stares back at me, trying to predict a right response—but there isn't. I don't want a fucking lie to help conceal my guilt, but the truth kills me too much to consider. There's no right answer here. It's just misery.

I let out a strangled cry, and my eyes drops to the floor. I'm wiping away tears, but they're flooding faster than I could count and I just can't help it.

I could change right now, but it wouldn't matter. I'm ingrained in her brain as this low-life that reminds her too much of her father, and she couldn't even look me into the eyes to admit that. The choices are crumbling to pieces, and I don't have the strength to pick them up.

Everything: the glass, the cigarettes, the driving. Everything is too fucking much.

Presley picks himself from the bed and walks over to me, moving swift and effortlessly. He places a hand on my shoulder, something that would usually irritate me, when this time—it felt comforting.

"Come on," Presley commands softly, nodding his head to the door. "Let's go downstairs."

I clench my jaw, "the family—"