SÁBADO
4:43 PM
Reid Harlow
I'm leaving. I'm leaving. I'm leaving.
I have to.
I thought leaving was the easy part: just get up, grab your shit, and go.
It wasn't.
I've been trying to work up the courage to go inside for the past half hour, but I've remained rooted on the planks of the porch. No everyone was home today, except for Presley and Nini. I spotted their car out in the driveway, on my walk home, and I knew it was going to be a rough day.
I have less than three hours.
"Come on, Harlow," I give myself a little prep-talk, flicking the lighter alive with a flick of my thumb but not quite catching a cigarette over the flame. I'm not tempted yet. "It's now or never."
I swallow every ounce of pride—or whatever it is I feel in my stomach—and stand from my spot, entering into the unlocked house. I didn't bother to greet Nini, who was in the kitchen, cooking something with the sounds of sizzling oil snapping in the atmosphere. It made me almost curious.
Ascending up the steps, two at a time, I felt a rush inside of me, telling me to quicken my pace and move swiftly. I shove the way into the bedroom, noting Presley sitting at his desk and drawing calligraphy on a notebook, but I don't bother to greet him. Everything had to be quick.
I pulled the duffle bag from under my bed and unzip, checking to see if there was anything I was missing during my hasty pack. I transferred a lot of my books from the trash bag, packed a few clothes, but still, there hung a missing puzzle in the air.
Hurriedly, I threw open my drawers and searched through the hollow wood, finding nothing more than a couple of textbooks, stationery—before finding the drawing Nico had given me. My shoulders instantly slouch. I almost forgot about this.
I took a long look of the artwork, feeling my heart clench at the sight of the drawing: the way he drew the house with the stereotypical white picket fences and the mailbox that seems disproportionately large, the way the family lines in front of the house, with little recognizable features with the exception of our comparable height and the little tags of our names hanging over the stick figures. It almost made me feel like I belong.
I can feel the hastiness inside of me begin to mellow, and as I carefully place it into the duffle bag, I take one long sigh before zipping up the bag and throwing the strap over my shoulder, readying my departure.
"What are you doing?"
I freeze. I anticipated this reaction, but refuse to turn and acknowledge him. I know if I do, Presley will have some clever way of talking me out of this decision or try to make me reconsider my options when that's the last thing I want. I don't say anything to him, lunging forward towards the door—when Presley grabs a hold of my shoulder, stopping me in place. His grip firm. "Harlow."
The air hung with a large tensity, and I could feel it in the way he stiffens behind me. Presley doesn't move the hand off my shoulder and I don't move to shove him. I know I owe him an explanation, out of everyone, but I couldn't face him. "I'm leaving."
"Why?"
My jaw clenches without a thought. I can't give him a valid excuse for this. I've been thinking everything over—to choose between Scott or this family—and I've always drawn an inconclusive line. Nothing makes sense. Both sides offered so much, and I had to pick.
But Scott's my brother out of everything.
"I found my brother," I reveal, letting my voice roll out evenly. "He asked me to live with him, and I'm going."
Presley scoffs at this, "the brother that left you?"
"It's different now."
"I fucking doubt it is."
A slick agitation rolled over me, and I threw my shoulder forward, losing his grip. I don't want to argue with him—I don't have the fucking time—so, without another word, I step forward and charge down the stairs, agitated and full steps echoes through the hardwood.
Presley follows me out, the sound of his footsteps hitting the oak floorboard, before I hear him lean over the railing and shout: "Harlow is running away!"
"I'm not running away!" I answer with a snarl, looking up to my foster brother, the guy I've been sharing my bedroom with for almost a year, the guy that was this close to becoming my brother—but not quite there yet. Presley meets my challenging gaze with a stare of his own, his jaw ticks but is unreadable.
I hear charged footsteps exiting the kitchen, more than one, and find Nico and Nini rushing to the foyer, one with an apron on and the other holding a couple blocks of Legos.
Nini gives me a onceover, eyes hovering over the duffle bag hung over my shoulder, "what is going on?"
With a clenched jaw, trying to unwind the brewing annoyance I grew for Presley for outing my departure, I say with ease, "I'm leaving, Nini."
Her brows knit together, "what—why?"
"He found his brother." Presley states in the overhead, with disbelief and disdain. He pushes himself off the railing, using his hands for the theatrics. "He's leaving us for his brother—who left him six fucking years ago!"
