JUEVES
5:47 PM

Reid Harlow

Presley is going to be so fucking upset.

I park his Mustang on the side of the road, watching as cars pass me with a honk of their horn and a sympathetic glance outside of the passenger window. I wanted to flick them off, or swear at them, but I was busy assessing the damage made in my predicament.

A large object—that I guess I didn't fucking see—plunged itself into the front pan of the car, creating severe damage underneath the hood. Leading along that, one of his tires popped due to a metal pipe bursting, and slicing across the rubber, creating a gaping hole that releases the air out quicker than I had the opportunity to make it to the side of the road safely.

I'm fucking pissed.

I've been standing outside of this car for the past half hour, evaluating the damage as if I had the specialized capability to fix it. I know a lot of shit about a lot of things, and I know how to work my way around a car, but there's no way in hell I could fix that.

I popped the hood up a while back, wondering if the busted pipe had caused any additional leakage near the engine—and thankfully, there wasn't, just a bit of white smoke that came from the engine's over-exhaustion.

"Fuck," I swore under my breath, putting two hands locked behind my head, glancing back at the hood propped open. I don't know what the fuck to do—should I suck it up and call my foster brother for help, or should I pray by some miracle that a lonely mechanic with a heart of gold would find sympathetic in my dilemma and help me out.

Which I doubt would be the latter because every passing vehicle that saw me in my situation, has either looked at me with a glance or honked their car.

Like it's a fucking game.

My phone vibrates from my back pocket and I drop both hands to fish out the device, my heart leaping in acceleration at the thought that Presley is calling to check in with me. He has a tendency to call me whenever he feels uneasy about something—but this time, his dumbass gut-feeling would be correct.

But, to my surprise, it wasn't the six-foot tall Korean with an overly positive attitude.

It's my girlfriend.

I stare at the phone as her name flashes across the screen, phone buzzing, and seconds pouring into the timer as it's waiting for me to accept or decline the call. My heart gradually finds a natural rhythm, and I force myself to release all my pent-up aggression from the hour's worth of misfortunate. I know I could open the call with the worst fucking attitude, and I would fucking hate myself if I release it onto Dahlia.

With a couple seconds left, I click on the green button and hold the phone up to my ear, inhaling and exhaling deeply, pretending I'm mediating the stress away.

"Hey," my voice low, summoned through gritted teeth.

"I got my license!" Dahlia squeals through the phone, and I could imagine the biggest fucking grin plastered on her lips as this moment, her jumping up and down on the balls of her heels with the plastic card in her hands. "I passed with a 90!"

The tension in my shoulders loosen, and I wipe my thumb across my bottom lip, hiding away with the approaching smile that resulted from my girlfriend's contagious excitement. "That's great, I'm so proud of you."

I sound so fucking exhausted and monotonic, but I genuinely am proud of her. She came so far. From not being able to sit behind the driver seat, having a panic attack through a wrong move, to getting her license—it's a huge fucking deal. I'm just terrible at expressing emotions through the phone.

"Thank you!" She exclaims, ignoring the causality of my words. She knows me well enough. "They said the only thing I missed with the back parking, which caused me to lose ten points—but I don't care. I got my license!"

She ends her statement with a laugh, and fuck, I had to close my eyes for a split second, to take in her sound. I fucking love it when she laughs, and if I could live in it forever, I would.

The silence hums around us, as I begin to pull my eyes open and pull myself to the gravity of my situation and hers. I was in the middle of the fucking road; no way leading home, unless I muster up my pride and call my foster brother to confess and for a ride.

"Are you heading back to the house now?" I ask, rubbing my hand on the back of my neck. I look back to the Mustang dejectedly.

"In a bit, my mom wants to explore the city a bit more and look at where the apartment is going to be. I'm probably going to come home late."

Me too, I wanted to add, but that'll lead to questions and her concerns and I'll hate for her to take time off just for me. Plus, it's good for her and her mother to step out of the house.

"Alright, I'll see you back at home." I said with a nod, almost cringing at our conversations.

