Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

50 | Running The Traffic Lights

DOMINGO
7:45 PM

Dahlia Gray

"I feel so nervous." I confess, carrying the present under one arm while adjusting my phone in the other. Aysa is on the line, and I can hear the soft clicks of her keyboards as she types away for an assignment. I'm surprised she even bothered answering the phone call in the first place.

"Don't."

"It's not that easy," I rebuttal, admiring the pebbles left between the cracks of the concrete, accompanied with fading chalk drawings in pastel colors, covering every square inch of the block. "I'm scared he won't like his gift."

"Fuck him," Aysa replies easily, causing me to roll my eyes.

"I can't. It's his birthday."

"Well," she draws from the back of her throat, "you could technically fuck him and call it a day." She suggests nonchalantly, causing a small smile to split on my lips. The thought appeals to me, and I won't lie that I haven't thought about it before. "Call it a birthday surprise."

"Believe me: if I could, I would." I respond coyly, glancing up from the sidewalk to find the silhouette of Harlow's home coming into view, the perfect hedge-shaped bushes, and bountiful of cars lining from the driveway onto the streets. Most famously, the black Mustang.

"I find it hard to believe, with a guy who cares that much about you, hasn't made the first kiss yet," Aysa states, bringing the phone closer to her mouth, the audio growing clearer. "Do you think he likes you?"

"Well, in all fairness, he doesn't like a lot of things in life," I defend, almost adding himself included, "but if he doesn't, I don't know, it's kind of sad. There's some moments where I think he does, or when I think he's going to kiss me, but in the end, he always reminds me of our relationship."

"Asshole," she mumbles under her breath. I laugh.

"Yeah, a bit."

I reach the steps of the Soberano-Godfrey's house, noting the stillness of the air. A couple of steps away, and my anxiety heightens. It takes me a couple of seconds before I ring the doorbell, immediately taking a generous step back.

"Well, I'm here. I'll...tell you how this goes."

"Or don't, if it goes bad."

"Aysa," I whine. This is not feeding into my confidence. "You're not helping here."

"You never called me to help, you called me to vent about his present." She quips quickly, causing me to roll my eyes once more.

"Whatever. I have to go, bye."

"Bye."

She ended the call before I got the chance.

I turn back to the front, straightening my posture and pulling my shoulders back. It felt a bit stupid—how formal I'm acting, and how unnatural it must've look—but I couldn't resist. I needed to do something, to appear better, to feel different. It's Harlow's birthday, and to treat this like it's another casual Sunday felt wrong.

The door swings open and reveals Harlow; his blue eyes widen at the sight of me standing on his porch, on his birthday, uninvited.

"Hi," I greet softly, my heart lunging against my ribcage at the mere sight of him. His hair was slightly tousled in a way that appears natural and kept, brown locks falling over the hairline of his forehead, his full lips parted, and his eyes shining bright. Alive. "You're not...you're not wearing black today."