I could trace the piercing hurt in his voice, even as he tries to hide it under the octave of his volume, but it's present. I could tell. I've been there too.
"Could you leave me the fuck alone?" I shout back in response, hiding the hurt in my voice as well—but this time, I did it better. Even if I feel for his pain, and sympathize, that doesn't make my decision go away. "It's my fucking life."
Presley scoffs, in a way that shows that he's absolutely full of it. He looks away and shakes his head, ticking his jaw, before lowering his expression to me, sharp and deadly. "I don't think you could be this naive, but I guess I'm wrong." He says, each word lingering with a frightening calm. "You're making a big mistake, and this time, I won't be there to clean it up."
And with that, he turns on his heel and left, making sure to slam the bedroom door on his way in.
I huff at the threat and turn back to Nini and Nico, standing there with the middle of the foyer, watching the interaction unfold. "I'm sorry you had to witness that," I apologize sincerely, flicking my attention down to the little boy with the wide green eyes.
"That doesn't...Harlow, you're leaving?" Nini brings the topic back to ground, wiping her palms against the front of her apron. "Is it—did we do something wrong?"
"No," I shake my head, swallowing the punch of her expression, her version of hurt, "my brother invited me to live with him, and you know, my brother means to the world to me."
"Harlow..." She doesn't seem too convinced by my explanation, and instead, her brows knit together once more and her fingers play with the strap of her apron, "are you sure about this? Can you at least wait till Sebastian gets home and we can talk about this?"
"This is what I want," I say, reminding myself more than her. "I'm already eighteen, so I can legally do whatever the hell I want—"
"I know," she cuts me off, "I'm just...I don't think this is an idea you act on impulse."
"It's not impulse," I defend. "Look, I appreciate all you've done for me, but like I said before, you're not my mother, you're not my family and you'll never be. I found my family—so can you let me go back to him?"
Nin quiets, reading me through her brown eyes with a glossiness forming in her gaze. Minutes pass, with a brutal silence, and I decide not to waste anymore time explaining what's already been acknowledged. Without bidding a final farewell, I turned and threw open the door—leaving.
Stepping off the porch and onto the sidewalk, I took a couple of strides forward before a small cry was heard, "Harlow!"
I glance over my shoulder to spot Nico attempting to follow me out of the front door, only to be held back by the hands of our foster mother and his cries growing louder, expression growing more desperate and pleading. "HARLOW!"
I grit my jaw and turn from the sight, closing my eyes for a few, hard seconds. Tightness wraps itself around my body like a second skin, and I fought the urge to look back, despite the cries. I had to gather myself to make it to the bus stop, each step forward is another way of losing his scream—till it was nothing more than a background noise.
I stood behind strangers, awaiting the arrival of the charter. When it came and everyone began to load on, each step on the vehicle felt like anchored steps, like I stepped on with weights tied to my ankles. It took willpower to make it to a seat.
And when I did sit down, dropping my bag to the empty seat beside me, I couldn't stop myself from revisiting the scene—of Presley's disappointment, of Nini's hurt, of Nico's cries.
I try to tell myself that'll be worth it in the end, since I'll get my brother, but I'm starting to question if one entity is truly worth the cost of an entire, loving family.
━━━━━
SÁBADO
6:44 PM
Reid Harlow
It has to be worth it. Right?
The bell chimes at my entrance. The familiar sight of Randy, standing behind the counter, greets me as his eyes catch my arrival with a warily look down at my bag. He steps the clipboard down on his hand.
"Can I help ya with something?" He asks with caution.
"Yeah," I clear my throat, "can you get Scott Harlow for me?"
"Harlow?" He repeats with a tone, to which I nod. "We don't have a Scott Harlow, do ya mean Moretti?"
"Huh?"
Randy doesn't acknowledge my confusion, and instead, widens his eyes with subtle recognition, jabbing a rude finger at me. "Ya know what, you do look like Moretti. Let me go get him for ya." He declares, and without saying another word, heads to the back. I stood there for a good moment, attempting to piece together my skepticism.
I didn't get to do much before Scott appeared behind the back, searched for me, and found me with a green-eyed gaze and a bright smile. My brother approaches and throws an arm around my shoulders, glancing down at the bag. "You're early."
"Just half an hour," I say, before pointing to Randy shadowing near the doorway. "Why did he call you Moretti?"
"Huh?"
