Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

36 | Hazard Lights

MIÉRCOLES
6:07 PM

Dahlia Gray

I remember thinking I couldn't tell Harlow.

It wasn't because I didn't trust him—I do—but the reference to the memories would initiate an uncomfortable and awfully long conversation between our lessons. I didn't have the time. I rather waste away keeping quiet than sitting in silence for an hour or two, reciting a story I want no part of.

I just want to leave.

I spot Harlow in the empty parking lot, leaning against the trunk of the Mustang with a cigarette tucked between his teeth. An opaque cloud of smoke coming out of the end of the charred cigarette as his eyes cast off into oblivion, with no retrospect for his surroundings—until he catches me.

I don't say anything as I walk towards him, my head preoccupied with other things that don't concern what he does in his free time. Instead, I square up my shoulders, suck in a deep breath, tilt my chin upwards and front with a passive face. I pretend to be unbothered by his actions.

When in reality, that's far from the truth.

The imitation of art reflecting life stares back at me, as I slip into the space beside him, catching a whiff of the nicotine that fumes his aroma. The action parallels my father's, and I couldn't stop myself from thinking about how closely they resemble each other—even if they don't notice. The same brand, the same dismissive attitude towards my dislike of the activity—everything.

It hurts me, but it shouldn't. Harlow said it once, but his words rang a bell of declaration to my ears: we don't have a title.

There's no relationship.

He drops the cigarette to the asphalt, crushing it under his shoe. His eyes turn to me, waiting for a reaction, but I gave him none. My eyes glue to the road before us, splitting from the parking lot and into directions of endless maps. One road of infinite possibilities.

A new chance, a fresh start.

"Anything going on at home?" Harlow asks gruffly, the heat of his stare burning into the side of my head. I swallow my tongue, answering his question with mediated silence. Not bothering to clue him in on what's going on, or what happened yesterday.

A vivid memory flashes through my head and my father's words ring through me on blasted speakers, whistling on repeat. My gaze shifts to the sky, stopping the welling of tears, and reminding myself to not cry. My hands clench and unclench by my side, nails digging into my palms to absorb all my pent-up emotions I want to release.

"Let's start driving." I croak, swearing to myself for my feeble attempt to appear detached. I quickly turn to the right, skip past Harlow and head towards the driver's side. When I slip into the vehicle, I realize I forgot to ask for the keys.

It didn't matter, as Harlow follows behind in suit and settles into the passenger side. He holds out his hand, the jangle of keys splat between his palm. I take it, and slip the key into the ignition, dropping my hand on the gear shift, ready to reverse.

Before I got the chance, Harlow grabs my hand and stops me in place. I look up to him, a flicker of confusion crosses my expression and his lit with concern. His blue eyes waiting, patiently, for me to break and confess something.

I don't speak.

"What's the rule?" Harlow demands, his eyes studying my features as if he could read me like an open book. I made sure he couldn't, converting my expression into a stoic gaze and chanting to myself: don't cry, don't cry. Strong girls don't cry.