MIÉRCOLES
6:59 PM

Reid Harlow

I'm not some fucking servant.

I'm not the type of person who helps people.

I don't think the rest of the family got the memo and designated me as the type of person who does. I mean, what the fuck? Do I look like the type of person who tailors after people and serves everyone to their beck-and-call? I'm fucking Reid Harlow—and the last thing I'll be doing is following after people.

I set the standards. I don't fucking follow it.

My stare hardens at the sight of Ariah, who is trying to fix her hair for her dance recital. She looks different without her signature buns, but I think that's the objective of her grooming. She loops two hair-ties around each prospective bun, and is left with one extra in her hand.

Instead of heading back upstairs to return the hairband, she turns to me and holds out the singular black band. "Can you hold this for a second?" She asks, and when I hesitate to agree, she showcases her puppy eyes. "Please?"

I huff in annoyance, but nonetheless, take it within my palm. "Why don't you return it to your room?" I ask, just as she turns back to the portable mirror propped up against the railings of the stairs. "Aren't you finished?"

"I always wear my hair in two buns," she said, bouncing on her toes as she adjusts the buns on her head. "I want to switch it up. I don't know if I'll need that extra one."

I roll my eyes, slipping the hair-tie around my wrist. "I don't fucking understand."

"You're not a girl." Ariah shot back easily, almost too casual. "Sometimes, we like to change it up. Unlike you—who wear the same clothes every single day."

My expression drops. "I don't wear the same clothes everyday."

"Black-on-black. It's the same—every freaking day! I mean, if I didn't know you, I would probably think you were emo."

I clench my jaw, sharpening my eyes at her. "At least I don't look like the chipped cup in Beauty & The Beast."

Ariah simply smiles, showcasing the chipped front tooth I was referencing to. "That cup was cute. I don't know—"

"Ariah!" Sebastian yells from the kitchen, causing her to abruptly end her sentence. She whips her head to the door connecting the living room to the kitchen, and her eyes widen. "Come in here!"

She listens.

Ariah turns and heads towards the kitchen, leaving all of her things behind. Nini told me—before she left—to look after Ariah and to make sure she has everything she needs for her dance recital. Now that she's gone, I decided to pull out my phone.

I check the time, reading that it's nearing seven-thirty, the time Dahlia and I scheduled our next driving lesson.

I push myself off the railings and slip my phone back into my pocket. I don't know when Ariah's coming back, but it's not like her stuff is going to get fucking stolen. Nini told me to look after her for a minute—but that doesn't require me to show up at her show. Instead, I look to the hooks containing the car keys and grab Presley's. "Presley! I'm taking the car!"

And with that, I left.

I got into the car and drove to the park, noticing the sun slowly dipping underneath the horizon and leaving a canvas of colors in its place. It was supposed to be getting dark soon, which means that traffic will start to die down—which will be good for our next lesson.

I parked into an empty lot, and got out. I head to the back of Presley's car and lean against the trunk, taking out a cigarette while I wait. The lighter flickers in my palm, and within a few seconds, I let out a puff of nicotine-filled smoke.

The dopamine releases into my system and creates a wave of pleasure all throughout my body. I feel lighter, warmer, and it fills the empty void in my chest left by my brother.

It was as if cigarettes brought a contentment to my life that I was missing.

Dahlia begins to make an appearance after I'm almost halfway finished with the cigarette. Her slender figure is accompanied by her oversized jean jacket and her signature earbuds. Her phone is placed between the palm of her hand, and she's playing with one end of the cord.

I knew she hated the smell of cigarettes, and even though I'm close to finishing and I only had a few more puffs to go—I dropped the butt onto the concrete and crushed the flame with the heel of my shoe.

Dahlia takes the spot beside me, pocketing her phone within her jacket. She looked beyond, following my gaze, and said absolutely nothing.

"Anything going on at home?" I prompt, turning my head slightly to get a better view of her. Her wild hair frames her face, the wind blowing a small breeze that catches a couple of individual stands along the way.

