Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

15 | Pay The Fines

MIÉRCOLES
4:09 PM

Reid Harlow

Presley is sitting behind his desk, flipping through the pages of his textbooks. I noted that he's left-handed, like Dahlia, but he's able to maneuver using both hands with eloquence. Presley looks focused, determined, and he looks like he has his life in order.

"What?" Presley says, without looking up from his notebook. "Are you trying to figure out a way to murder me or something?"

I roll my eyes, sinking back against my seat. "I'm debating it."

"Well, cut it out," he continues the ruse, jotting down a couple of additional notes. It looks like he was writing in cursive. "I'm planning on living this life for a very long time—unless, global warming happens and kills us all."

I shake my head, turning away from him and back to the paper flowers in my lap. I have a tendency to make them when I'm bored—especially since I've already finished my homework for today and the following week to come.

I stay silent, debating on how to bring it up. I mean, I know I'm not exactly tight-knit with the family and I don't plan on changing that, but I made a promise to Dahlia. I told her I was going to teach her how to drive and I plan on fulfilling that.

Even if I have to steal a car myself.

I feel something hit the side of my head and I turn to see Presley holding up his arm, like he finished a throw. I glance down at the object he threw, and saw a penny laying on my mattress. I look up.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Presley prompts, smiling mischievously. I scowl, gritting my teeth and taking the penny into my palm.

"You don't fucking throw the penny to get the person to talk," I snap, dropping it onto my desk. I debated throwing it back at him. "You offer it."

"Well," he drags, "who knows what I have to do to catch your attention. Sometimes I have to put in double the work to get you to talk to me."

"Or just leave me alone," no, I need him, I thought but it's hard to control that automatic response from me. "I'm not your family. You don't have to fucking know me."

Presley frowns and doesn't say anything more. I had to force myself to look away, but in that moment, I felt guilty. I felt like an asshole—a genuine asshole—and suddenly, I'm pulled back to how I feel about Dahlia. How Dahlia feels about her father.

And how I'm just like him.

But I can't help it.

I don't want to put myself in that position again, to be so vulnerable. I don't want to get hurt, and I don't want to be set up for disappointment—to have a day where I wake up, after finally feeling content with myself, just to have them leave.

Just to have them not want me anymore.

It's better to be safe than sorry.

I hold my tongue and allow the silence to seduce the atmosphere. I glance down at my lap, seeing the paper flowers wrinkling underneath the covers of a blanket and to see my promise slowly slipping from my grasp.

I promised her.

I told her I would.

"Presley," I clear my throat, turning back to face my foster brother. He looks up from his textbooks, his brows furrowed together in question. I swallow a couple of times, trying to relieve this bile in my throat, "can I borrow your car?"

Presley looks even more confused, and I felt the need to add, "I'm teaching Dahlia how to drive. She has her learning permit and all but she hasn't been behind a wheel before. That's all."