26 | Merging Lane

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SÁBADO
6:49 AM

Dahlia Gray

"Hey," I mumble, reaching out to Harlow as he reverses out of my driveway. His tired blue eyes are occupied with dark circles, the corner of his mouth ticks with agitation and his hair disheveled from waking up at the crack of dawn. I retract my hand.

"What?" He demands, shifting the gear into drive as he accelerates forward. The sun slowly rises from beneath the horizon, brightening the sky with temporal blue and little chirps of birds at the first glimpse of daylight. I don't respond. "What were you going to say?"

I hear traces of irritation building behind his tone, unable to disguise due to his drowsiness obstructing his social filter. I knew he didn't mean the attack behind his tongue, but Harlow speaks sharply—sharp enough to cut ice.

I swallow a gulp, pulling my hands into fists and releasing. My lips pressed together, suddenly weighed down with the feeling that I was a bother to his presence. Maybe I shouldn't have called him.

"Rosemary," he barks, not too tired to give me another nickname. "Tell me."

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes, before returning back to the road. The engine rumbles with each mile passing, the trees bypassing our windows as Harlow quickens the speed, and I feel the tension stirring between us.

"I...I just...I just wanted to say thank you," I mumble quietly, almost indistinguishable. A mere gratitude isn't enough for waking him at six in the morning. I feel awful. "For driving me."

This morning, when I woke up to prepare for my job, I received a text from SAINT Laboratories asking me to come in at eight am sharp. It was ominous, and I was on the edge of time—rushing to get to the bus stop before I missed it.

But it wouldn't have work. If I took the normal routine to go to work, I would've been forty minutes late—and that doesn't account for traffic, or extra stops or anything.

I was screwed.

Under my panic, I called Harlow and asked him to drive me to work. It was a slim chance he would answer and agree, but to my surprise, he did. He picked up on the second call, and he groggily got ready as fast he could on the phone with me.

Ten minutes later, he's here.

"You don't have to fucking thank me," he said, shaking his head at the thought. "I'm here. Anything you need."

My heart warms at the proclamation and I feel myself offering a soft smile. However, the gritty feeling at the pit of my stomach still rages, dictating everything I've done and asked of him is just added trouble.

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry to bother you."

"You're not," he declares instantly, taking a sharp turn down the highway. "You're never a fucking bother to me, and I don't ever want to hear you apologize for it."

My heart bursts, entering waves of foreign emotions. I squeak, "for real?"

"Honest," he nods, taking one hand off the steering wheel and reaching over to grab mine. It was a subtle action, nothing attached to the gesture, but it helped heal a couple of burden emotions I felt.

I smile, allowing him to hold me. I lean back against the leather seat of Presley's car, adjusting myself comfortably to the passenger side. I'm not usually on this side of the ride.

The ride was quiet, but comfortable. Since I'm not taking the bus, it'll take about an hour and fifteen minutes to reach SAINT. The sky illuminates with a bright blue as time stretches, skyscrapers and urban buildings form behind the concrete bridges and roads, and billboards take up every couple miles. Multicolored cars occupy the space in front of us and behind; everyone waking up for work.

I didn't want to talk, and neither did Harlow. I found that nice about us; our conversations were never strained with the intense need to fill the silence, instead we allow ourselves to be seduced by such. It was different, but I doubt I had anyone else that felt this way.

"Rosemary," I mumble, turning to Harlow. One hand occupying the steering wheel, the other one wrapped between my fingers.

"What?"

"You called me Rosemary," I repeat, reminding him of my nickname of the day. It dawned on me.

"Yeah?" His brows pulled together in confusion, as if he wasn't lucid enough to process where I'm leading the conversation. His blue eyes spare me another glance. "What about it?"

"It's a spice, Harlow." I said, a laugh tipping at the back of my throat. "It wasn't a flower."

His lips press together at the realization, and I could see the corner of his mouth tilt upwards. It was small, barely noticeable, but he shook his head to take away the gesture. He mutters, "it was one mistake."

