13 | Reverse, Reverse

MARTES

6:13 PM

Reid Harlow

"Why the fuck do we need so much shit?" I mumble to myself, dropping a couple boxes of cereal into the shopping cart. I check the shopping list Sebastian sent to me, and I'm barely a third done with the entire list.

I swear, if this was printed on paper, it would be at least two pages long—front and back.

Nico shrugs his shoulders, continuing to push the cart. He's barely scraping to the height of the bar, but he was persistent in taking the job. I didn't know why—I didn't bother to ask—but who am I to tell a kid no when all they want to do is push around a cart?

We continue to walk, skimming the aisles as I read the list the family complied of their needs. The night before, the entire family was summoned to the dinner table and was asked to name a couple of things they needed from the grocery store. Sebastian and Nini gathered together all of our answers and made a list.

A long ass list.

Why the hell does Ariah need gorilla glue?

I shake my head, returning back to the shelves as I see boxes of pastas. Nini wrote down to bring back three boxes of spaghetti pasta or, if the store is out, bring back bow ties.

I skim my fingers over the labels and before you know it, I find some spaghetti pasta and drop three boxes into the cart—which is filling up by the minute. I turn back to Nico, "come on, we're going to the produce section."

Nico cocks his head to the side, struggling to decipher what produces are, and I sigh. "Fruits. We're going to the fruit section."

Nico parts his lips in realization and I grab a hold of the end of the cart, dragging him towards the right of the store. I noticed that the grocery store is larger than the town I lived in before—which was probably half the size—and that it was more organized.

While the last town I lived in had fruits scattered across the shelves, not bothering to return them to their correct order, this one has apples stacked in pyramids. It stays up too.

I feel something poke my arm, and I look behind me to see Nico. He has since abandoned his station and comes forward, saying something with his lips but his words coming off almost mute. I bend down, getting closer.

"Can I get some raspberries?" Nico asks, in the softest goddamn voice, he could be a mouse. I pull myself back up, searching the stands for some raspberries when I spotted them.

Her.

Dahlia is over in the vegetable aisle, with an unfamiliar woman standing in front of her. She is smiling—grinning, actually—as she tries to conceal her laughter from escaping. The woman is bagging cilantro, shaking her head at Dahlia.

I actually felt my heart stop.

I watch for a few more moments as I see Dahlia saying something to the woman, pointing to the walls and widening her eyes for emphasis. The woman shakes her head, and Dahlia drops from holding onto the bar of the cart, pouting like a little kid.

I almost smile.

"Hey, bud," I look down to Nico, seeing him watching me with curiosity. He's furrowing his brows, tilting his head to the side with confusion plastered across his features. "We're going to the vegetable section."

He squints his eyes at me. "But I don't want vegetables."

"No," I shake my head, "I just need to talk to someone." He looks like he understood, and nods. I grab a hold of Nico's wrist and quickly spin the cart around, taking it by the bar. We speed-walk down the aisles, passing the fruits, and just as I made a turn—I almost bumped into the woman.

Dahlia's eyes widen when they see me.

"Mamá, deberíamos irnos." Dahlia says, in a foreign language, and she spins around. I quickly let go of Nico and the cart, running up in front of Dahlia, and blocking her path.

We stood a foot away from each other.

"Poppy," I greet, causing her lips to fall flat. She crosses her arms, squinting her eyes at me with a challenge.

"You know my name is Dahlia," she declares, trying to front as a strong and passive person. I have no doubt that she carries strength, but I refuse to believe the guarded act she tries to put on to remain civil with me.

I don't say anything in return, trying to figure out what she's trying to hide. My eyes flicker from her face, down to her arms—for a second, just to check if there were any bruises. There weren't.

Dahlia takes note of this.

"What do you want?" She asks, dropping her arms by her side and hiding them behind her back. "Aren't you supposed to be smoking somewhere?"

I know what she's trying to do. I've done it before. She's trying to be defensive and knock off any chances of me getting attached to her, to brush her off as another person who I shouldn't care about. It's too late, I'm too fucking worried about her to disregard her as just another person.

So, I swallow my pride.

"You haven't been at the bench," I declare, keeping my voice as steady as possible. I don't want to sound desperate, to sound like I miss her. I don't. I'm just worried about her. They're two different things.

"What?" Dahlia said, parting her lips in confusion.

"You haven't been at the bench," I repeated, a little louder this time. I watch as her features wrinkle in realization and she tries to pull on the guarded front again.

"Yeah," she declares, "it's because you're always there and smoking—"

"We both know that's not the real reason."

Dahlia swallows, but doesn't say anything in return. Instead, she looks behind her, and I follow her gaze to see the unfamiliar woman talking to Nico, pointing and saying something in a foreign language.

"She's your mom, isn't she?" I ask, catching Dahlia by surprise as she turns back to look at me. Her eyes widen in surprise. "The woman talking to Nico. She's your mom, isn't she?"

I glance back at Dahlia's mother, seeing her sporting the same dark mane as Dahlia. They have some familiar features, like their smiles—the woman is smiling at something Nico is saying—and their energy. They radiate the same soft, kind, and warm aura.

"Yeah," Dahlia answers, pulling her lips together. She nods. "That's my mom."

I spare another glance at her mother.

"Does she know?" I ask. Nico and her mother have since disappeared from guarding the carts to the fruit section of the store. If I didn't know any better, I'd think Nico convinced her to get him some raspberries.