I'm not a good on-the-phone type of guy. I can't spend hours talking on a digital device. I hate doing things through a digital call—I fucking hate texting. The only times I do it is for her—and whenever Presley needs to haul my ass back to the house for Friday's night dinner.

Other than that, I like face-to-face conversations. Someone I could hold their gaze. Take their attention and understand them. Staying on the phone doesn't convey those interactions and it's fucking annoying when it's longer than necessary.

"Okay," she says, and I could see her nodding on the other side. "I'll see you tonight."

I was about to end the phone call, let her waste in the oblivion I crafted, often holding off for the people I get close to—when I didn't want to do that anymore.

"Wait," I cut her off, hoping to catch her before she ends the call herself.

"Hm?" She hums back in reply, her tone is a slight query.

"I..." I release a sigh. I don't know why this is so hard for me. This is my fucking girlfriend. Through everything—everything we've ever been through—this should be the easiest to say. "I got into a wreck."

"Harlow!" She exclaims, her tone etched in panic, "oh my—are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I dismiss her concern, but I won't say it isn't nice to hear it. From her, of all people. The concern, the worry. I'm not used to being cared about, especially out of choice. "The Mustang isn't, and Presley is going to fucking flip when I tell him."

She remains silent on the other end, the white noise resolving into the background, before she says, "as long as you're okay, I think he won't be too upset."

I scoff, speaking sardonically, "can you make that a promise?"

"No," she shakes her head, but her enthusiasm doesn't lessen, "but he is your brother, right? He let you use the car, to teach me, someone who didn't even know how to work a vehicle. That means something, doesn't it?"

"That he's either incredibly fucking stupid or generous."

"Or," Dahlia draws out, a third option, the typical overlooked one. "He knew the risks and he took them. This was—even if it wasn't coming from me—part of it."

I stay silent, soaking in her wisdom. It helps me calmed my nerves a bit, especially considering that it does make sense—that this, being who Presley Young is, makes sense. She's not exactly wrong, but I don't have the confirmation to say she's right either. She's just helping me.

A small, corner smile tucks at my lips, "I love you, you know that?"

I could feel her smile on the other end, and maybe, maybe she could reevaluate my own theory about phone calls. "You could say it again."

"You're my best girl, Dahlia Miyares." I spoke proudly, loving to exchange her last name with her mother's maiden name. I fucking hate anything associate with him, and having that one inkling of connection tied to her, makes my blood boil. I'll drop it if she doesn't like it, but so far, she never voiced any issues with it.

"You know how I feel." She responds softly, and I could hear light Spanish being spoken on the other end, sounding familiarly to Alejandra. She was ushering Dahlia to hurry up or something, causing Dahlia to respond back and giving her mother a brief summary of my situation.

And in response, Alejandra spoke in frantic Spanish, going off about how reckless driving leads to many teenage deaths and how she doesn't want her daughter to go through the grief of losing me. She needs me too much.

The smile on my lips broadened, tugged loosely, and I could hear Dahlia responding back in hushed Spanish, sounding almost embarrassed.

Playing along, I say, "what did your mom say?"

Dahlia releases a short sigh, "just some concerns about you driving and your safety. That's all."

"Mhm," I nod casually, pretending to agree with her. Can I safely say, I'm so fucking glad I'm learning Spanish with Nini. "Sure. I'll see you at home."

━━━━━

JUEVES
7:14 PM

Reid Harlow

Dahlia Miyares can be a lot of things.

But a psychic is not one of them.

After telling Presley about his car, and him having to call a tow truck—he asked Claudia to come and pick me up on the side of the road, noting that he needs some time.

This heightens my sensitivity about the whole situation, that Dahlia might've undermined the issue at hand with her own plausible theories. While I'll never tell her that she's wrong and make her lose that bubbly energy of optimism—I will be silently taking note that Dahlia has the ability to make anything and everything feel better than it is.

When we got home, I headed straight to our shared bedroom in hopes of finding my foster brother. He wasn't there. I went to Claudia's, Nico's and Ariah's room, and he still wasn't there—until I found him cascading down the greenhouse of flowers, quietly examining each and every one of them with interest.

