JUEVES
1:50 PM

Reid Harlow

My knuckles brush against the door, rapping on the oak. It took two, three knocks before I dropped my hand to my side, pulling them into tight fists, and tucking away the insecurities that overwhelm me. I don't want to seem fucking needy, but I think that's the type of conclusion she'll draw up either way.

The door swings open and Claudia stands behind it. Her eyes wide, her hand wrapped around a curling wand, and her hair parted into different sections, ready to be styled. The length of her bob has since grown out since the first time I met her, but that's the only thing that's fucking changed.

"Harlow?" She queries, brows scrunch together as she lowers the curler. I don't know if it's still hot, but I took a cautious step back—not wanting to be on the end of the steel if I piss her off. "What do you want?"

I swallow the natural instinct to turn around and walk away, to deal with my problems by myself like I've always done. It's safer, probably a whole lot smarter, and it'll be less of a hassle if I chose that route.

But Claudia—as much as I couldn't stand her in the beginning—she can help me. I know she can. She can help me a lot more than I can help myself and I have to be willing to give myself that chance.

"I want to fucking talk to you," I announce, pointing inside of her bedroom. "Can I come in?"

She makes a face—I think it's because of my swearing—but nods, widening the bedroom door and allowing me to slip inside. Claudia's room is more decorative than Presley's and mine's, with plastic vines hanging off the ceiling, loads of posters of different bands plastered across the walls, and different instruments posed around each corner.

She closes the door behind me, dropping the curling iron on her desk and pulling out a chair. She spins it around and offers it to me, which I take, and heads to her bed on the other side of the room, taking a seat on the edge. "Don't say it like that," she warns, crossing her legs.

"Say it like what?"

"You make it sound like you're about to deliver bad news," she explains, relaxing her shoulders, eyes contact with mine, "and from what I saw yesterday, that should be the last thing on your mind."

I pause, momentarily caught off-guard. 'What do you mean?"

She huffs, like she wasn't in the mood to be playing mind games. I wasn't either. "I think you know exactly what I mean, Reid Harlow."

I scowl, hating my government name. "You know I don't fucking like it when people call me that."

She clicks her tongue, "right, right, I forgot."

I narrow my eyes at her, seeing right past her lies. "No, you fucking didn't."

She merely grins, "it's a nice name."

"I rather not hear it."

"What's wrong with it?"

Everything, I wanted to spit out, the effortless spite on my tongue, but I caught myself. We're not there yet.

"Can we just get back on topic?" I snap, gritting my teeth. Annoyance flares in my chest from Claudia's consistent nagging, but I know it's all in good spirit. Or, she's just that fucking nosy.

"I don't even know what we're talking about," Claudia said calmly, raising from her bed, and heading to a drawer where she pulls out a bag of candy—does she usually sneak food into her room? She offers out the gummy bears, "you want some?"

"Claudia," I snapped, irritation laced behind my words. The sudden urge to get out of my seat and leave the room becomes apparent to me, a usual mechanism I take whenever things get too much.

I had to hold myself down.

"Harlow." She returns, retaking her seat. "You come into my room, after spending a day with Dahlia, and you're somewhat upset. Passive. I don't know why, and it looks like you have a lot going on in your head—which is weird. A day with your significant other should release a couple serotonins—"

"Stop fucking psychoanalyzing me." I breath, clenching down my jaw so hard, it felt like my teeth were going to shatter. I didn't gloss over the subtle branding about Dahlia and I's relationship, but that's the least of my worries I needed to correct.

The impulse to split and run draws closer, so easy to take. The door is only a couple of steps away from me, and my legs tremble to have a stretch. I wanted to leave—maybe this was a bad idea—but I held my ground. Gripping on the edge of my seat, forcing myself to unravel all of the cautions I taught myself since that day.

For once, I'm trying to be rational.

