MIÉRCOLES
7:43 PM
Reid Harlow
"Who the fuck keeps ringing the doorbell?!" I shout over my shoulders, expecting an answer from one of my family members, only to hear the churning noises of the heater resetting back to life in the attic.
I glance behind me, finding the emptiness of the kitchen and the family room—a complete contrast to the chaos happening moments ago. Where Nini was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets searching for her finest chinaware, with Sebastian racing around the room, scavenging for his keys through the compartments of the furniture, and the kids were off idling with miscellaneous tasks to complete before Christmas day.
Another ring of the bells sounds from the foyer, and with an absent-minded gesture I lower Nico to the floor, his tiny legs begin swinging against the air, scrambling to catch the ground. I pull my hands from his waist, while the little boy clings onto two round, glitter ornaments in his hands.
"I thought everyone was home for the weekend," I muse to him, to which he simply shrugs in reply. I didn't know what else to expect from Nico Suarez. Another ring of the doorbell is heard through the echoes of the foyer. I glare at the hallway entrance. "Do you know who's at the door?"
Nico shakes his head, dropping the ornaments on the coffee table, right beside the plastic storage box containing an array of Christmas decorations the family still hasn't put up. Despite the day being Christmas Eve.
From what I heard—they do Christmas a bit differently.
Nico studies his palms, noticing some silver glitter has left the ornaments and contaminated his hands. He slams them together, rubbing them in hopes of getting them off—but it didn't work. His next decision was to rub them against his pants, to which I quickly scramble to grab his hands before he made a mess of things with his clothes.
"No," I shake my head, capturing both his wrists in one hand. His wide green eyes stare back at me. "Nini is going to have a really hard time getting that out of your clothes, so let's go wash your hands first."
"Oh." His lips part and I nod alongside his realization, pulling him towards the kitchen and lifting him up to wash his hands with soap.
Another ring of the doorbell is heard.
"God, who the fuck is so persistent?" I mumble under my breath, ripping a paper towel from the bundle. I hand it to Nico, dropping him back on the floor. Making my way into the hallway and approaching the door, my fingers wrap around the knob. My jaw set, annoyance flares in my features as I rip open the door. "Whoever the fuck keeps doing that—"
I cut myself short. Whoever the fuck I thought was behind the door—didn't matter. Dahlia and her mother stood behind the oak, culprits to the continuous ringing. I seem to have caught her in the act as her finger stopped mid-air, aiming for the bell.
She drops her hand, tucking it behind her back. My expression softens significantly, as my eyes travel to Dahlia—reading her from head to toe. She's wearing an army-green matching sweatpants and sweatshirt, and her nose is blush red. Her cheeks are pale of any color and she's shivering on the porch, bouncing on the heel of her feet.
"Hi." Dahlia greets, a breath of cold air escapes her lips. She since pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands, balling the cuffs in the middle of her palms. "I, um," she swallows her words.
The last time we talked, we were at the bench—where Dahlia finally spoke her mind about what she wanted. She hated smoking, that much I already knew—but this time, she wanted me to stop smoking. To stop elevating myself on a high that rides on the spite of my brother. To stop killing myself with each breath I take.
She said she needs me.
And it became a moment of clarity of who I was to Dahlia—and who I was shouldn't be who she needs.
I'm too much like her father.
"Hey," I greet, like the wind was knocked out of my lungs. I prop the door a bit wider, welcoming the mother-daughter duo in and sheltering them from the cold. "Come in."
Dahlia offers me a grateful smile, and holds my gaze. She doesn't make a move to step inside, and her mother decided to make the decision for her. Alejandra gives her a small push—almost forcing her daughter to trip on her own two feet. Dahlia turns around and glares at her mother, only to be returned with an innocent smile balancing on her lips.
They step inside of the heater-induced household, and both fall in line onto the wooden planks of the foyer. I close the door behind, shutting out the shivering cold. Despite the weather not having their annual mountain of snow for the month, it's still freezing.