Here's the thing about Presley.

He's not hot-tempered, his anger doesn't spill into his actions and he never acts on impulses back by any heightened emotions. He's calm, cool, collective and he holds his anger and emotions inside pretty well.

But I fucking hate it.

"Presley," I greet, stepping into the backyard with the porch lights turned on and illuminating the side of my face. My foster brother doesn't look up to greet me. "Presley Young."

"Didn't Claudia tell you I want to be alone?" He states tightly, his tone low and maintained, his eyes darting from one stem of flower to the next.

"Yeah, but I didn't listen."

"Of course, you didn't," he scoffs, turning away and picking up a bottle, spritzing onto the green leaves, hand tucked under.

I grit my jaw, trying to hide the nervousness I feel, trying to get him to talk to me, to receive a well-deserved reaction from me pummeling his car.

I step forward, coming closer to my foster brother, but taking callous steps back, wanting a safe distance from him. The thing about him is—even if he isn't violent—he is unpredictable. Everyone knows my antics, knows how I react, and even in my emotional outbursts, my actions are predictable. Presley isn't.

"If you're upset with me, you can just tell me." I said cautiously, "I hate the fucking silent treatment."

"It's not—" He turns to me, his hand out and pointing at me, "it's not much of a silent treatment if you keep talking to me."

"That's good."

"No, it's not."

"I hate the silent treatment—"

"Not everything is about you, Harlow." He snaps, his jaw locked in a set, sharpening, and his dark piercing brown eyes suddenly becomes more vicious than the tenderness I'm used to. "I actually happen to like the silence, especially during times like these and I wish you'd respect that."

I don't say anything, taken back by his change in tone, and guilt pools into my stomach like silver mercury. Fuck, I'm not used to caring about other people's feelings like this.

Presley closes his eyes, a hand over his face and exhales a large sigh. "I'm not mad at you. I'm not even upset. I'm just—I'm going through something shitty right now, and on top of the car, it adds to it. A car is expandable, you—you're not."

Presley looks exhausted, like the front that he always holds with me, the family, and around others, is dismantled and he needs a place to lay low. I fucking feel awful for not being able to give him the one thing he asks for during this time.

"I'm sorry," I apologize genuinely, watching his features with concern. A lot of ways I could justify myself, taking the time to figure out how to piece the next sentence; do I ask him what's wrong, do I go in depth about my apology, speaking that I didn't know he was going through something or I feel shitty for my brass manner—when I decided on the best thing. "I'll leave you alone if you want me to."

Presley holds the thought for a second, but doesn't answer. Half of his face is still hidden under his hand, before he releases a soft sigh, "no, you're fine."

I nod, despite him not being able to see it, and stood awkwardly, a foot away from the greenhouse, not knowing what to do. I'm not used to being on the receiving end, especially towards Presley, so with the roles reversed makes it a bit odd.

Patience is something I'm not used to wearing.

"I'll pay for the damage," I announce in spite of the silence, Presley drops his hand from his face, reading me.

"With what money?"

"I have a small bank account," I reveal awkwardly, tucking my hands into my pockets, fidgeting with the lining of the fabric. "It's just small, a couple of grands in case of an emergency, but I'll pay for the damage if that's what you want."

He sighs, thinking over this, "Harlow, you don't have to."

"Well, fuck, Presley, I feel like I have to do something right now to cheer you up." I say, struggling to maintain a cool composure around him, not wanting to let him know how much him being upset affects me. I hate that he's dealing with something shitty, because the only person who deserves genuine, pure happiness is the guy in front of me.

Presley struggles to wear his emotions on his face—anything other than gratitude is something he is trying to hide, but a small, weak smile pokes through from the corner of his lips and he looks to me with gentle eyes. Almost heartbroken. "My boyfriend and I broke up."

I'm surprised.

The fact that Presley has been in a relationship this entire time, without ever mentioning it to me, makes me reevaluate our relationship. I know I've been an ass to him on many occasions, but I never thought I was self-centered as well.

