49 | Red Lights

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SÁBADO
2:31 PM

Dahlia Gray

I pick up the phone, "Where are you?"

My brows pull together, as I spare a glance towards Aysa—who was, unsurprisingly, studying—before answering. "Um," I muse, pulling the phone from my ear and checking the caller ID a second time. Presley. "Did you dial the right number?"

I hear him chuckle on the other end, accompanied with the low rumbles of his Mustang engine I was all too familiar with. "Dahlia Gray, right? The girl that—" he catches himself, abruptly pulling his sentence to a halt. This made me curious.

"Hello?" I perk, wondering if our line got disconnected or if he's going through a tunnel. I hoped it was the latter, wishing to exploit whatever detail he almost slipped.

"I'm here." He responds gruffly, perfectly audible through the line. I frown, wishing I caught him by surprise and he would repeat himself.

"Oh." I said unenthusiastically; I still have no idea why he called me. "Um, you called me?"

"Yeah," he clears his throat, "where are you?"

"At work," I stop, getting an odd feeling in my stomach. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing," he answers swiftly, almost predicting this reaction from me. "I was just calling to ask you what you got for Harlow. I have no idea what to get."

This might be one of the most confusing conversations I've ever had with anyone.

I clutch onto the phone, with both hands, "what are you talking about? Get him what?"

I feel Aysa kick me from under the table, and I glance up to see her mouthing: what's wrong? I shake my head, not knowing the situation myself.

Presley pauses, the silence thickening as the rumbles of his engine roar to life, indicating his acceleration. "You don't...he didn't...he didn't tell you it's his birthday tomorrow?"

It took me a second to register what he said. I stood up from my seat. "Birthday?" I repeat, my voice raising a couple of volumes that I collected a couple of stares. My shoulders slouch at the unwanted attention, resigning back into my seat. I whisper into the device, "it's his birthday?"

No response, and I'm getting anxious. I usually love birthday parties, but I'm rarely on the receiving end of obtaining invitations. Nonetheless, I would've thought—or, at least hoped—that Harlow would tell me it was his birthday coming up.

Are we not as close as I thought we are?

Presley scoffs, but doesn't answer my question. "Can you get off of work? I'm heading to the mall to pick up a present for him."

My heart is racing, from the overwhelm of information being processed. His birthday. Out of everything, he didn't tell me it's his birthday tomorrow.

"Dahlia, you there?"

"Huh?" I shake my head, snapping out of my thoughts. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a bit hurt. "Oh, yeah. I'm here. I'm here."

"I'm going to the mall," he repeats, "it's about a twenty minute drive from SAINT, and I'm almost near. Just give me the answer so I can get ready to make a turn."

There were so many thoughts racing through my head at the moment: of Harlow not telling it's his birthday, of being in a car with Presley, of skipping out on work to collect a present for him. Everything is coming at me so quick, I don't know if I can breathe.

Slipping one of my hands onto my chest, forcing myself to collect steady breaths and count my heartbeats.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

"Um, um," I mumble, swallowing a deep breath. "Can I...can I bring a friend with me? I just...I'm sorry, but I'm not comfortable in a car with a guy and it's just—"

"Hey." Presley cuts me off, before I begin rambling. His voice is firm, but comforting. "You don't have to apologize. I get it. Bring whoever you'll like. You can even sit in the back with them, no pressure at all."

I smile weakly, "thanks."

"No problem. I'll text you when I get to the gates."

And with his final words, he ends the call. I pull my phone away from my ear, dropping it onto the counter, as Aysa studies me from across the table. She raises a perfect brow, closing her textbook with a dog-tailed crease.

"What's going on?" She asks with concern, her eyes washing over my body. My chest is rising and falling, my eyes defocusing on the simplest things, and my head racing with a hundred thoughts. Out of everything, the biggest concern that occupied my thoughts was getting in a car with Presley.

He's not like your father. He's not like your father.

"Who was that?"

I don't know when she moved, but Aysa found herself squatting in front of me, eyes levelled with mine. She places a hand on my knee, forcing me to focus, and meet her gaze. "Hey." She said delicately, emphasizing the word, drawing the atmosphere just between the two of us. "Look at me, can you breathe?"

It took a second before I responded; I inhale and exhale as an answer.

"Can you count to five?" She asks softly, tender brown eyes never wavering from mine.

"Um," I swallow, extending my hand. I begin to count my fingers, "one, two, three...four...five."

"Alright," she lowers her gaze on my kneecap, tapping my knee twice, "what was that?"

I blink. "Two."

She taps it four times. "And that?"

"Four."

She taps it once. "And that?"

"One."

"Good," she returns to meet my gaze, "are you okay with filling me in on what's going on?"

My racing thoughts no longer speed through my head, but instead, pass the finish line calmly. I could draw my focus back onto Aysa, and the environment surrounding us begins to build up; allowing the soft chatters of our coworkers to appease my ears, the low metal clanks together, and the occasional ding settling through the air.

So, I told her.

I retold everything that happened in the past ten minutes, recapping the event as if it was a novel-length story. She listens passively, still squatting on her heels, and just as I finish to ask her to come with me—I receive a text from Presley announcing he's at the gate.