I tilt my head to the side, teasing, "are you sure? Are you running out of flowers to name me? One day or another, you're going to have to call me Dahlia."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit defensive. I never took him for a botanist. "It's early morning. Give me a fucking break."

The smile spreads across my lips, "so, you admit it? You're running out of flowers."

"I'm not running out of flowers," he snaps, a bit harsher this time. There's no malice behind his words, just a hollow aggression. "I'm just tired as shit."

"Hmm," I muse, to which I see him rolling his eyes. "Then give me another nickname? Preferably, not a spice."

I would never say it, but I grew somewhat fond of the idea that Harlow calls me a different flower everyday. It used to be annoying, where I had to correct him, but it became something of a ritual. To guess what's next. He knows my name—I know he does—he just chooses to taunt me, tease me about the origin of my flowery name.

He becomes silent for a second, and I consider all the names he called me. Lily, Daisy, Poppy, to name a few. I know there's more, I just couldn't think of it off the topic of my head.

"Chrysanthemum." He declares after a short thought, and my eyes widen at the choice he made.

"Chrysanthemum?" I repeat, to which he gives a subtle nod. He looks unbothered. "Out of all the names you could choose from, you chose Chrysanthemum?"

Harlow merely shrugs, his eyes pinned to the front. "You said you wanted a flower. I got you a fucking flower. Stop being fucking picky, Chrysanthemum."

I shake my head, and a chuckle escapes from the back of my throat. The smile on my face broadens, and we soon return to the silence. At this point of the ride, buildings have encompassed every ounce of space around us, natural habitats are replaced with guidance signs and asphalt flooring, and the faint outline of SAINT Laboratories begin to form.

Harlow stops at the front gate.

"What the absolute fuck?" He declares, shifting the gear into park. His blue eyes move from the front to the side window, taking the extraordinary view of the campus. "Are you going to an international college or are you working?"

"It's pretty." I agree, losing my fingers around his. He turns back to me as I unbuckle the seatbelt. "And we made it here with a few minutes to spare. Thank you."

He sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I thought we fucking went over this."

"We did," I nod, propping the door open as I step out. "I just had to say it. Thank you, again, for everything you've done for me. I appreciate it. A lot."

I didn't get the chance to hear him protest as I shut the door behind me, pulling the strap of my backpack around my shoulders. I head towards the front, buzzing myself in with the entrance code and enter through the gate.

I stop before proceeding and turn back around, checking to see if Harlow is still there.

He is.

I smile, and offer him a little wave before I continue.

━━━━━

SÁBADO
12:56 PM

Dahlia Gray

"Guess who just finished registering for the research department?" I prompt, raising my newly printed employee ID card. Aysa glances up from her textbook, her expression blank from reaction, before returning back to her table full of books.

"This girl! Please, contain your excitement." I said, slipping into the seat in front of her, pushing a textbook that jabs its corner into my ribcage. Aysa bears no mind to my announcement, her eyes splitting from her notebook—scribbling down notes—to her array of textbooks propped open against the table. A couple courses sprawl out in the open: biology, calculus and organic chemistry to name a few.

I pick up one of the textbooks, the one furthest from her, and begin to examine the content inside. It was talking about human anatomy, giving a visually in-dept image of a woman.

The book was snatched out of my hand before I read a single passage.

"Stop it," Aysa declares sharply, dropping the textbook onto the table. She adjusts the army green hijab around her shoulders, draping it to the side. She gives me one final look. "I'm studying."

I nod, knowing the procedures that come with knowing Aysa Kamali. She likes the silence, especially during her studying hours, and she tends to bury herself underneath her textbook. I don't think I've ever seen her spend more than ten minutes on her phone.

I lean back against the seat and pull out my phone. My earbuds wrapped around the case, my inhaler burning a hole inside of my pocket. I unravel my own source of entertainment.

The music automatically plays on shuffle, and one earbud securely plugged in. I usually leave one out, on the off-chance that Aysa wants to start a conversation. For the most parts—it's never happened. But, never say never.