"Moretti," I repeat, a little hurt and raising my voice, "he called you a Moretti instead of a Harlow—why are you using dad's name?"
"Reid, calm down." My brother tries to sedate me with a whisper, lowering his volume from nosy customers sitting at the rows of seats leaning against the window. "It's not a big deal, I just applied under dad's name so I can get callbacks, okay?"
"Why can't you Harlow?"
"Because—" He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes closing briefly. "Dad works at a big corporate job and he's VP. His name owns notoriety."
I eye my brother warily, but say nothing else. He doesn't add to his explanation, dropping his arm around my shoulders and gestures a hand to the bag beside me. "Is that your things?"
I'm still a bit hurt—or perhaps, the better word is betrayed. I mean, Harlow was our mother's maiden name and it felt like the last living identity connected back to her. For Scott to change it so easily, especially after what he told me at the diner, felt like a piss on the grave.
"Reid."
"Yeah," I grumble bitterly, lugging the strap down my arm. "Can I drop it off in your car and wait?"
What the case may be, and however fucking dumb his decision sounds, I chose to put my trust in my brother. If Scott says it's for job opportunities, it's for job opportunities. There should be no other motive behind the name change.
"Yeah, of course," Scott says, "let me just clock off early so we can head to my house early."
I dip my head in response, dropping the bag with a thump, waiting for Scott to jog to the back and in minutes, return with a set of keys in his hands. "Let's go."
The ride to his house was silent and I didn't bother to spark a conversation to ease the silence. I tried to use this time to rationalize my thoughts, calming myself down before I overthink and throw—what did my brother call it—temper tantrums.
Scott begins to turn into a suburban gated community with charcoal steel bars and a security detail for entrance. I push myself off the leather seat and lean forward against the dashboard, taking in everything under the windshield—of how my brother could afford this neighborhood.
My brother greets the security in the box with a polite manner, entering his code and the gate creaks open, granting us entrance. Scott drives through, maintaining a steady speed limit and allowing me to take in his community.
It's lined with various amenities, spaced across the estates. The houses lines the curve of the street were all miraculously detailed with their own unique structure, with large acres of space between homes, and long sidewalks occupied by residents taking leisure walks with their dogs and children, sparing us very little glances.
"You can afford this shit?" I muse in awe, off my seat, like a child witnessing the looks of Disneyland for the first time.
He takes a second to respond, "I live here, don't I?"
I turn to my brother and respond with a lighthearted glare, to which he returns with a split of a smile. He doesn't turn to face me, while driving, and instead makes a direct turn into one of the residences—a large house that could closely identify to a mansion.
"How the fuck are you affording this under a mechanic salary?" I say, just as he parks into the long driveway, I practically leap from my seat and run up to the house, noting the shade that approaches me as I take each step closer to the front door.
Maybe mansion is a bit of an overstatement—but the sentiment is there. It's larger than the Soberano-Godfrey residence, about an additional two-quarters of the size. There's long, thick ivory-colored pillars that line the front porch, accompanied with wooden rocking chairs. I had to take a step back and admire the house in full beauty.
A door slams behind me and I turn on my spot, seeing Scott closing the backdoor where my duffle bag sat, throwing the strap over his shoulder with a twisted look. I knew the bag was heavy.
He reaches the porch and produces his keys from his hand, sliding it into the keyhole, turning the lock. "God, your bad is so heavy, what is in it?" He asks, just as the locks disengages and the door swings open.
"Everything." I say, taking the weight off his shoulders and stepping inside.
"What?" I hear behind me, while I drop the bag on the foot of the curved staircase, leading up to the second floor, with steel railings lining the edge of the steps. I turn to my left, noting a closed-door office and to my right, an empty room with large spacing, and decorative portraits hung on the white walls. This is a big fucking house.
"How can you afford this?" I turn around, seeing my brother close the door behind him with a lock, "this place is massive—why'd you buy this big of a house for one?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and as he's about to, I cut him off, "or do you have roommates?" The thought occurred upon me. "Fuck, I forgot to ask about them."
"I don't have roommates." He clears up, causing a sigh of relief to escape me.
"Thank God." I mumble under my breath, taking a long look around the foyer again. "So, where is my bedroom?"
"Wait, Reid, before we—" I step off to the side to get a better look of the house beyond the foyer, when I hit something—hearing something crack. I looked down and found my duffle bag, bending down to unzip the bag to see the lily pot split in half.