She sucks in her cheeks, her chest heaving a breath. "Nothing too out of the ordinary," she said, turning to me. Her doe eyes met mine. "What about you? Anything going on at home?"

I scoff, shaking my head. "I'm living with Presley and them," I said. "Everything's going on at that house. Ariah has a dance recital today, so for the past week, she's been staying up late practicing in the garage. Claudia is competitive as fuck during the family game days, and Nico is as quiet as ever."

She smiles. "That sounds nice."

"Nice?" I repeat, to which she nods. "Which part? The fact that I have to hear ballet music blasting from the first floor or that Claudia plays every game by the book—or else, she'll call you out?"

"It sounds nice." She declares solemnly. "It sounds fun. Comforting. Like—what's the English word for it?" She snaps her fingers, trying to remember the word. I cock a brow at her.

"What?"

"It's that word, you know, that's like—the family thing that people have and it's—" she sucks in a deep breath, trying to remember the word on the tip of her tongue. "Coño."

She's speaking Spanish again. I remember hearing that word before, and remembered not knowing what the fuck it means. I tried searching it up. They said it meant cone?

"Oh my gosh, it's like—I know it, I swear, and it's called amorosa in Spanish and it's like the feeling between families and friends—"

"Bond? Relationship? Love?"

"Loving!" She jumps in excitement as she finally finds the word. She looks so happy, her face brimming with a bright grin and her nose does this little scrunch when she smiles. I can't help but mirror her actions.

I push myself off the trunk, hanging my head low to draw attention away from my smile. I can't believe I'm smiling because of her—but I can't fucking help it when I'm around her. There's just something special about Dahlia Gray that makes me do the things I don't normally do.

"Come on, Sunflower." I gesture to the front of the car, initiating our lesson for the day. "It's time."

She nods, neutralizing her enthusiasm. I don't want to say she lost all of her excitement, but I can say that she doesn't look nervous anymore. She approaches the driver side with relaxed shoulders, and she seems somewhat prepared for our lesson. Something that hasn't happened before.

Just before I got into the passenger side, Dahlia turned to me, curiosity flickering through her eyes. "What are we doing today?"

Without missing a beat, I said, "we're going to focus on driving. Buckle up."

And I got into the car.

━━━━━

MIÉRCOLES
7:43 PM

Dahlia Gray

I thought today was going to be a good day.

When I first came to the lesson, I was slightly anxious about the whole ordeal—but I felt confident. I knew Harlow more than I did before, and despite the information being traded was limited down to his brother, I felt like I was close to trusting him.

When we were talking, and Harlow was telling me about his foster family—prompted from the very first question, and without his usual defensive stance—it felt like our relationship shifted. He didn't view me as a total stranger he was teaching for the hell of it, but somewhat more. There wasn't a title to it, as he generously stated before, but it was more than strangers. More than acquaintances.

I was comfortable. I thought we would be able to breeze through the lesson without too much difficulty, and I could calm down my anxiety enough for him to teach me without interference.

When he told me we're going to be driving—all bets were thrown out the window.

I stood outside of the driver seat, door propped open. It took me a minute to register the fact that I, Dahlia Gray, was going to be the one driving behind the wheel today.

My heart races through my chest, pounding against my ribcage loud enough that I didn't need to check if I was alive–because I was. I was feeling all types of emotions, surging through me like a current, and fear and dread shackles me to the bones. My confidence plummeted the moment his words escaped his mouth, and my comfortability range down to a zero.

I don't know who Harlow is when I'm driving.

And that's what scares me the most—because this isn't my first time driving. I was behind the wheel before, and I was the one maneuvering it from my own free will. The only issue that came with it was my father, who sat in the passenger seat commencing every turn, every tiny mistake into a rage.

I don't want to feel like that again.

I gathered enough courage to get into the vehicle, pinning my widened eyes to his. My shoulders were tense, my breaths shallow and I swear to any theoretical god that I felt like I was going to die. "What?"

"We're going to be doing parking and reversing today, nothing too big," he assures, with a wave of his hand. I scrunch my nose at him in disgust, because the gesture reminded me way too much of my father—and that's the last thing that I need to be thinking of right now. "It's not a fucking on-the-road driving."