"Sorry for ringing the doorbell so much," Dahlia heaves a hearty breath, a puff of cold air still escapes her lips. She easily slips out of her shoes—and I notice she wore mistletoe socks—as she rubs her hands together, producing friction to warm herself up. "It was so cold, and I tried calling you but you didn't answer."
I don't know what to say. My words are bottled in my throat, unable to produce any coherent sentences because—Dahlia. She's standing right before me, on Christmas Eve, despite our last conversation.
My initial goal was to give her space—or set myself the necessary boundaries so Dahlia can't confuse the relationship between us—but she ends up coming back. She's here. She's right in front of me, and I don't know what the fuck to do.
I didn't even know if I wanted her here.
But in the back of my head—I do. I always do.
Fuck, Harlow. You need to keep your head on straight around this girl.
"I–" I swallow, clenching down my jaw to avoid any seeping emotions threatening to spill. "You know you don't have to fucking apologize, right?"
She sucks air through her teeth, wincing at the reminder, "right."
"It was my fault." I gave my subtle hint of an apology, for keeping her waiting. I may not have invited her over, but nonetheless, she's here. Fuck, I'm going soft for this girl. "I was helping Nico decorate the Christmas tree."
She makes a face, scrunching her nose. "Your family hasn't decorated the tree yet?"
I scoff, "I don't fucking know." I shrug, attempting to appear indifferent to the entire situation when what I'm feeling is the complete fucking opposite. Harlow, calm the fuck down. "Nini and Sebastian have a weird way of celebrating Christmas, I guess. This is my first year with them, and quite possibly, the only year I'll ever celebrate this holiday."
Her smile falters, studying me for a few seconds, before she decides to take the initiative and lean closer. My breath hitch in my throat as she tiptoes on her socks, beginning to slip on the glaze wooden floors—before I catch her waist.
I feel her stiffen against my touch, and with my chest pressed against hers, I could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage, threatening to spill. She turns to me, her doe eyes meeting mine like a deer caught in headlights and her cheeks flaming with heat.
We didn't say anything for a few moments, paused in time, before a small smile plays on her lips, casual and innocent, like we aren't caught in an intimate position. "Hi." She breathes, swallowing hard to contain herself.
I chuckle in response, balancing her back on the floor and loosening my grip around her waist. She pulls from my touch, almost involuntarily, and straightens out the wrinkles to her sweatshirt, distracting herself from meeting my gaze.
After taking a minute or so to finish to her own satisfaction, she turns back to me, cheeks still burning. "What I was trying to say before we—" she pauses, giving me a quick once over, "—got preoccupied, was that if it makes you feel any better, I don't celebrate Christmas either."
This surprises me. I cock a brow at her, sparing a glance at her mother—who've been awfully quiet since her entrance—before returning back to Dahlia. "You don't?"
"Not as far as I can remember," she muses, tucking her hands behind her back like a child scholar and rocking on the heel of her feet. Back and forth. "It has always been my mom and me in the house, and we don't have any relatives or family here, so she never had a reason to celebrate Christmas." She pauses, squinting her eyes, trying to pull a distinctive memory. "I remember it being really big in Venezuela, but here, not so much."
I hum in response, but added nothing more to the conversation. To be fucking honest, my mind is straying off the course of this talk and I can't help it. I'm listening—how the fuck could I not, it's Dahlia talking—but my mind is wandering off into other things.
It's been relaying the same fucking scene that happened minutes ago.
"Dahlia!" I hear someone greets from the second floor, and we simultaneously turn our gaze to find Presley standing at the top of the steps, casually leaning against the railings. He sported an army-green mid coat, a black hoodie underneath, and light-washed jeans. "You made it."
Presley descends down the steps, both hands in his pockets before settling in the vacant space beside me. He doesn't bid me any attention, and turns to the front of us, with a welcoming smile on his face.
