MARTES
6:11 PM

Reid Harlow

Today is one of those days.

Those days where nothing is coherent enough to function, and the only thing you can focus on is a lit cigarette tucked between your fingers.

There is absolutely no reason. I've been abstinent for more than a month now, and my last relapse hasn't shaken me as much as I thought it would. It was helpful, having no consuming thoughts eating away at my soul, or the misery of losing Dahlia—but today, it came without warning.

Dahlia rests her head against my shoulder, playing with our intertwined hands. Her fingers slipping away from mine, comparing the mold of our hands; her noticeably smaller palm resting against mine.

She smiles daintily, studying our differences, as I watch her. She doesn't say anything about my hand slightly shaking, resisting the urge to reach into the back of my pockets in search of a lighter and a pack of cigarettes—when I know damn well, I carried neither of those.

Instead, she tilts her head to the side, burying into my shoulder, tracing the outline of my hand with her index finger. She studies my palm with fascination, as if this was her first time truly noticing me. Before long, the cold begins to creep onto her, and she slips her fingers back through the creases of my hand—pulling me tight, holding me, and looking up to meet my awaiting gaze.

"You want to know what I read last night?" She whispers, not wanting to bother the nearby passengers on the bus with her discovery. My head spinning in a slight haze, and while she lowers our interlaced hands and places them on her lap, I shake myself into consciousness and cock a brow at her. "They say, you're supposed to know when you touch the palm of your soulmate. That their hand is supposed to perfectly mold into yours."

This caught my interest, especially with the highlighted word: soulmate. "Who are they?"

She chuckles softly, "some random quote on the internet."

I hum in response, considering her sources. Best case scenario: the theory is an exploit on romanticism, crafted from a broken heart of an amateur poet. However, the thought itself is appealing, and I don't disregard it just yet.

"What do you feel?" I ask, glancing down at our interlaced hands settled on her lap and returning my gaze to hers.

She follows my stare and finds the warmth of our hold, wiggling her fingers between our touch and heaves a large sigh. "There's no right words to describe this," Dahlia spoke with traces of delicacy, feeding into her sentence with a couple of Spanish. It doesn't seem like she has the answer in her native tongue either. "But, all I can think of is: if it was a cold winter, you were the first sip of hot chocolate. If I was struck with the flu, you were the soup I take every night before bed. If it was spring, you were the rays of the sun I spent hours soaking under."

Dahlia does a nervous laugh, dropping her head low and the fringes of her hair covers her face from my sight. I can't fucking hide the smile that's rising on my lips, and despite the little bump on the road that the bus hit, I am on the fucking moon. Even if Dahlia's words were comparable small to everything else she's ever told me, it's hers, and it's her words I'll rather hear than the rest of the world.

My hands stopped shaking.

I use my free hand and cup under her chin, drawing her vision away from her lap and tilting upwards—meeting me. Her brown doe eyes stare back at me, lips parted, her breathing begins to shallow under my touch and she swallows hard, sparing a glance at my lips. I knew what I wanted before she needed to tell me.

Leaning forward, I capture her lips on mine. The kiss is a gentle kiss—the type you would deliver in early mornings before heading off to work—and at first, there's a brief, one-second shock that leaves Dahlia incapable of responding, before she recovers, returning the kiss with the same tenderness and emotions.

Her shoulders completely melts, and mine follow in suit, relaxing in the bliss that binds us. I use the opportunity to free my other hand and cup the side of her cheek, grazing my thumb across her unblemished skin and drawing her closer, feeling my nerves being lit on fire with each stroke I caress. The curve of my girlfriend's lips quirks into a corner smile.

There is no urgency in our kiss; no place to be, and no time to waste. It is gentle, sweet, and just a simple kiss that still manages to make me buckle at my knees because, fuck, I got the girl. The reality still dawns as a dream.

She pulls back from our moment, cheeks flush a deep shade of red and a couple strands of wild hair frames her face. Her lips swollen, her eyes darting to the side to check if there's any onlookers—there wasn't—before returning back to me. She radiates in an innocent glow, shining and brimming with her dark mane and dotted smile.