That doesn't matter. "I know, but—" I cut myself off, sucking in a heavy breath. My heart hammering inside my chest, my thoughts were so disoriented. I could either stand the witness to my downfall or to my becoming. I don't know which is better. "Am I ready?"

"We'll see," he shrugs, strapping himself with a seatbelt. I couldn't let go of his words so easily, and felt myself becoming more panicked. I don't want to drive, but I have to. The other day, I almost got called into work on my day off. I didn't plan. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Thankfully, someone more advanced stepped in to take my place. "Sunflower."

It snaps me out of my thoughts, and I shake my head. I turn to Harlow, widen-eyed and vulnerable. "Huh?"

"What are the protocols for driving?" He prompts, meeting his blue eyes with mine.

I opened my mouth, but no words fell from my lips. My mind ran a blank, with no coherent thoughts processing through my brain. I couldn't think, I was drawing on empty space, and I felt like my head was going to explode in the next few seconds.

Dahlia, cálmese.

"I...um..."

I notice Harlow's jaw ticks, and it heightens my anxiety. I don't want to piss him off, because I know he has some anger issues that're beyond his control. I don't want to fall victim to his rage.

He sucks in a heavy breath, trying to tame himself, "the abbreviation you taught yourself," he said tensely, "the ones you have to always check before driving."

He goes into his pocket to retrieve the keys and hands it to me. I take it and my focus moves from him to the keys—concentrated on my palm, like the keys would magically give me the answers. A couple of my wild hair falls from my shoulders and curtains a good portion of my face, covering my view.

For the first time during this lesson, I felt myself feeling an emotion other than anxiety. I feel annoyed. "I hate my hair sometimes," I mumble, pushing my hair back behind my ear. My eyes still pin to the keys, like I'm trying to crack DaVinci's code—as if Davinci's code had something to do with igniting my memories.

Igniting.

Ignition.

I shot my head up and looked at Harlow, "ISSM," I recall, "Ignition. Seatbelt. Seat. Mirror."

He nods curtly, giving me minimal reaction. This feels passive-aggressive, and I don't know if I'm overthinking it—but it's trickling in onto my fears. "Alright, let's get started."

I suck in a long breath before I close the door—that's been opened the entire time—and slip the keys into the ignition. The engine roars to life with a couple of chokes, I buckled up, and checked both the mirrors and the seat to my accessibility. Now, I'm guessing it's time to start.

"You check the back first," Harlow said, pointing to the rear window, "and check to see if there's anybody that's behind your car, any vehicle, or any pedestrians walking this way."

I absentmindedly hum in reply, sparing a short glance at the rear window before returning my gaze back to the front. My hand slips from my lap to the pocket of my denim jacket, tapping to check if I still had my inhaler.

I know it's getting closer, the part where I have to start driving. And I know, Harlow hasn't done anything to me to feel like he's going to react the same way my father did, but I just can't help it. Harlow shares a lot of similarities with him, and to see that he may say the same things, react the same way...doesn't surprise me.

It scares me.

"Sunflower," he snaps his fingers in front of me, drawing me back to reality. I turned to face him, and could see the slight agitation ticking in his system, slowly boiling his blood. "Did you fucking hear me?"

"I did—I do!" I swear, gaining momentum behind my words. But I still have no clue what he said. "I just...um...can you repeat what you said?"

He grits his teeth, but nonetheless, explains the steps a second time. I'm supposed to check the back, shift the car into reverse, back out slowly, while simultaneously turning the tires at a consistent rate. He said it was supposed to be an easy check—but nothing is easy to a girl riddled with anxiety issues.

"Now, start."

I look to the steering wheel, the one thing I've refused to touch since we started these lessons. My hands coming closer to the wheel, my fingers trembling as proximity reaches. I'm telling myself it's just a wheel, it can't hurt you but I've never been a good listener.

The moment I wrap my hands around the leather, it felt like a trigger to a horror sequence in a movie. I'm readying myself to getting screamed out, to getting yelled at, and to be told that I don't know anything about anything and I'm just about as dumb as my mother.