"I want to quit smoking," I said, honest and raw, finding a metallic taste in my mouth. I didn't have it in me to look up and read Claudia's reaction, and I'm not sure I want to. Half of me expects her to act surprised—like this is a step no one saw me take—and the other half, I expect her to be smug. Like, yes, this family broke me down, forcing me to change into a better person.

I'm not.

"I..." Claudia gape, rendered speechless. "This is not what I was expecting on a Thursday afternoon."

I know she's trying to lighten the mood, and I know it's from the goodness of her heart to attempt to loosen the tension hidden in the atmosphere—but I can't bear it in me to crack a smile. This is a serious decision; something I haven't made in a while.

I don't reply. And neither does my foster sister.

The silence is thick upon us, unbearable and uncomfortable to breathe. I could almost choke on the stillness of the world, the mute of sound. There's a silent plea, among us, to break into the quietness of the environment and to bear a voice of reason. For someone to speak and transition us over into something more comfortable—something more loose.

I couldn't do it.

I close my eyes for a second, shutting away the world and picturing a vision. I've done this before, countless times, and I always found myself drawing a blank. I could never see a light at the end of the tunnel and I could never see myself living further than twenty. I had no ambitions, no goals, no nothing.

For once, I'm seeing something.

I'm imaging myself sitting on a porch, on the edge of the steps, without a cigarette tucked between my fingers and stripping away each year of my life with each notorious breath. What would I be doing? What happens next?

Then, I begin to hear children. I don't know where the fuck they came from, but one ran up on my lap and I'm fucking smile. I settle a little girl on my thigh, and she's adorable. She has wild messy hair and blue eyes—identical to mine. She's giggling, mumbling something incomprehensible into my ear and my heart string tug as the image stretches.

A woman appears, and she's by my side. She settles onto the steps of the wooden porch with me, grinning. I couldn't picture her face, or the abstract of her features, but she leans her head on my shoulder, wraps an arm around my waist and it warms my chest with a thousand fires. The closest thing I could describe this feeling is an euphoria. A fantasy.

It's my family. I'm happy. I'm actually living beyond the stretch of twenties, and it's fucking worth it.

I remember one more thing.

My wife had black, wild hair.

And I opened my eyes.

I swallow the lump in my throat, the heavy heart of my thoughts just dawned into the realization that it was nothing more than a fantasy.  I look up to meet Claudia's eyes, as she watches me with a thoughtful, analytic gaze. I almost fucking forgot she was here.

The air was clearing, and Claudia spoke. "Harlow," she begins diligently, almost like how therapists would greet their clients to give them a sense of comfort. It feels foreign. "Do you know why you started smoking?"

I nod, and the answer immediately registers on my tongue.

I told Claudia about how I stole my first pack of cigarettes as a way to spite my brother, for all the things he has done. How he left without saying goodbye, how he taught me to never touch them and form an addiction. It was like a piss on the grave, an act of rebellion of the time, but then as time went on, it became a comfort—a sense of peace.

It gave me something I never thought I'd have.

And I think the only way I could describe it is: a constant.

Claudia nods and nods, offering little commentary as I continue to dive deeper into my story. It always leads back to my brother, about why I began smoking, about how the spite was just sprinkled in with some teenage rebellion and a sense of helplessness that consumes me in the time I needed him most.

"So," Claudia drags, uncrossing her legs and nearly finishing her bag of candy. "It started because of your brother."

I nod.

"And you had the idea, to begin, because of your brother."

I nod, a bit agitated.

"And you continue to smoke, because it gives you a sense of consistency. Something you can always depend on. Consistency you thought you had with your brother, but in reality, he left."

I clenched my jaw, not liking how we're just reviewing over my traumas like a spreadsheet. "We fucking went over this."

"I know," Claudia swallows, taking the final bite of the candy and crushing the bag into a ball. She attempts to throw it to the trashcan—missing—and turns back to me. She leans back, propping her hands on the mattress. "I think you have to let your brother go."

