VIERNES
8:42 AM
Reid Harlow
I slip into the seat beside Dahlia.
She sits to the left of me, having an inconsistent routine of switching our seats, with her earbuds plugged in. She sports a white tank top with butterfly embroidery, light-washed jeans and a cardigan. She was also completely unaware of her fucking surroundings.
I tap her on the shoulder, causing her eyes to go wide and turn to me. Her doe eyes meet mine, pulling out one of the earbuds and offering it up to me, "you want to listen?"
I stiffen a smile and shake my head, a somber expression overtakes my features. "I didn't get you into too much trouble, did I?" I ask, my voice intertwined with a trace of panic. I hope to fucking God I hid it well from her.
Dahlia's brows crinkle together, taking a second before the recognition dawns on her. She shakes her head. The weight off my shoulders lifted and I could finally fucking breathe. "No," she answers, pulling both earbuds out and wrapping it around her phone. "But, you're not invited over without my mom's knowledge."
I scoff, "isn't that the entire fucking point?"
"No." She answers slowly. "My mom doesn't...hate you? But she's like...like...what's that English word?" She snaps her fingers.
"Strict?" I offer.
"No," she shakes her head, her brows pulling together. "She is strict—she's Latina, and plus, she's from Venezuela—but like...she's not...totally against the idea of a boy coming over? I don't know if that's the right way to describe it, but like, she wants me to be safe?"
Safe?
"She thinks I'm going to fucking kill you or something?"
"No!" Dahlia exclaims, a little bit louder than she intended. A couple of students turn their attention to us, but with one glare, they look away. Dahlia sinks into her seat. "I hate English."
"What's the Spanish word for it then?" I ask, hoping it would help her better. I know for a fucking fact I wouldn't be able to understand it, because never in my four years of high school have I taken a foreign language course—but who the fuck knows?
She sighs. "Mi mami cree en mí. Ella sabe que sé lo que estoy haciendo y no debería estar haciendo, y si se trata de algo, mi mami quiere que esté a salvo. Ella confía en mí."
"I have no clue what the fuck you just said," I said, causing her to frown. She shakes her head, her shoulders slouching.
"Never mind." Dahlia declares, sucking in a deep breath. "Let's just get ready for class. I'm tired of explaining it."
I open my mouth, wanting to object—but what the fuck can I say to her? I can't read her mind, and I don't know what she's saying in Spanish, even if she knows the word. It's stupid to be so fixated over a simple phrase, but it's more than that.
The bell rings and Calloway closes the door, locking it due to protocol. He walks over to the front of the board and begins his lesson, abiding all attention to him.
I take one last glance at Dahlia.
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VIERNES
2:01 PM
Reid Harlow
Dahlia always leaves around two.
She has a four-to-eight shift on weekdays, and she would cut her last period to get ready to go to work.
It wasn't the type of cutting school where she would get disciplined if she ever gets caught—it was an academic extension program for students who have jobs. She had to give up one of her AP classes to take the opportunity, and she gladly turned in the slip to be considered.
I waited outside our last period together as she walked out, adjusting her backpack and shoving all the homework Auguste assigned us. It was something about classical literature and their evolution to today's culture.
"Peony," I approach her, slipping by her side. She looks up.
"Is that my flower for the day?" She said with a lopsided smile, zipping her backpack. My heart stops for a good damn second, and I almost lose my train of thought. She caught on.
I rolled my eyes. "You're leaving for work, right?"
"You know the routine," Dahlia said, throwing the straps over her shoulders. "I have to walk over to the bus stop before they leave me. That almost happened once."
I nod, following beside her as she makes a beeline to the front. This is quite the opposite of where I'm supposed to be heading, but I could care less. She wants to leave, and I only had a few minutes to talk to her.
"Peony," I grab her arm, causing her to stop in place. She turns to me, with innocent eyes, and waits for me to speak. The words lodge at my throat. "I—did you ever figure out that word?"
Fuck. That's not what I wanted to say.
I know she speaks Spanish and I know the language is a big part of her. This isn't the first time she couldn't articulate the word on the tip of her tongue and I know that fucking frustrates her. This time more than the last.
And I couldn't do anything about it. I don't know what she's saying and I know Google Translate could only get you so far. This is a part of Dahlia, and in order to know Dahlia, you have to know all sides of her.
