Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

52 | Reversing On The Highway

TUESDAY
12:54 AM

Reid Harlow

I saw her today.

Fuck, I—

I draw a heavy sigh, trying to regain my composure and keep enough stability till we get home. Presley sat in the driver seat, occasionally sparing glances in my direction, watching as I stare out of the window with a hard glance and a permanent scowl on my face.

My leg bounces in the seat, my fingers itching for the moment I get to step out of this fucking vehicle. My head is spinning with so much bullshit I can't even comprehend—but the worst fucking part was I can't get the look on her face out of my head.

Presley registers the car into park and not a millisecond later, I'm out, barely bothering to close the door behind me.

I sprint up the steps, my fingers fishing out the keys and jabbing it into the lock, twisting and opening the door—the oak slamming against the wall. I can hear everyone coming down, trying to decipher the ruckus, but I don't bother waiting for them—running up the stairs, down the hallway, and instead of taking a turn to my room, I went into Claudia.

She wasn't in here—good, she won't have to witness this—and my eyes search through her four walls. I walk over to her desk, rip out her drawers, scrambling through her items, trying to find my lighter.

The itching necessity felt like a breath of fresh air, and I needed a smoke whether it was good for me or not. Most likely the latter—but I don't fucking care. My throat is clawing at me for a nicotine puff, my heart beating in my ear, and nothing could fucking save me now.

I ransack through her room. I threw worthless shit to the floor, pushing through stationery and makeup applicants that made no use for me. I peel back her covers, trying to search for this fucking lighter and its stupid cigarettes. I needed it more than ever before.

I could've gone to the gas station and bribed the local cashier, but I didn't have time. Fuck time, I didn't have the vehicle. Presley would rather shoot me than play a company to my addiction, and I don't blame him. It's so fucking bad.

I feel footsteps reaching up the stairs, double the regular sound, and I knew it was more than one. An invisible timer beating down on me, the seconds ticking on the clock, and as desperation clings to my throat like the taste of her lips—I fucking found it.

Just as Claudia and Presley step into the room.

Their eyes search her destroyed room, jaw slacking and eyes peering through every inch of chaos I caused. I watched, frozen, as Claudia stepped inside and examined her room—a near moment of clarity reigns on me like a never before light.

But it didn't last long.

I couldn't muster up an apology—coward, I know—and I pushed past them before they got a chance to say something. Easily slipping past Claudia, Presley grabs my arm at the doorway, stopping me in my pursuit of elevation.

"Harlow," his voice strong and authoritative, eyes met mine with grave intent. His jaw clenches, sharpening the outline, and his brown eyes drops and spares a glance at the cigarettes clutched in my hands. "Are you really going to do this?"

I was taller. I was younger. I was so much more fucking cruel than him.

I didn't bother trying to answer his question and ripped his hand off my arm, resuming my steps. I pull the cigarette out of the box mid-step, flicking the lighter alive as I descend down the steps, and lit the cigarette at the door.