"He's here." I announce, my heart accelerating once more. "Can you—"

"You don't even have to ask." She finishes my thought, pushing herself to a stand and collecting her books into a bag. "Let me go check us out, and I'll meet you at the gate."

I smile, the words bottled in my throat. "I...I honestly love you."

She smiles back, flashing a wide grin. "I love you too." She said back easily, despite this being our first exchanges of I love you.

Aysa swiftly heads to the back, and I step out of the building, soaking in the soft rays of the sun. A thin blanket of snow coats the ground, but melting away with each passing second. I pull to the front, spotting the familiar black Mustang sitting behind the gate.

Presley rolls down his window, tilts his head, "I thought you were bringing a friend?"

"She's coming." I answer, forcing the shake of my voice to disappear.

I have nothing against Presley, and nothing has proven that Presley is anywhere near my father—but he's a man. He is a he, and that small correlation was enough to cause a tremor in my voice whenever I approach a blank vehicle, and enough to make me become hyper aware of everything around me.

I step into the car, taking the backseat behind the passenger seat. It felt odd being in the back instead of the front, but Presley made no commentaries towards my decision. He looks over his shoulder, a hand on the steering wheel, and offers me a gentle smile—a smile that could honestly break down all my barriers I've ever created within a man's proximity.

But it's not that easy.

"So, Dahlia," Presley prompts. "What's your favorite color?"

I almost laugh at his weak attempt to break the tension, but I stiffen to a small smile. "I don't know," I said quietly, "probably yellow. It depends on the day."

"What color is it today?"

From the corner of my eye, I notice a red hijabi girl approaching the gate, her bag swung over her shoulders as she does a cool walk towards the Mustang, a blank—almost model—expression settles on her face.

Aysa gets into the car, bidding little attention to Presley, as her eyes greets mine and she drops her bag on the floor. I smile softly at her, to which she reciprocates, reaching out to take her hand in mine. She accepts.

"Red."

━━━━━

SÁBADO
2:31 PM

Dahlia Gray

I don't know if I'm overthinking this.

But for the past fifteen minutes, Presley has sent generous amounts of glances to the rearview mirror, specifically, to look at Aysa.

She doesn't seem to be aware of his actions, as she leans her head against the glass window, staring into distance. Her eyes searching for sources of entertainment, her fingers itching to zip open her bag and pull out a book to occupy herself—to which I'm surprised she hasn't already.

I introduced them briefly to each other, and Aysa paid little attention towards Presley. They shared a quick hello, but she never attempts to initiate small talk or a conversation to fill the gap of the void. Something I've grown accustomed to.

"So," Presley begins, sparing another glance at Aysa. "You're Aysa, right?"

She flicks her eyes towards his rear mirror, pushing herself off the window, and blanks her features. "Yeah."

Presley clears his throat, a carefree smile settles on his lips. "I heard about you before," he said, which surprises me. "Harlow mentioned you a couple of times, and I was there on your call with him."

My eyes widen, and I turn to Aysa. "What call—"

Aysa holds out a hand, silencing me with the use of her palm. She turns to Presley, no ounce of playfulness lingers on her expression. "Tell him, I have never thought of him once."

He chuckles. "I didn't expect you to." He returns his attention to the road, maneuvering into a parking lot, where hundreds of cars line up. "I just have to say: you're a lot different than what I imagine the girl who puts Harlow in his place, to be."

She doesn't smile. "Is it because I'm a hijabi?"

He shakes his head faintly. "It's because you're pretty."

Aysa blushes.

The car falls in line between the two white strips, and Aysa is the first person to hop out of the car—even before Presley shifts into park. I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt and follow after her, as she makes a direct beeline to the mall, trying to take large, but casual, strides to the entrance.

"Aysa." I chase after her—despite being taller—and catch her arm a second before she enters the front entrance. She stops and turns to me, inhaling a sharp breath. "Why–why are you running?"

"That—" she points to where we came from, Presley finally exiting from the vehicle and taking a casual stroll to the entrance. "That was...strange. No one ever told me that..."

"That what? That you're pretty?" I prompt, a childish smile spreading on my face.

She gives me a glare. "Stop it. You know what I mean."

My smile widens. "Because it's coming from a guy? Is little Aysa afraid of falling in love like her college, smut romance—" She slaps a hand over my mouth, not allowing me to finish my sentence. I would've toppled over in laughter, if not for her hand.

She lowers her lips to my ear, "I will fight you. Allah or not."

She pulls her hand away, just as Presley reaches the entrance and she drops her gaze to avoid his. He is looking at her, though, with a tint of a smile on his lips, his eyes studying her like she's the most interesting thing in the world.

Similarly to how I see Harlow.

"So," I hook my arm around Aysa, turning to Presley. "We're going to go find a gift for Harlow—"

"You—" Aysa corrects, her head hung low. I jab my elbow into her side.

"—and we'll meet back at the food court, about an hour or two from now? Sounds like a plan?"

Presley nods, complying to my terms. "Sounds good to me," he pauses, glancing down at the girl beside me, before lowering himself to match Aysa's height, a charming smile etched on his face. "Sound good to you, Aysa?"

She turns away from him, with lips pressed tightly together, and flips him off with her free hand, wordlessly pulling me through the automatic doors—with a laugh escaping the back of my throat, and another blush forming against her cheeks. 


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