God, I fucking love her.

"You need to kiss me like that more often," Dahlia says, her voice barely above a whisper, causing my lips to involuntarily quirk into a small, teasing smile.

"Yeah?" I challenge, cupping under her chin once more and feeling the way she completely melts into my palm. Her eyes briefly flutter coming in contact with my touch, and as I pull her closer, I feel her take a sharp breath, anticipating the next step. We're only separated by a thin slice of air and the absolute fucking restraints of the public.

Drawing myself closer, I raise her chin and lower myself to her neck, planting chaste kisses along the line of her jaw. I can feel her holding her breath, her heart hammering, with each kiss leaning closer and closer towards the base of her neck—before the bus suddenly pulls to a halt, and releases the extinguish.

I pull back, glancing out the window and realizing that we have reached our stop—from the rustic strip mall surrounding the area, and the large block letters stamped on the side of the bus stop. Without looking at my girlfriend, I stood up and took her hand.

Heading towards the exit, I don't ignore the callous stares from the older generations that possibly—most likely—caught a witness to my little show in the back. Instead, I sent them a subtle glare, that screams mind your own fucking business, while recognizing the distance that my girlfriend is spacing between us.

We step off the bus, and take in the unfamiliar surroundings. I knew a lot about the state—the meeting to their borders, the gas stations lining each corner and the grocery stores that had the least amount of security—but this...it was foreign.

The bus didn't give us a chance to consider if this was the wrong stop, before it pulled back its door, locking the glass, and carried on en route. I could pick up the faint exhaustion of the tailpipe, clouding the air and causing Dahlia to release a couple of chokes into the sleeve of her hoodie.

We don't say anything. I take this moment to pull out my phone, finding the address to the shop. According to the GPS, we are in the right town. It's just an additional twenty minute walk from here.

I feel something come in contact with my shoulder; a small, measle punch that did no damage—just adding confusion.

I turn to my girlfriend, the culprit behind the assault, "what was that for?"

"The little...stunt you pulled back there," Dahlia huffs, almost as if she was struggling to produce the correct pronunciation. She puffs out her cheeks, attempting to hide their enflame. "I'm never going on a bus with you again—we need a car."

I chuckle, "for what? So we can do it in the backseat instead?"

Dahlia doesn't deny it.

I almost wanted to laugh at the situation, because for once, I wasn't on the receiving end. This is the biggest reaction she has ever made over an sexual innuendo, and I'm starting to pick up why she does it to me all the time.

"Come on," she grumbles, turning away from me and pointing to a random spot in the distance. "Let's go find this stupid shop."

Dahlia doesn't give me a chance to correct her before she starts leading deeper into the ghost town. Well, to be fair, it's not exactly abandoned—there's a few cars lining up the curbs of the parking meters and a couple of stores flashing the neon OPEN signs. But, ghost town, nonetheless.

I follow her for a good five minutes, as she leads us to the exact opposite direction of where we're supposed to go, before I exchange the position of power, with me leading instead of her. We make a round turn and head in the right direction: the auto workshop to pick up Presley's car.

Dahlia follows with good distance from me. I can hear her inhaling and exhaling, almost as if she's trying to calm her racing heart—and this time, it wasn't from anxiety or an approaching panic attack. The corner of my lips tilts upwards, knowing how badly I affect her.

After twenty minutes of walking, and me subtly pulling Dahlia closer and closer by the wrist, we stood in front of Mason's Motors. It's a big shop, with three opened garages lined right next to each other and a small post for welcoming customers. The glass windows are plastered in advertisements and flickering neon signs, and a single small bell settles above the glass door.

"I think I can see Presley's car from here." Dahlia perks beside me, putting to one of the open garages. I follow her finger, finding the black Mustang being checked out by one of the mechanics.

"Great. We got the right place, then," I say, sounding a bit apathetic. I quickly turn to Dahlia with an apologetic gaze. "Sorry."

She shrugs, not seeming too hurt by my comment. "Just for that, I'm driving us home." She declares, tugging forward and pulling me to the entrance, alerting the front desk with a sound of the bell.

