Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

14 | Shifting Gears (Part Two)

MARTES
11:46 PM

Reid Harlow

When I was thirteen, I hot-wired a car and taught myself how to drive.

It wasn't done with cruel intentions—to crash into a building, to abandon the vehicle down a ditch with the gas leaking through the pump and ignite a fire. I did it because I learnt a valuable lesson that day.

No one cared about me.

No one cared about me enough to teach me how to operate a car. No one was lining up for a chance to teach the orphaned foster kid how to shave, or how to change a tire.

I was in the fucking foster system: where people were more worried about receiving their next payment, about feeding their own kids and teaching their kids life skills rather than the temporary child they collect to afford rent. I learnt that and I understood that from an early age.

No one was going to love me.

So, I fucking took their car. I studied my foster parents for a while, seeing how they reverse, how they made their turns and how they operated them. Some were sloppy—like my foster father—and some were eloquent—like my foster mother. I picked up both habits.

I learned what to do and what not to do, and at the dead of midnight, I would sneak out with their keys and take the car for a spin. On other nights where they kept them hidden, I would take apart the ignition and touch the starter and battery wires.

It went on for a whole year before I was caught.

I hear leaves crunching and it causes me to snap back to reality. I turn my head to the side, spotting the faint outline of Dahlia. She wore a jean jacket that looks way too big for her frame, and she dons her signature white earbuds. Her wild hair frames her face as her head hangs low, staring at the phone in her hands.

She comes closer and I take one last drag of the cigarette, feeling another sensation of dopamine entering my system. When I exhale the smoke from my lips, she looks up and her nose scrunches in disgust.

Her full lips fall into a frown and her eyes dart from my face to the cigarette tucked between my fingers. She keeps the same repulsive look on her face as she stares, and I had to resist the urge to ask her what she's thinking.

She turns away, walking around me as she takes the other end of the bench. She adds distance between us as much as possible, as if the proximity of me was too hard to bear. I kept in mind of her gaze on my cigarette—repulsive, disgusted, hatred—and decided that I'm done for the day.

I drop it on the floor and crush it underneath my shoe.

I thought that would've caught her attention, but instead, her focus was above. She had her earbuds in, blocking all noises from the world, and she stares at the sky with a small smile casting on her lips. She looks at peace. She looks happy.

I watch her for a second or two, wanting to see how long it lasts. There's such things as little delights in the world, that makes you feel a bit calmer after a storm, and for me, watching Dahlia be happy just happens to be one of them.

She inhales a deep breath and glances down at her phone, forcing me to turn away from her. I look to the ground, debating if I should prompt the conversation or allow her to start. If she'll ever start.

"I know why you said you can't drive," I begin, sparing a glance at Dahlia. She looks at me, pulling out one earbud and wrinkling her nose in confusion.

"Huh?"

"I know why you said you can't drive," I repeat, watching as she dangles the loose bud between her fingers and tucks a wild strand of her hair behind her ear. "I asked Presley."

She seems to pick up what I was leading to before her gaze drops to her thighs and she releases a soft laugh. It didn't seem genuine, but it didn't sound forced either. "Yeah." She nods. "It was in the papers."

The applicant must have a reliable mode of transportation at all times. The applicant must be able to come in at unconventional hours.

To put it in layman's terms: she has to know how to drive.

"I really wanted to, though," she adds, sucking in a shaky breath. I turn back to face her, watching as she plays with the case of her phone, her fingers trembling. "I really wanted it."

She clenches and unclenches her jaw, as if she's resisting her cries from releasing, but it feels helpless as I see her wipe one side of her cheek with the back of her hand. "I want to leave."

I don't say anything, and I don't do anything either. I don't know what the fuck to do—I'm a person who could barely handle their own emotions, much less another human being. I always hated the idea of feeling helpless, especially in a position like this, but that's the one thing I happen to be caught in.

I can't comfort her.

I'm not that guy.

"It's so stupid," Dahlia says, repeating the same phrase I've come to hate. Especially coming from her. "I really thought I could finally leave, that I finally got the chance to escape and go somewhere far, but there's always something—something in the way."

She stops, choking on her own speech. She places her hand against her chest, right above her heart, and inhales a deep breath. "It feels like I can't breathe," she reveals, clutching her shirt into a ball. "It feels like I'm surrounded by trees in nature and all I have to do is inhale—but I can't."

Dahlia begins to shake her head, like her dreams were impossible and the chase was too hard to follow. She wants to give up, and she looks seconds from choosing so. I'm afraid that she wants to turn off the light before it has a chance to glow.

"I'm full of bad luck, Harlow," she continues, saying my name for the first time. She turns to me with glassy eyes and she no longer holds the strong front she did before. She's open and vulnerable, and it fucking hurts. "I'm going to be stuck here forever."

And it's like her words were a trigger.

And the shots were fired.

And I can't take it anymore.

"No," I shake my head, grabbing both her hands. I look up to meet her brown gaze with mine. "You're not."

Her brows pulled together in confusion and her lips parted to question when I cut her off, "I'll teach you how to drive."

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