"Shit," I mutter under my breath, brushing the dirt with my hands and strategizing a plan on cleaning it up. I look up to my brother, "where's the bathroom here?"
"Um," he swallows, pointing down the hallway behind the staircase, "behind there, third door on the left."
I nod, picking up my bag and heading down the narrow hallway, counting the doors in my head before the second one appears.
I threw open the door and plopped the bag on the edge of the sink—which was made from white marbles—and gathered a handful of the dirt, throwing it into the trashcan below. A stag of guilt passes through me with each chunk of dirt I threw into the trash, knowing this was Dahlia's gift for me, and how I've been keeping it healthy until now.
After throwing the pieces of the pot into the trash and washing my hands and the remaining dirt from my duffle bag, I exit from the bathroom, hearing a low sizzle—like the sound of something cooking. I figured it was my brother making dinner.
I look down the narrow hallway, to my right, to see the kitchen through an arched window wall, dividing the space between the kitchen and the living room. I can see the outline of my older brother through the slits, barely in view, before he disappears and I hear pots and pans clanking.
I want to see more of the house, and I was going to ask Scott to show me around—but if he's busy, I might as well give myself a tour.
I step out of the narrow hallway—where the only doors left was the door leading to the three-garage doors—and return back to the foyer, ascending up the steps with my bag over my shoulder.
There's five doors lining the second floor, excluding the double doors at the end of the hallway. I conclude that to be Scott's master bedroom, deciding the authority upon myself to explore the rest of the empty bedrooms.
I open the second door to see an empty room with nothing but boxes and boxes of paperwork, miscellaneous items, and shelves of framed photographs and important papers.
I'm interested in the type of accomplishments Scott have accumulated over the past six years and stepped inside—probably a breach of privacy, but he's my brother—and began to examine the shelves, reading the awards given.
Employee of the month, seems fair enough, moving to promotion to executive position, to a framed, golden-embroidered border with the bolded words of Vice President at the top of the sheet. My brows pull together.
My eyes trail down the frame, reading the given description of the award in its small font, before dropping my gaze to the name: Lucas Moretti.
My body goes rigid. Wait a fucking minute.
I step out of the room in quick, swift steps and head straight towards the master bedroom, hand on the handle—noting it's lock. I shake on the brass handle, making the door bend inwards, but still, it didn't open.
With a grunt, I drop the bag to the floor and unzip it once more, searching in it for a small paperclip of some kind. I knew, with my reading, I would've placed at least one between the pages.
Finding a metal paperclip on one of the classics, I pulled it out and adjusted the clip into a straight line, poking the end into the lock and jigging it around—until the lock disengaged and clicked, and I threw open the doors.
I look around the master bedroom and search for something out of the ordinary. I didn't bother with analyzing the grace of the room, with it's large vacancy and another set of double doors leading to the bathroom—but instead searched the drawers of the room, the cabinets, for anything.
And what I thought I was losing it, when I couldn't find anything—I found a small photo clipped near the nightstand. A wallet-sized photo of a tall, tailored man with a groomed beard and slicked back dark brown hair, standing beside my brother.
My hand shapes into a fist.
With a clenched jaw, and an ache in my chest, I threw the photo back on the stand and exit from the bedroom, grabbing my bag on the way out. Descending down the steps, two at a time, and head straight to the kitchen to see my brother before the stove, a pot set on the steel counter.
"Reid," he greets, "I was wondering what was taking so long—"
"Tell me this isn't dad's house," I demand, catching my brother's surprise gaze, both of my hands pulling into fists. "Please."
Scott doesn't answer me, his expression warped in a state of neutrality, trying hard to hide his emotions behind his mask. I'll give it to him that he's better at concealing than I am—but I don't fucking care about such trivial comparisons.
I slammed my fist against the island counter, swearing I could hear my knuckles shattering against the marble countertop. "Scott."
He still doesn't respond, and with each ticking second that fills the silence, each crack in my heart deepens.
The house is so quiet, you could hear the sound of a pin drop—but instead of a pin, I could hear the sounds of keys jingling in the lock of the front door; the lock disengaging and the door swinging open, the sound of footsteps echoing against the floors.
"Fuck," I hear my brother mumble under his breath, just as I took a glance at him, before proceeding out of the kitchen and stepping into the hallway, seeing the same tall, tailored figure of my father standing before the door.
"Dad."