Dahlia's features light up, mimicking his expression and pulls her hand from behind, just to offer a little wave. "Thanks for inviting me," she pauses, glancing around the house exhibiting the lack of Christmas decorations and holly-jolly spirit. "If I had known you guys weren't ready, I would've came over earlier to help."
Presley shrugs off the offer, "it's fine. We're still setting up everything inside, but in all honesty, all that matters is if the neighbors think we got it handled." He jabs a thumb at the door, referencing to the countless streams of Christmas lights wrapped around the porch and stretching for miles on the roof. "Plus, we do Christmas a bit differently."
She chuckles, sparing me a one-second glance, "I heard."
The backdoor swings wide open, clashing the blinds against the wall, and from the position I'm in, I could faintly see the rest of the family reentering the house, lighting the atmosphere with small chatters and filling the room with laughter.
Taking the opportunity, I turn to my brother while Dahlia and her mother are seemingly distracted by the oncoming entrance of the rest of the family members—I grab a hold of his coat, tugging on it to grab his attention. He turns to me, with a wide but knowing look.
"I can't believe you fucking invited Dahlia," I grit through my teeth, struggling to contain the tone of my voice. Presley struggles to rip my grip off his coat. "You should've fucking asked me."
"First off," he clears his throat, a bit louder to catch Dahlia's attention. It didn't work. I tug down harder on his coat. "Hands off my coat. You're stretching the fabric and do you know how expensive this is?"
I scowl, "I don't fucking care."
"Well, I do," he rolls his eyes, lowering his voice and leaning in closer, "and second off: aren't you practically in love with this girl? What's the problem with me inviting her over? If anything, you should be thanking me."
I shove him off of me, flicking the middle finger his direction. "I'm going to fucking kill you."
A casual, easy-going smile replaces Presley's expression as he smooths out the wrinkles I made to his coat. "No," he shakes his head simply. "No, you're not."
His confidence is obnoxious, but it took me down by surprise. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because," he lowers his voice again, sparing a glance at Dahlia and her mother preoccupied and speaking in Spanish, and leans in closer—like he has a death wish. "You would never hurt me if I was around Dahlia, and for the rest of this night, that's what I'm planning on doing."
Presley doesn't give me the chance to reply before he straightens up and throws an arm around Dahlia, starling her. "Dahlia, let me show you and your mom around the place. Especially the backyard, I think you will like it."
"Um," she turns to her mother, translating the offer back in Spanish, and I caught on a couple of words—not enough, though, since they speak so fucking fast. "Sure."
My foster brother begins to guide them towards the back, where the family resides and converses among the kitchen, and Alejandra follows in suit, trailing beside the pair.
I thought that would be the end of it—the end of Presley's victorious stance—until Presley sticks his free hand behind his back, subtly giving me the middle finger before proceeding to make a turn into the kitchen, far from view.
And I fucking saw that fucker's little smirk.
━━━━━
MIÉRCOLES
1:03 AM
Reid Harlow
For the past hour, the entire family sat around the fireplace, pulling presents from underneath the tree and handing them out like a charity drive from a local church. In the process: they retold tales of past years, memories of childhood stories, grappling with the reality of how their life became this.
I stayed out of most of the conversation, because I've only known them for less than a year, but Presley always managed to draw me back in—mentioning the time I tackled him into the snow, hitting the ground so hard, he felt like his bones were going to shatter.
Everyone laughed, but Dahlia was confused as fuck.
For now, most of the presents have been unwrapped and given to their respectful owners—who are either saving it for use, or breaking in their toys immediately. Nico, who received Legos set that matches one of his comic book characters, has chosen the former.
Dahlia has been talking to her mother for the majority of the time, leaning over and translating most of the story retellings like a child reading a bedtime story to their mother. I would always catch when she finishes, because Alejandra would release a set of low chuckles—late in comparison to everyone else.
But it never mattered.
Every time Dahlia manages to make her mother laugh, she would break out into one of these cheesy-ass grins, splitting ear-to-ear.