"Know what?" Dahlia queries, rubbing her arm with her other hand. She looks anywhere but at me. She doesn't exactly scream innocent, but from the mere tone of her voice gave her away. She knows what I'm talking about, she's just trying to play dumb.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I said, gritting my teeth. I didn't mean to; it just pisses me off when someone tries to play dumb and act like they don't understand. It slows down the conversation. I unclench my jaw. "Your dad."

Dahlia pulls her lips together, but doesn't say anything. She glances behind her, once more, to check on her mother strolling the aisle with my foster brother. I got my answer.

"She knows?" I repeat, with more sternness that forces Dahlia to turn back around to face me. "She knows your dad abuses you but doesn't say anything, or doesn't try to leave—"

"It's not that easy!" Dahlia snaps, causing me to close my mouth shut. She meets my gaze with an assertive look. "You can't just leave a relationship that easy. There's reasons. You can't just leave because the other person said some things you don't like. They never hit you. Sometimes...sometimes, things are your fault."

I furrow my brows. "I don't understand."

She releases a forced laugh. "Of course you don't," Dahlia says, staring at the floor. She shakes her head. "You don't understand my situation. You don't understand what I have to deal with—so just stop. It was my fault. I was overreacting. Stop trying to butt into situations that don't deal with you."

I'm rendered speechless. I don't know what to say. I don't understand what caused her to flip and switch from the person who was crying in my bedroom about her father, to the person who's defending him.

I don't want to press on the issue—for now—seeing how fed-up she is about me intruding into her problems. So, I stay silent, watching her as she places her hand on her chest, inhaling and exhaling, before dropping it to her side.

I counted three.

Dahlia begins to kick her foot, brushing the bottom of her shoes against the floor and watching her movements with interest. I cock a brow at her, wondering what's going through her head at the moment, when I finally decide to speak up.

"You got the internship, right?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. I don't want to sound too aggressive, or else she won't tell me anything.

She looks up, her features melted of the hardened glare she held moments ago. She looks softer, more delicate. She basks in this epitome of innocence that I wish I could afford.

"Yeah..." She trails off, furrowing her thick brows together. "Why?"

"Presley told me they were handing out acceptances pretty soon," I shrug nonchalantly, "I just remember you opening your letter in the middle of Calloway's class."

Dahlia scoffs, bringing her lips to a small smile. "Yeah," she nods, as I watch her chest rise and fall, slower this time. Then, she frowns. "But I'm not going to accept."

My face completely drops. "What? Why?"

The person who has the internship gets free housing, a full scholarship and a six-figure deal. If Dahlia has the opportunity to be accepted, she has the opportunity to leave. To go anywhere she wants. To leave her father.

To be safe.

She shrugs, like it didn't matter. But it did. "You were so excited," I declare adamantly, remembering her nearly jumping out of her seat when she read the email. "You got into trouble with Calloway because of it."

Dahlia sighs, "well, there's a problem."

"What's that?"

She looks like she's contemplating on telling me, glancing behind her back for her mother—who is still talking to Nico animatedly about something in the fruits section.

I want to press her to reveal, but I hold my lips shut. I don't want to make her feel like she's forced to tell me something sacred, when in truth, I haven't been the greatest person to her. If she's uncomfortable with me, she shouldn't have to feel forced to explain.

"I can't drive," she mumbles quietly. I almost didn't catch it.

"What?"

"I can't drive, okay?" Dahlia said, a little louder this time. "Can we leave it at that?"

Nico and her mother return, and are chatting enthusiastically about something in Spanish as Nico helps carry a couple bags of fruits. I see that he got raspberries in the process, the largest bag being so. It looks like two pounds, but that's a mere guess.

"Mamá," Dahlia said, twirling around in her spot as she reproaches her mother. She lowers herself to meet her mother's height and whispers something in her ears—probably in Spanish. I frown, hating the fact that I don't know what she's saying.

Maybe I should learn some Spanish.

Wait, Harlow, you should not be basing your life choices around this girl.

Her mother nods, and Dahlia pulls back as her mother looks from me to Nico, offering the little boy a soft smile and a wave of her hands. She whispers something indistinguishable, but Nico seems to understand and nods, bouncing on his feet as he waves a goodbye.

Dahlia and her mother maneuver their cart around, heading into the opposite direction and subsequently, leaving me behind.

Nico approaches me, holding the four bags of random fruits I don't remember being in on the list.

I crouch down to his level, meeting his gaze, "what you got here, buddy?"

"I got some more fruits," Nico holds out with his hands, "the nice lady helped me pick them out. She said they were the best of the best."

I smile softly, taking them from his hands and feeling the weight in my hands. I estimate this would be an additional couple of bucks, and with the strict budget we're trying to oblige by—I won't be able to get the things I want.

Sebastian gave me three hundred dollars, enough for the groceries and enough for me to get something a little extra. I was planning on buying two cigarette boxes at the gas station. Bribe the cashier.

But, now, with Nico asking for more, I knew that wasn't going to work.

I sigh, watching his features pull into an innocent glow, and he looks at me with curiosity—to what I'm about to do, to what I'm about to say.

I don't have anything for you, bud.

I raise from my spot and drop the fruits into the cart, making a mental note that I would be getting one cigarette box this time.

I take Nico's hand, "come on, buddy," I said, pushing the cart this time, "we gotta finish the rest of this list."

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AVA'S NOTES

just curious, who's from instagram?

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