Harlow isn't your father. Harlow isn't him.

I suck in a breath and recall the steps, turning around to catch the view of the rear window. My wavy hair flings to my face, whipping against my eyes and causing me to abruptly lose my hold on the wheel to push the hair back.

And I start again.

"Wait," Harlow commands, holding out his hand. I turn to him, confusion wrinkles in my brows, as he takes off a black hair-tie around his wrist. Where did it come from? "Turn around."

I don't question it, despite wanting to, and I follow his command. I turn around as my back faces him, and I feel myself holding my breath. The touch of his cool hands brazes against the back of my neck, tracing up the side of my nape and collecting a handful of hair. I feel my mane being taken within one hand, pinned to the top, before something begins to loop around them—once, twice, and three times.

The back of my neck feels exposed without the abundances of hair protecting it from the cold, and my head feels slightly heavier. I turn to Harlow, who immediately looks away at the sight of my gaze. My eyes shift away from him and towards the rear mirror, where I realize my hair was pulled into a loose—slightly messy—ponytail.

He...tied my hair up for me?

I can't help but blush, and my heart begins to race with a different emotion—far from fear, anxiety, or panic. It was smaller, simpler, and quite possibly, might be the end of me.

I return my focus back to the wheel and reality stares back at me. I was driving. I was going to take the wheel and do my first reverse, the first time in two years.

Both my hands clutch the leather, so tightly that my fingers don't look like they're trembling. I turn around and face the window to reverse. I checked—the park was empty—and began to step on the gas.

My heart stops, as if I'm holding my breath, and my mind feels foggy. I stare at the rear window earnestly, trying hard not to make any mistakes and finish this one trial. I begin to spin the wheel, turning left, as the car begins to arch and I add a little more on the gas. The car slowly pulls out the driveway and before I know it, it falls right in line with the road.

I felt proud of myself.

I turn to Harlow, wanting to see his reaction, but he still refuses to give me his attention. He, instead, opens the door, and checks the ground for something before looking back forward. "Not bad," he said, almost monotonic, "but you're on the line."

And I take it.

Because he's not yelling at me, or screaming at the top of his lungs—he's just making a simple fact. I probably am on the line, and I definitely do need more practice, but I'm okay with that. I got Harlow, and hopefully, he got me too.

The rest of the lesson, my hair not once got into my face. We practiced a bit more on reversing, and ended the lesson with a couple of parking practices on the white lines. I was absolutely terrible—either going into the second parking space, tilted at an angle that looked like something in geometry class, or I would hesitate at the last second and back down.

Either way, I still need a lot more practice.

I could tell Harlow gets frustrated at times when I hesitate to park, or he gets aggravated when he's trying to recite the steps again as if I didn't get them embedded into my head. I knew he was pissed off, because what comes easy to him was hard for me and I know it annoys the hell out of him. Sometimes, it was small, simple ticks, and sometimes, it was loud, almost like he was about to snap.

But he never did.

And I'm grateful for that.

We finished a couple of hours later and I found myself jumping out of the car the moment he called it a day. I pull the keys from the ignition and slam the door shut, racing to the trunk where we make our trade and I get to head off.

I hold the keys within the palm of my hand, almost like this was our lifeline. This was the source that keeps us afloat. Without the persistent thought that driving—something I was incapable of doing—would soon be with me, and I could drive, I can start thinking of all the places I would go. How I would leave. How this small life skill funds my future.

For Harlow, it's different. It was a weight; a reminder that this is not his and this is temporary. Harlow lives in a foster home, and he doesn't own anything permanent. He has this car—but only to teach me. At the end of the day, he'll return it and the keys are a simple imprint in his hands.

It weighs us down but it keeps us alive.

We are at a constant reminder.

Harlow appears to the back of the trunk and he holds out his hand nonchalantly. I drop it into his palm and he doesn't say anything, doesn't face me. I still feel the weight of my hair as a ponytail, the touch of his hands around my neck.

"Thanks," I said,