So, safe to say, I want to learn what she's saying.
But how the fuck do I bring that up without sounding so fucking stupid?
"Um, no," she shakes her head, frowning at the mention. "But, what can I do? It is what it is. Too bad you don't know Spanish."
She laughs, trying to play it off casually but I knew she was a bit upset that I couldn't understand, or get the gist of what she was trying to say. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"What if—" My phone rings in my hand, causing me to cut my sentence short and glance down at the device. It was a short-lived call, probably a butt dial, before a message accompanied the name.
"Who's that?" Dahlia asks, peering over to take a glance at the name tag. I flipped the phone over for her to see. Her full lips part. "Oh," she gape, "your brother."
"He's not my brother," I scowl, reading the message he sent. "He's just saying how I need to be at dinner today and we can't have the car tonight."
"Wow, he's really making it out to sound like we're going to have sex in his car," Dahlia jokes, causing me to almost choke on my spit. I look up to the girl, innocent as can be, and she reads my shocked expression. "What? It was just a joke. Don't take it too seriously."
I don't say anything in return, just staring at her, and I could've sworn her cheeks turn a shade of pink under my gaze.
"Anyways," Dahlia said, looking over to the front door, breaking eye contact. "I have to go. I'm going to probably miss my bus if I don't run right now, and I don't want to get fired before I get my paid check. So..."
She loosens my grip around her arm and begins to speed down the hallway, running towards the exit—when she halts a couple steps in. "Oh, and Harlow?"
"What?" I look to her, just to see her turn around, her back facing the doors.
"Thanks. For the other night." She said, offering me one of her smiles—the one that meets her eyes and tilts her head a bit.
And she heads off.
And I think I stopped breathing.
Before I looked down and realized.
Fuck.
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VIERNES
8:00 PM
Reid Harlow
Dinner went well.
For them, more than for me, but that's beside the point, right?
I kind of pulled back on trying to make a conversation, or contribute to one, because I kind of fucking suck at speaking my truth in what Sebastian calls a family-friendly manner.
In other words, I can't say shit until I get my shit together.
Sebastian collects the plate from the dining table and heads to the kitchen, preparing to clean the dishes for the evening. I'm surprised—not from my foster father wanting to split the house chores with his wife—but from not being called in to help him.
I think Nini was planning something that day she called me in.
"Harlow," Presley hooks an arm around my shoulder, dragging me out of the dining room, passing the kitchen where the faucet begins to run, and stopping in front of the living room. "You were quiet today."
"No shit," I rolled my eyes, slipping out of his grasp. I take a seat on the couch, catching Nini leading Nico and Ariah out to the garden.
"You know the deal," he reminds quietly, taking a seat beside me. I wanted to shove him off, but I had to remind myself it was unreasonable, and I stopped myself from committing that volatile thought.
"I just don't want to fucking talk, okay?" I snap, gritting my teeth. "I had other things on my mind."
"Like what?"
"Like—" I nearly finished, about to reveal the reason behind my neglect towards our agreement. It was going to spill some private information, and I don't even know if I was ready to admit it. "Never mind."
My foster brother exhales a heavy sigh, like he was tired of this back-and-forth pandering that never tends to go anywhere. Anywhere he wants to, at least. Presley wants to know me. He wants me to open up and give him a chance to prove himself worthy, when I always found myself resisting. Not wanting to get closer, not wanting to get hurt.
Isolation is bed made for me to lie in, but is entirely too lonely to sleep.
We don't say anything for the next couple of minutes, and the tension stretches along the silence. It wasn't the type of tension where I manifested safely for me to exhibit; it was the type that felt depth—that felt uncomfortable and awkward—because I owned a debt.
Presley gave me the keys to his car without asking, just to drive to the hospital. He let me borrow his car for a night, so I could check on Dahlia. He never asked questions, he always allowed me to tell my story at my own pace.
He has given himself to me countless times over, and I haven't once returned the favor.
"I want to learn Spanish." I announce into the bitter silence, forcing Presley to turn to me. He looks surprised, at me telling him this. "Dahlia...she wanted to tell me something, and she couldn't find the words, and she only knew it in Spanish—and I don't fucking now."