"Wait," I hold out my hand, catching Aysa's attention. "How long have you been studying?"

She rolls her eyes, probably finding the topic too insufficient to continue. "About two hours now."

"Don't you have work? Or like, interning to do?" I tilt my head to the side, sparing a sideway glance at the corridor connected to the back of the departments. "I swear they give us smaller breaks than that."

The corner of Aysa's lips pull to a smile. She shakes her head. "My department is building prototypes. They're heading over to test them in the other department and they're only allowing a couple of interns inside to monitor."

My brows wrinkle in confusion, "...and you didn't make the cut?"

She shakes her head, signifying that's not the issue. Of course. "No. I was one of their first choices. I just didn't feel like watching them test space technology. My division is biotechnology and engineering."

I nod in understanding. "So, you've been studying for two hours straight?"

"This is repetitive," Aysa declares, picking up her pen. "You already know the answer to that."

"No!" I hold out a finger, stopping her. Aysa has a logically-wired brain. She breaks things down into layers and observes each layer into their fundamentals. She understands each concept to their core—and if she doesn't, she follows-up with more research—and doesn't bother with repetition. That's why she shuts down conversations before they turn into repeats.

Unless, you can prove her wrong.

She cocks her head to the side, challenging me. I stay silent, trying to concoct a good argument against her. "I asked...how long you've been studying. That...equals to the total amount. You could've been studying for two hours but had breaks in between. That would not be considered studying straight."

I wince, hoping that was enough to deliver a counterargument to her entire logic system. She drops the smile, intertwines her fingers and prop her elbows onto the desk. "That was good," I smile, "but not enough." The smile falls.

"That derives from a hypothetical situation, without accounting for external factors of technicalities and personal patterns. If you said that about a stranger, that would've earnt a good debate—however, you know me, kid." She stops, eyeing me. "Am I the type of person to take breaks in between studying?"

I press my lips together, before shaking my head. "Exactly," she nods. "So, that deems my former statement true. It was repetitive."

"Coño," I swore, pouting. "I thought I got you."

"It was a good effort," she replies honestly, "but it was executed wrong."

I continue to pout, knowing she'll return back to her studying. "Can I still ask you my question?"

She sighs, but nods. "Of course."

"Since you've been studying for a long time now, I was going to ask if you could show me around? I know enough about the research department and how they use divisions to specialize on a specific network, but I want to see the testing labs and people building prototypes." I knew this was a slim chance she would say yes, so I quickly slapped my hangs together in a beg. "Please?"

Aysa looks unimpressed, like she wasn't affected by my gesture, and I knew her mind was spiraling with debates and internal conflicts. I quickly add on, "studies say that studying for a long time isn't good for you," I offer loosely. "And plus, having breaks and walking is proven good for your health."

The black girl cocks a brow at me, "says who?"

I wear a boyish smile. "Science?"

Aysa scoffs, shaking her head but I could see a faint smile growing on her face.

She stands from her chair, adjusting her thin black-and-white striped coat over her all-black jumpsuit. She throws one end of the headscarf across her neck, and the other drape in front of her chest.

I stay in my spot, unsure of what to do.

"Are you going to sit there, or do I have to drag you too?"

My mouth parts in realization before I shot up from my seat. I quickly realized that I was taller than Aysa, just by an inch. "Where are we going first?"

"Since I'm assuming you don't have work," she gives me a sideway glance, I nod. My advisors are setting up the work stations for the new interns that made it past the final round. "I'll start by showing you the research department where you're going to be working at. This is if you finish a full year of interning."

"I will." I promise, knowing it's trivial to tell Aysa my plans on finishing a full course at SAINT. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do in my future, but I know I could find it here.

"In Shaa Allah," Aysa responds, to which I wrinkle my brows in confusion. She doesn't pick this up and begins to walk towards the corridor, not checking behind to see if I follow.