And it's my favorite fucking view.
"Hey, Mistletoes," I whisper, catching Dahlia in a mid-conversation with her mother. She turns around and faces me—eyes wide and innocent, waiting.
"Yeah?" Her lips part, her gaze drops and studies my face for a quick second, reading my expression before they return back to me.
I don't exactly know why I called her. There was nothing off the top of my head. I guess I wanted to have a reason to look at her; to study the way some loose strands of her wild hair frames her face perfectly, despite me tying them back into a ponytail. I wanted to study her eyes: brown, innocent and beautiful, and something I wouldn't mind getting lost in forever if I had the chance. And her lips—the one fucking thing I would kiss forever if only I had the courage to be selfish.
I want her, and with one stolen glance, she could take my breath away and bring me down to my knees if she wanted to—but having her is a luxury I don't have the privilege of touching.
"Um," I swallow, struggling to produce the words. Dahlia slightly tilts her head to the side, her brows wrinkling together. "Fuck."
"Coño." She corrects, with a small smile on her face.
I don't bother even trying to hide mine. "Yeah, that."
"Dahlia," her mother tugs on her arm, causing her to tear her gaze off of me and return to her mother. "Mira." Look.
She turns to the front and is greeted by Nico—who came out of fucking nowhere—holding a box in his hand, a small present.
"Oh, hi," she coos, eyes gleaming in delight as she glances down at the box balancing between his small hands. "What is this?"
Nico doesn't say anything, and pushes the box forward, "Aquí." Here.
Dahlia replies a simple gracias to Nico, and takes the present from his hands with a grateful smile. She looks up and down, from the present to Nico, not knowing what to do next. Alejandra had to give her a little jab with her elbow.
I look around to see the entire family watching Dahlia, like the present is going to be a monumental surprise and they can't wait to catch her reaction. I turn back to her, just as she finishes pulling off the wrapping and about to uncover the box.
When she does—her expression immediately lit up. "It's a mango!" She exclaims with bursting excitement, pulling the fruit from the box and coddling it into her palms, turning to her mother to showcase the colorful fruit.
"Mami!" She laughs, causing her mother to join in with her, wrapping a comforting arm around her daughter. I can't exactly see what she looks like—with her back turned to me—but she leans into the crook of her mother's shoulder, burying herself for comfort. She laughs, almost like she's crying. "Es un mango!"
The family laughs at her excitement, picking up her context clues. Alejandra turns to Nini, sitting a few feet away from her, and exchange a conversation in Spanish—where I'm pretty fucking sure they exchanged a couple of thank-yous and no-problems.
Dahlia finally pulls herself from her mother and coddles the mango in her hands like it's the most delicate item. Laughter still lingers on her lips as she's staring at the fruit, her smile contagious and her head shaking down at the sight.
She turns to the family, sobering, "I know I look really stupid right now," she chuckles, not caring that she's nearly brought in tears because of a simple fruit, "but like—thank you. I don't know why this made me so happy, but it genuinely did."
Claudia smiles, leaning forward. "It was supposed to be a gag gift, because my mom knew how much you love mangos," she clarifies, with a shake of her head, "but your reaction was so cute, I should've recorded it."
Dahlia laughs and genuine happiness radiates from her, pouring into every inch of her features. Her smile, her eyes, her lips. She holds a conversation with Claudia—talking about mangos, before transitioning over to Venezuela and her childhood memories she cherished back on her family farm.
She talks and she talks, retelling her stories to someone of open ears to listen. Sometimes she speaks so fast, like she's losing time or losing attention, that she cuts herself short to apologize. But, Claudia was as interested as I was–urging her to finish, to become her own voice.
And she smiles.
And I fall deeper every single fucking time.
"Wait," Dahlia pauses, holding out her hands as she cuts her sentence short. Her brows scrunch together, confusion follows the crowd. "Is it..." She turns her head to the window, little light glistening through the slits of the blinds, and her eyes widen. "It is. It's snowing!"