Dahlia takes the counter, dropping both arms against the granite. The employee stood there, in jeans overalls and a stitched name tag branding the left side of his chest: Randy. He spares once glance at my girlfriend.

"Hello," she grins, tucking her chin on her palm. The worker—Randy—looks at her, for a second, before turning to me. A brow cocked in my direction.

"Welcome to Mason's Motors, how can I help ya?" The blonde-haired man, with grease streaks across his cheeks and dirty gloves that's been worn and overused. He takes a second to take me in, looking up and down, before brows begin to furrow together. He adds, "are ya looking for someone?"

"No. I'm here to pick up a car," I say, reaching into my back pocket for Presley's license. It's a bit hard to do, with one hand. "It's under Presley Young—he's my foster brother."

"Oh." Randy hums in consideration, taking the license from me. I could hear ruckus being spew from the back office, the commotion between two people—sounding masculine. The employee in front of me sighs in exhaustion, mumbling under his breath, "ah, fuck, they're at it again."

He reads off his number, typing it into an old software which begins to pull up the charges and the vehicle. "Can I get a number?"

"My brother's?"

"No, yours," he corrects, pointing to me. "In case anything happens, insurance policies and whatnot."

I give him a look, and before I got the opportunity to recite the digits, Dahlia perks up, "I got it," she says, losing our touch and taking a random notepad and pen off the counter. She scribbles on a couple of digits—my number—and peels off the first sticky note and hands it to the man. "Here."

Randy gives me a weird look, and I merely shrug. He types in my number, as the commotion in the back amplifies—this time, the sound of a large shout, followed by a ring of a bell and a slamming of a door.

I could spot a silhouette exiting out of the garage, his stride belligerent and rough, peeling off his mechanic gloves.

He dons the typical mechanic look, with jean overalls and black work boots. I infer he has dark roots, with him stepping closer towards the office, the shade of his hair doesn't lighten.

I wanted to return my gaze back to Randy—to figure out how much longer it'll take before I can pick up the car, clarify anything else—but I couldn't tear my gaze off the guy leaving the garage.

"The car will be ready in a few. If you'll just take a seat, they'll round your car out front—" Randy informs, but I didn't hear him finish. Instead, the sound around me begins to fade out, as I concentrate on this guy; making large, disgruntled steps towards the side of the building, moving past the glass windows that gives me a good look at his side profile. Unruly dark brown hair that cuts off at his neck, a sharpened jaw, the crease of his brows that forms into an intense glare, and his green eyes.

No fucking way.

I since released Dahlia's hand and rushed out of the shop, the ding of the bell alerting my exit, and followed after the guy leading towards the lining of parked cars near the side of the road. "Hey," I shout, trying to get him to slow down his stride and catch up to his pace. "HEY!"

"I'm off the clock," he bites back roughly, annoyance radiating off of him. He continues his strut towards the cars. "Anything you need, you can ask the front." He says, with the same smooth voice and slightly agitated bit behind his tone. I knew without a shadow of a doubt—it's him.

Irritation flares in me. "Scott Harlow!" I command with authority, causing my brother to halt in his steps and screech his heels against the dirt path, running a couple of pebbles across the road. He's frozen in his spot, shoulders instantly stiffen and his body language rigid. He doesn't move—not yet.

I take this opportunity to come closer to him, taking callous steps towards my brother, as if I was afraid that one wrong move would chase him away. With a good distance set between us, Scott stilled in his path, refusing to turn around and face his little brother.

It's been six years.

I could hear Dahlia's footsteps running after me, her breath hitched in her throat from the small run, and finding her warming presence beside me. She doesn't say anything, her hot gaze switches between me and my brother, but she's here. She's here—and that fucking said a lot in comparison.

Scott agonizingly turns to greet me, his expression struck with disbelief. I couldn't quite tell if it's because we're finally reunited or the fact that he never thought this day would come.

"Reid," he says my government name, warm and casual, as if time has never truly passed. As if I'm still the same little boy, looking up to his older brother, in the shared foster home we lived in. In the foster home he abandoned me.