I want to change that.

"Today?" I ask, my expression maintaining and watching his face carefully.

He nods once. "We were talking this morning, and he...he wanted to end it. Officially. We used to do this back-and-forth relationship, breaking up for space and coming back—but he was tired of it, and I guess, so was I."

Presley hauls a large breath. "That doesn't mean it didn't hurt."

He doesn't cry. His face holds heartbroken and hurt, but there's no waterworks. Instead, he lowers his gaze and focuses it on the plants—trying to distract himself with outside stimulus.

I scoff, "that's his fucking loss."

Presley looks up.

"I know I act like an ass towards you, but I genuinely do mean that. It is his fucking loss, not yours, and if he doesn't know what a great guy you are, he won't ever find anyone better."

Presley stares, and then he shakes his head, trying to disguise the small hint of smile that's forming on his face. I hope I was doing well enough.

I'm terrible at comforting these types of emotions—because I've never had to deal with heartbreak or been forced to comfort someone who's gone through it. The closest is Dahlia, and I doubt her and mine's situation is comparable to his. He was dating his boyfriend; we were never a couple.

The expression on my foster brother begins to morph, and soon, his features fall into a state of defeat, and he heaves a sigh. "I just want to forget about it."

I'm struck slightly at odds, because I know, even in my demented ways of coping, this is not quite the healthy way to push through with something big.

But, what do I know, I'm the guy who doesn't want to open up about himself in fear of attachment.

"Do you...do you want to watch a movie?"

I don't know what his response would be. I don't know if this is the proper way to move a conversation from his breakup, but it's the only thing I could offer off the top of my head. I don't have a car, I can't take him on a drive. I don't have my own room to invite him into, we share ours.

But I do have a choice, and I do have a presence. If that's the only thing I could truly offer him—I hope it's enough.

He stares at me, and doesn't say anything for a few seconds, until his head dips down and he begins to move towards me, closing in our distance.

I turn around, and we head inside to the living room, where it's surprisingly vacant. Ariah is probably at a recital today, and Nico is probably with Nini. The only one that should be home is Claudia, and that's because she picked me up.

Settling on the couch, I take the remote and turn on the tv, allowing Presley decent space to take his spot and settle beside me, watching the screen as I shift through movies displayed on Netflix.

I click a random one—a comedy of some sort—and I know the results will be shitty. I, personally, hate comedies, but what else could lighten the mood than some amateur acting and a lousy one-liner that could bring a half-smile to our faces.

Comedies.

The silence stretches as we watch the film, a couple of jokes thrown back and forth and I always spare a glance at Presley to see if he's watching. He is, and whenever the delivery is made by the actor, he would split into a small chuckle—that could go unnoticed if no one was paying attention.

I did.

We're an hour in the movie, and nothing has been said. Presley watches the film—having spent a decent five minutes in the kitchen and coming back with some snacks—and I had divided attention. I know I should be paying attention to the atrocity playing ahead, but I wanted to see if Presley is okay.

"Thanks." My foster brother said shortly, with ten minutes left of the movie and the credits begin to roll. I turn to him, fully. "For being here. For not trying to ask more questions. For letting it pass."

I issue a curt nod. "You've done more for me."

Presley huffs, but the statement wasn't a lie. "It's what brothers do."

You're not my brother. I wanted to correct him, but I know, this is not the time and place. Because, if I truly want to be honest with myself, Presley Young has been more of a brother to me than my real brother has ever been.

I just don't know if I can ever admit that.

"Sure."

And the silence commences.

The credit rolls, with some off-tune soundtrack playing in the background and I hear Presley shift in his seat by my side. He leans forward and hooks an arm around my shoulders, patting me on the chest.

"Hey, can you do something for me?"

I turn to him, "what?"

"Can you pick up my car for me when it's done? It's going to be due on Tuesday, and I think I still have class." His brown eyes watches my expression, before adding, "if not, I can ask Claudia to do it—"

"No, it's fine. I'll do it."

Presley smiles, and ruffles my hair, causing me to shove him off