Dahlia jumps to her feet and hands her mother the mangos she's been coddling in her arms for the past hour—before dashing out of the back door, in mistletoe socks.
I pulled myself to my feet, ready to follow, but held my place. I don't know exactly what the fuck to do. I turn to the family, who stares back at me with mixed expression, and wait for them to tell me directions.
I feel someone hit my calf, and I look down to see Alejandra sitting on the edge of the couch—having since moved from the floor—and she points to the backdoor, "go for Dahlia!"
I didn't need to be told twice.
I stole the blanket off the armrest of the couch and rushed out of the cracked backdoor, closing the oak behind me to cover Dahlia's mistake when she ran out. The deck lights connected to the house are on, two twins on each side of the door, illuminating the wooden planks of the deck and stretching against the cobblestone pathway.
It reveals the snow falling from the sky; white and tiny, glistering against the moonlight and individually beautiful to each snowflake. It reveals how much we missed, how the ground is covered in at least two inches of snow and sprinkling against the covered garden of Nini's greenhouse, and it reveals Dahlia—dancing in the middle of the backyard, arms outstretched, her head tilted back to catch the snow on her tongue, and in her mistletoes socks.
"Harlow!" She exclaims in joy, catching my presence on the edge of the deck, watching her. She drops her arms to her side, turning to me as snow falls on her dark mane, decorating each individual strand of hair, with a grin on her lips. "Look, it's snowing!"
I scoff, containing the smile threatening to spill, "I know that," stepping forward, before my foot touches the cool soil and I pull back, reminding myself that I was the dumbass that forgot to grab his shoes. I turn back to Dahlia, "aren't you cold?"
"What?" She tilts her head to the side, a cold air escapes her, before my words register. "Oh, yeah, a bit."
I beckon a hand at her, "then fucking come here," I command, ending with a pause, before adding. "I have a blanket for you."
Dahlia takes one step forward, about to oblige, before she pulls herself back and a mischievous grin settles on her features. "No," she shakes her head once, her hair loosening from their ponytail.
I cock a brow at her, "what do you mean, no?"
"I mean no," she repeats, a bit more confident. She has mischief glistering in her eyes, almost as bright as the moonlight. Dahlia reaches for and pulls the hair-tie from her hair, releasing her wild mane across her shoulders. "Catch me."
It took me a moment to gather my thoughts, "what?"
"If you want me to use that blanket," her grin not once faltering from her lips, her eyes sparing a quick glance at the blanket collecting snow in my hands, "then, catch me."
"Mistletoes," I scowl, my eyes narrowing down. "It's not a joke. Don't you have fucking asthma or something? Aren't you going to get sick?"
"I'm not going to die," she emphasizes, bouncing on the heel of her feet and outstretching her hands to collect the snow in her palms. "If you're so worried, catch me."
"Mistletoes."
"Harlow."
"Dahlia."
She scrunches her nose, shaking her head in disgust. "No, go back."
I gloss over her tease, "it's not a joke. Come here before you get fucking sick."
"Catch me, Harlow," she repeats, throwing her arms out in a clear declaration. She spins around once, catching my gaze, before a sudden sobriety reigns on her features. "What are you so afraid of?"
You. I'm afraid of falling in love with you.
I don't answer, and it took me a couple of seconds before I finally moved. When I did, I dropped the blanket on the deck and sprinted down the backyard, heading straight towards Dahlia.
Her eyes widen, and she quickly bounces on her feet, dodging me and making random turns and twists to ignore my chase. It was so fucking stupid—running after her like a unattainable goal, and the irony wasn't lost on me.
She laughs against the wind, running as fast as her legs could carry her. We ran in wild directions, in circles, in zigzags, and Dahlia reigned in amusement just as I collected frustration.
It wasn't until I had about enough that I decided to tackle her.
I'll admit, that wasn't the best decision I've ever made.