I inhale a sharp breath, I don't even know what the fuck I'm supposed to feel right now. "Don't call me that," I say warningly, though it falls off non-threatening and weak. I fucking hate this feeling.

Before, I did everything in my power to make it disappear—the taunting, nebulous and agonizing feeling that rises up in my chest and never leaves. It's not suffocating, as one may think, but it's everlastingly present; always here, always a tainted reminder of what I lost.

I grit my teeth, grinding them together and hoping to hold up a strong facade in front of my older brother. I inhale sharply, trying to rationalize and calm myself from acting out on a whim based on all these repressed emotions I've held onto for so long.

It's coming back in waves.

I fucking lie, Claudia, I didn't let him go.

"Reid." He reaches out a hand, stepping forward, and while I wanted to take a step back and keep the distance between us, I couldn't move my fucking legs. It felt glue to the ground, incapable of tapping into my muscles and taking one easy step back.

My hands bundle into fists, by my sides, fingertips digging into the deep of my palms. I felt the urge to do something, fighting this feeling bubbling in my throat. I needed an outlet, an escape, and while the first thing I could think of was a cigarette clutched in hand—that wasn't going to help me. Not here, not now.

I hate how close we are. I hate how I can't move. I hate how I still feel like the same fucking kid six years ago, the same little boy that needed his brother.

When Scott notices I didn't take his hand, he takes another step forward, closing in our gap—when Dahlia steps in front of me.

"Stop," she chokes out a command, holding out a trembling hand. I could feel her swallowing hard, trying to maintain her ground, while feeling intimidated by the large body that is my brother. With a square of her shoulders, she looks up to meet his green-eyed gaze and tilts her chin upwards, refusing to let it drop. "Don't come any closer."

From the bottom of my vision, I see something moving. I glance down; both of Dahlia's hands are tucked behind her back, one latched around her wrist, and the only moving around—searching for something.

Me, I came to realize. She wants me to take her hand.

I step forward, closer to my girl, and slips my hand into her, a low audible sigh of relief escapes her. She rubs the print of her thumb across the back of my hand, reducing the tension in me I didn't realize I had.

Scott doesn't say anything. He looks at my girlfriend with an unreadable expression, but he doesn't make a comment. He looks at me, in par, the six-foot-two standing behind a five-foot-eight girl, and switches his attention back on her, curious about the relationship but not curious enough to pursue the conversation.

"This is my little brother." Scott finally says, with a push of adamancy, holding eye contact with my girlfriend. "This is family business. I'm allowed to talk to my brother."

Dahlia swallows, "no," she says with moderate confidence, "not unless you step back."

My brother scoffs, throwing out a hand, "this is ridiculous—"

"You leaving him in a foster system by himself is ridiculous," she snaps, aggravation rolling off her tongue. I couldn't see her, but I could imagine a sharp look on her face, with a tamed thought. A similar preview on how she confronted her father that day. "Step back."

With a disgruntled sigh, he reluctantly takes two steps back from me and returns to the distance I previously set. I could feel the satisfaction radiating off of my girlfriend—proud at what she accomplished, but lost on what the next step to take.

"Dahlia," I whisper fondly, causing her to turn and face me. I give her a sad smile. "I can handle the rest."

I begin to slip away from her and she looks at me meticulously, "are you sure?"

I nod, dropping my hands to my side and holding Dahlia's gaze until she steps off. My girlfriend watches me carefully, hesitatingly moves, while opening up the path towards my brother and for me to get a better look at him—truly.

He looks shorter than I remembered. Back when I was a kid, I would look up to him and exaggerate the height of my brother—claiming him to the tallest being on the entire planet, a person written in the Guinness Book. But, he wasn't.

Dark unruly brown locks the same shade as mine, sharp callous look with a strong jawline and the crease of his brows fixated together in a permanent calculative look. Dark circles that lingers under his eyes—his green eyes—and a restless look that's kept apparent on his face.

God, he looks tired as shit. Has he been working himself to death since he left me?

I care. I still do.