I quicken my pace, following after her as we step deeper into the secrecy of the facility; where the floor-to-ceiling windows are replaced with solid concrete, where natural sunlight is converted into artificial lighting hanging off the ceiling, and where successful models of technology are displayed down the halls in glass boxes with beam lights.

Our steps are hollow and click through the marble floors. Aysa is quiet, offering little commentary or information. As we pass more and more glass boxes, I recognize that each individual display owns a small plaque corresponding to the year it's built, who were the main engineers and research behind the committee, and what it does.

We stop in front of the research department. A big sign hangs in block letters, label RESEARCH. The double doors are the only entrance, and there's a metal detector that requires employee ID. "The research department focuses on space, aerospace, medical technology, etc. It's very versatile. Since you're a first-year intern, you'll be helping everyone. That means running back and forth and collecting data, observing and helping minimal experiments from every division. In your second year, you're allowed to choose which division you want to specialize in, and from that point on, SAINT will help build your resume and potential for the company."

Aysa points to the PROTOTYPES sign on the other side of the corridor. They have the same double doors, same metal detector. "In my department, we take your research and begin focusing on what type of technology we build to benefit the community. If NASA needs help in certain aviation prototypes, certain parts, etc. Since I'm in biotechnology, I take the research for medicine and help push for more advancement in the healthcare fields. This could be MRI machines, equipment, x-rays. You got it, kid?"

I nod, "what about the testing lab?"

"They're on the other side of the building, so we rarely have contact with them. Only our advisors talk to them and exchange prototypes and such. But, they focus on testing our prototypes and making them successful. They would report back to us on what's faulty, what needs better gear, and what's effective. We shuffle ideas back and forth, but you get the gist."

"What about the people who work at the front? Who has their own cubicles and work station?"

"No interns work at the front. Since it doesn't pertain to STEM, those jobs are only available to those who apply. And they help with the paperwork, securing transactions and talking to the government. It's mostly desk work, so they get a nice view."

I nod, processing the information. My head tilts a little to the side, hoping to catch a whiff of the action behind the double doors with a thin slit glass. I knew it was unlikely, considering the glass was translucent and the space was barely large enough to reveal any criminalizing details.

I open my mouth, wanting to ask more but nothing intelligible spills from my lips. Aysa hates stupid questions and even more she hates conservations that fill up the void. She listed that when we first became friends.

"Alright." Aysa claps her hands together, catching my attention. Her eyes seem focused. "That concludes the end of our tour. Let's get back to studying." Aysa does a one-eighty, walking back towards the direction we came from.

"Wait!" I hold out my hand, causing Aysa to halt. She turns to me, her defined brow wrinkles in confusion. My lips part, trying to formulate an argument valid enough for her to take a break from studying. "Let's...go out to eat? It's good...for your health?"

Aysa raises a challenging brow, once again doubting my source. "Said who?"

I offer a sheepish grin, "science?"

━━━━━

SÁBADO
2:30 PM

Dahlia Gray

"...According to WikiHow," I clear my throat, crossing my legs on the stony retaining wall, "'Studies show that taking a break from studying helps improve your productivity, concentration, energy, and creativity, and rejuvenates your brain so you get more out of your study session.'"

Aysa shakes her head, a smile brewing on her lips. "It does not."

"It does!" I argue, flipping my phone around to show her. "Not only that, if you scroll down, you'll see a resource from some college admission in Chicago. Don't you trust Chicago? Go bulldogs!"

Aysa bursts out laughing, hardly containing herself as she drops her chicken sandwich onto her paper plate and pushes it away from her. I pull my hand back, tilting my head to the side. "What's so funny?"

She catches her breath. "It's Chicago Bears."

"What?" My brows wrinkles, amplifying my confusion growing on my features—before it dawns on me. My expression morphs. "Oh."

The girl in front of me laughs harder, her body shaking with laughter while one hand is pressed against her chest and another carefully collecting her headscarf. Heat rises to my cheeks, burning in embarrassment and I force myself to look away. Where the hell did I get bulldogs from?

I can still hear Aysa laughing even as minutes passed, but the laughter since died down

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