We collectively fell to the ground, and I quickly reacted by wrapping my arm around Dahlia's waist, pulling her hard against my chest, and allowing gravity to take me instead of hurting her.
I landed on my back, with a heavy thump and softened by the glaze of the snow, but I had a feeling that my spine is going to bruise in the morning. Dahlia lands on top of me, adding onto the weight and casting more damage, while her breath is cut short. She's breathing heavy, her arms tucked by her sides—locked by my hold—and her eyes met mine, wide and conscious of the position we're in.
"Harlow," she breathes, whispering against the whistling of the wind; that breezes through her hair and flushes her cheeks.
I grit my jaw, impulsively glancing down at her parted lips, before returning my gaze back on hers. "You okay?" I ask, not wanting to unravel from her touch and check. As selfish as it may seem, I wanted to stay here, in the blistering cold and the gnawing snow that's prickling into my spine like needles. I wanted a few more seconds with her, if that's all I'm granted.
She nods once, hesitatingly, as her eyes focus on mine. We don't say anything for a few seconds, just staring into each other's eyes like it was the end of the world and it was all we could account for. Hold onto.
Right now, I'm feeling like it is.
"I–I," she quivers, "I think it's time to get that blanket."
Fuck, I know.
I nod slowly, before slowly unraveling my arm around her waist and allowing her to get up from our position. Her cheeks are flush rosy, and her skin is freezing from the weather, when she finally gathers to her feet.
Dahlia makes her way towards the deck, with me following stiffly behind, rolling out the blanket and throwing it over her shoulders.
She takes the seat on the step of the deck, similarly to how I would take mine, and I found my place on the spot beside her.
"Here," she opens one side of the blanket, offering me to scoot closer and find warmth right next to her. I shake my head to decline, despite the freezing temperature registering into my system and without the nicotine to warm me. "No, I'm serious. You're going to get sick." She adds, with a knowing smile.
I roll my eyes, but nonetheless, wordlessly accept the offer by scooting closer as she wraps the blanket around my shoulders. It creates an insulation for warmth, redirecting our body heat back on us instead of allowing it to escape into the cold atmosphere. Plus, being close to Dahlia—it's nice.
"I'm happy right now," she adds into the silence, taking a second before she nods her head at her proclamation. "I am happy."
I press my lips together, considering the delicacy of her words. "Right now?"
Her features soften, her lips pull into a small frown. "My dad still isn't talking to me."
Ah, fuck, not Clayton Gray again.
I grit my teeth in response, arguably holding down my tongue before spewing insults about her father. She knows I don't like him, and she knows that my hatred for her resides in his treatment of his daughter. There's nothing that could change that.
In some fucked-up way, hating Clayton Gray is like hating myself.
"I never told you this, but the day before we had our driving lesson and I—" she pauses, sucking in a deep breath. "—nearly crashed the car, my dad came into my room."
My eyes widen, not liking the direction this story is heading. I drop my gaze to her hands, arms, and legs. "Did he fucking hurt you?"
She shakes her head frantically, noticing the lick of anger flickering through my irises. "No," she assures quickly, "not physically, at least." She pauses, swallowing hard. She drops her gaze on the ground. "I kinda wished he did."
I don't say anything, trying to eliminate the passionate fury that spreads in my chest for her father, almost murderous intentions that follow quickly behind. I want to give him a chance—but knowing what I know and how I am—I would rather fucking die.
"He, um, he was really mean," she said, fidgeting with the hems of the blanket, "I forgot to do this stupid packet for his job, and it was my fault, but he came in and he kept hurling insults at me—calling me intelligent, and the most smartest person in the world but like, but like it was in a really condescending way."
Dahlia looks up to me, silently seeking for validation behind her words. That she's not going crazy, that I understood what she meant, that it wasn't stupid. It's never fucking stupid.
I nod once, "I'm listening."
She releases a hearty sigh of relief, turning back to the front, and relaxes her shoulders. "And it was really bad. He kept saying it over and over again, with more insults disguised as compliments, and I remember it hurting really, really bad. I wanted to die instead of listening to him give me another lecture."