What the fuck am I doing?
"You want to learn Spanish for her?" Presley asks, his voice neutral.
"It's not just for her, it's more than that. It's—it's the fact that I want to know her. And Spanish is a big part of her. I don't know." I sigh, running a hand through my hair. I sound like a fucking idiot. "Having Dahlia, is having both. You can't know one without the other."
Presley doesn't respond, staying silent, and for a second, I thought this was a huge mistake telling him about this—because what the fuck does he know? How the hell is he going to help me in my dilemma? I doubt he knows Spanish, and I don't even know where the fuck to start.
I never had any goals in my life, but for once, I wanted this.
"You know Nini knows Spanish, right?" He prompts, and I freeze.
I almost fucking forget. Nini knows Spanish. I've seen her talk to Nico a couple of times in Spanish, trying to help him feel at home—trying to get him out of his comfort zone. I don't know if it ever worked, but it does help me.
"I should go ask Nini for help," I said, standing from my spot. Then, I realized what I said. "Fuck. I should go ask Nini for help?" I turn to Presley.
He stands up with me, and a smile spreads on his face. "You want this or not?"
I sigh heavily, sulking. "I could always use an app right?"
Presley rolls his eyes, shaking his head and shoves me out of the living room. "Just go fucking ask her. She can help you better than that green bird."
I don't say anything as I heaved a sigh, stepping into the kitchen where Sebastian is finishing the last set of dishes. I don't bother to ask him where his wife is—in the garden—and head straight to the backyard, where I spot Nini spraying water out of the gardening hose at the kids.
She laughs along with the kids, who were running in circles, catching the rain like it was a parade. Nico and Ariah screams and cheers, an odd combination to the reaction of getting wet with your clothes on.
"Nini," I call, catching her attention as she looks up from the garden and towards the deck. She turns off the nuzzle, looking back to me with a questioning gaze. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"
She nods, dropping the hose on the floor and heading over to me. "Anything wrong?"
I clench my jaw, not liking the words that are about to spill from my mouth. "No," I shake my head, through gritted teeth. "I just...need your help." I mumble the last part.
"What?" Nini leans closer, trying to catch my words. I groan.
"I need your help," I said a bit louder, loosening my jaw. She pulls back in surprise. "You don't have to fucking say yes—but Presley reminded me that you know Spanish and I want to learn Spanish, so can you—"
"Yes!" She screams, not allowing me to finish. I was surprised by her enthusiasm. "Yes, I will teach you!"
That was easy. "You sure?"
"Yes, I'm positive," she grins, wiping her hands against her pants. "We can always do a couple of lessons after school, when you're available, and we can practice together too. But, I want to warn you, my brother taught me Spain Spanish."
I stare at her with a dumbstruck look. "There's different types of fucking Spanish?"
She chuckles, "yes. It's the accent, and the way they say certain phrases, and words, and such. You think there's one monolithic Spanish?"
I swallow, but there's no point in lying. "Actually, yes."
"Well," Nini claps her hands together. "We will have a lot to learn then. First lesson? The different types of Spanish."
I don't object as I nod, kind of expecting that from Nini.
My foster mother returns with a grin, and she was about to add something—probably going to enlighten me about the schedule for our daily practices—when my phone rings and it silences her. I fish the device out of my pocket, reading the caller.
It was Dahlia.
"What?" I place my phone to my ear, realizing how harsh I might've sounded to her. "My bad. You called?"
"Hey," Dahlia greets softly, as I hear music playing on her side of the call. "I was wondering, are you busy Sunday?"
"No." I shake my head, taking a step back from Nini. She does not need to hear this. "Why? Did something happen?"
"Huh? Oh, no." I could picture her shaking her head, "not yet anyways." She fakes a laugh, trying to move the conversation away from that.
"What's going on on Sunday?" I ask, knowing she doesn't want to talk about it. At least, not over the phone.
She sighs. "My mom wants to meet you. Like, formally. So, she's kind of hosting a small dinner with my family." Dahlia explains, before quickly adding, "and you don't have to say yes, or agree to any of it, but she wants to meet you on Sunday and my dad does too."
Meeting her parents? Formally? Fuck.
Do I still remind you of your dad?
Maybe, I could get that answer on Sunday.
"Sure."