I pull my brows together, "I'm asking you to help me stop fucking smoking, not give a therapy session about my brother."

"No, I know." She nods, her face dropping into a neutral set, almost professional. "But you have to understand how you started, continue and will stop smoking—all comes down to your brother."

"That doesn't make any fucking sense."

"But it does," she counters, holding out a finger. "You started smoking as a spite, because of your brother. You continue smoking because it gives a false consistency, something your brother originally provided, and you will stop smoking—when you finally let your brother go."

I scoff, "you're wrong." I shake my head, "I already let him go. He's fucking dead to me."

Claudia doesn't respond immediately, her brown eyes soften on me. I don't know if that was a part of therapy training—to empathize with the client—or if she's just doing this because she actually feels for me. "No," she shakes her head delicately, brunette curls shadowing her face. "You haven't."

"Yes, I have," I declare with annoyance, raising from my chair. This is fucking pointless, she doesn't know how I feel.

Claudia sighs, mirroring my actions. We meet at full height. "No, you haven't, Harlow." She repeats, causing irritation to flare in my chest, incredibly annoyed at Claudia's smart-ass attitude.

"How do you fucking know how I feel?" I snap, pointing to myself—straight at my heart.  "I gave up my brother—a long time ago. He fucking dipped out on me, left me to rot in the foster system, and I had absolutely no one. Why shouldn't I give him up?"

"I don't know," She shrugs, her eyes never breaking from my gaze. "Why haven't you?"

"I have," I emphasize wholeheartedly, desperation dripping from my tongue. "He's dead to me!"

"Then why the fuck do you not use green lighters?" Claudia snaps, breaking from her neutral expression. Her brown eyes fierce and burning, strong and passionate. "Why the fuck do you want to be called Harlow instead of Reid?"

I don't answer.

"You haven't talked about your parents. Which means, they no longer occupy your mind. My guess? Either they're dead, or they skipped off—and you were either too young to understand or you have come to terms with their absences. Why is your brother the only person you ever talk about?"

I don't say anything.

"I'll tell you why—you're not over him." Claudia announces sharply, passion spilling from her lips. "You haven't let him go and that's the problem. You can hate him, you can fucking curse him to hell if you like—but you haven't let him go. He still holds a power over you."

Claudia locks her gaze with mine, fierce and aggressive, but at the same time, delicate. "Deep down, passed all those barriers you put up for yourself and all those memories you suppressed or told yourself to forget—you still care for him. You haven't forgiven him. And your inner child is probably still hoping, counting down the days until he'll come back for you."

"But the sad reality is, Harlow: I don't think he will."

I don't say anything. I don't have the urge to yell back at her, or scream at the top of my lungs, defending my honor. What she's saying isn't true—I left my brother and forgot about him years ago—and he isn't the root of my smoking addiction.

I am.

I shove my hand into the pocket of my pants and pull out my lighters and half-finished box of cigarettes. I wordlessly hand it to Claudia, allowing her to take the one thing I've kept in my life all these years.

"It's not my brother," I shake my head, my voice steady and low. I slap the items into her hands. "I just have an addiction. And I just need to fucking stop."

Claudia pauses, looking down at the new items in her palms. "You're not going to give it up."

"Yes, I am," I said with determination, a flash of competitiveness flashes through my features. "I'm giving it up. I'm not going to buy anymore, and you have my lighter. It's serious this time."

"It's not going to work, Harlow,"

"Yes it is,"

"It's not."

"Can you—" I cut, my voice cracking. "Can you fucking have some faith in me?" I plead, my voice dropping into desperation, an honest appeal for validation. "Can you...can you just do that?"

Claudia pulls her lips together, doesn't say anything, then wordlessly nods.

I could tell she doesn't believe me, or the act of faith is a front she possesses until the moment I leave the room, but it was enough for today. I'll show her, I'm stopping.

"Okay." I nod, "mark the day. I'm never smoking again."