My hands bottle into fists, and I'm trying my best not to fucking march out of this backyard and head straight towards Dahlia's house, doing some unimaginable fucking things to Clayton Gray. And possibly—most fucking likely than not—a piece of my fists.
She places her hand over mine, drawing me out of my thoughts and looking down to see her grabbing my hands in both of hers, trying to keep me in place—but at the same time, calming me from doing something destructive. To not fucking murder her father.
"Hey, I'm okay, okay?" She reassures, her words weak from her eyes. "It was just—it was a really bad experience, and I cried. A lot. And I remember, specifically, telling myself I needed to drive now. I needed to learn how to drive so I could leave and leave him."
I grind my teeth together, "why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I knew you would want to talk," she said easily, exasperation fell from her tone. "I knew you would want to pause our lessons to talk about my problems, and probably give me an ease of mind before I started driving—"
"—Because you're supposed to drive with a clear fucking head—"
"—and so," she cuts me off forcefully, continuing her story. I remember to shut the fuck up. "I just didn't want to tell you. I wanted to learn how to drive as fast as I can, and I felt stuck every time you told me to circle the neighborhood. It felt like I wasn't going to get anywhere, and there was this really bad voice in my head, that kept telling me that, I'm not going to leave. I was going to be stuck here forever."
She swallows hard, "I think...I think that's why I drove off the road. I was so occupied in my own thoughts, about everything that happened to me the day before, that I wasn't focused on the road and I almost killed us."
Dahlia begins to slowly pull back her hands from holding mine, almost like she was losing me—because of one simple mistake.
I grab her hand in mine, interlacing our fingers together. There were two urges to do that: to tell her that I'm always going to be here for her, even if she made a million mistakes, and, because I fucking love holding her hand.
She understood.
Dahlia doesn't say anything as she leans into me, her head laying against my shoulder and she sighs a heavy, almost tired sigh. Her stare pulls to the front, admiring the way the woodland trees are collecting the loads of snow against the needle leaves and the woodland creatures navigating through the branches.
I lean my head on hers.
"You know, the funny thing is: I was late. I've been going to work late, and my supervisor told me that if I don't start arriving on time when they call me, they are going to fire me," she finishes with a forceful laugh, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "It's like...It's like God is trying to punish me for disrespecting my dad."
"God isn't that type of person."
"Yeah, well, tell that to my mom."
That kills our conversation.
We don't add anything to fill the void, as time stretches. Dahlia places a hand on her chest, collecting the rhythm of her heart and reminding herself that she's alive. I subconsciously counted alongside her: one, two, three.
The world is helpless, depressing, and fucking sucks—but it shouldn't be for her.
"You know," I begin, pulling away from Dahlia and turning to face her. "The offer still stands."
She lifts her head off my shoulder and turns to me, her brows furrowing together. "The driving lessons," I clarify, my voice slightly uneased. "It's still stands and this time, I won't yell at you that much—or at all, if I can fucking help it. It's—I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I didn't know it was your trigger, and that's no fucking excuse but..."
I held in a breath, allowing the words to escape me. For her. "I'm sorry."
The apology stings, but it's worth it. I'll spend the rest of my life apologizing to Dahlia if that's what I need to do. Pride doesn't mean shit if I lose this girl.
"Yeah," she nods once, her decision clear. Her eyes met mine: clear, warm, and compliance. There lies a deeper emotion behind her gaze. "Yeah, I would like that."
And she fell back beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder, and for once in my life, I felt at peace.
━━━━━
i genuinely love the concept of this chapter and the plot progression but idk why, i just felt like my writing was very simplified and not it. (i'm not trying to fish for compliments, i just genuinely feel a bad about my writing right now. i'm a bit sensitive and i would love to her constructive criticism, but probably not now. give me a day or two, i feel sad about this chapter)
rambling over.