17 | Click The Buckle

SÁBADO

12:13 PM

Dahlia Gray

"You're late." Harlow says, pushing himself off the trunk of a black car. I'm trying to multitask, reaching the vehicle as I finish adjusting the cuffs to my red turtleneck. I look up to meet his gaze, his guarded blue eyes meet mine. "I'm surprised. I thought you would be more punctual."

I couldn't help contain the guilty look on my face, wincing like he just swore at me. "I know," I said softly, "I'm sorry. I was preparing myself for this whole thing, and it was so—" I cut myself short, feeling like he doesn't care for excuse. I inhale a sharp breath. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't say anything, and watches me for a few seconds. Normally, for people to do so, I would think they're trying to intimidate me, or try to read me as if I hold a scandalous secret to expose to the world—but this isn't a normal situation. This is Harlow, the guy who knows the troubles of my home life and the guy who offered to teach me how to drive, despite our bad first impression.

"Anything going on at home?" He asks, crossing his arms against his chest. I try to mask my emotions, looking away from him.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I said, turning towards the car behind him. It's a black Mustang, with a sleek interior and glossy finish. I don't know much about cars, but my father told me a thing or two. "I didn't know you had a car."

"It's not mine," he said, causing my focus to snap back to him. My brown eyes widen, and I fear that he might've stolen it for the sake of this lesson. He picks this up, wearing a scowl on his face. "It's Presley. Remember? It's the same fucking car he drive me to school with."

"Oh, right," I said, scratching the back of my head. I honestly don't remember, but it sounds like Harlow was getting irritated at the accusation I laid out in the air. Instead of pushing my limits, I tilt my head to the side, returning back to the car. I stare at the vehicle, my stomach performing flips and I'm subduing an intense need to puke. "Are you sure we're allowed to use this? I'm not the best driver and I wouldn't want to make Presley upset—"

"I asked permission." he snaps, cutting me off. He sounds between a mix of impatience and trying to calm my anxiety. "Don't fucking worry. Presley said if you did crash the car, he knows someone at the local auto shop that could fix it. He just hopes it isn't too bad."

I hope he has that guy's number on speed dial.

I don't feel at ease, however, despite his genuine offer. I feel anxious about the whole situation; about how I could wreck Presley's car or how Harlow's teaching methods might resemble my father. I haven't been taught under anyone else—and I was always afraid of reaching out—but I needed that internship, now more than ever. I'll deal with my mother later.

"Come on, Daisy," Harlow says, peeling me away from my thoughts as I turn to him. I see him dangling the keys in front of me. "It's time to drive."

My lips fall into a frown, and I feel my features tighten. I don't know if he's doing this on purpose to annoy me, or he genuinely hates my name. "You know that's not my name."

He has called me at least three different flowers by now.

His features are blank, so it's hard to decipher his true intention behind the trivial names he chose to call me. I notice the edge of his mouth tilts upward. "I could've sworn it was the right flower this time."

"Well, it's not." I say, taking a step forward. I meant to be intimidating—to challenge him—but it struck me then how tall he was compared to me. I barely reach his shoulders. I look at the keys instead. "Am I supposed to take that?"

"Yeah," he said, dropping the keys into my palm. "We're going to practice driving techniques and the procedures you need to know before driving. You take the keys and pretend it's yours. Show me what you know."

He walks over to the other side and gets into the car. I stared for a moment—temporarily paralyzed on what to do—when I decided to follow in after him. It then hit me that I was walking over to the passenger side (rookie mistake) and I'm supposed to take the driver's seat.

I rush over to the other side, with slight embarrassment building in my cheeks, and I enter through the door. I almost forgot to close the door behind me, and suddenly, a new wave of anxiety is crashing into my lungs like tides on a full moon.

I'm in a car. I'm behind the steering wheel. For the first time in two years, I'm sitting in the driver's seat.

My heart is racing in my chest, and I'm tempted to place my hand on my chest to calm myself. I ignore the urge and decide to inspect Presley's Mustang instead. It was nice, with black leather seats and red seams. It looks in mint condition, and that exact notion made my chest sink.

I pull my lips into a thin line, trying to mask my anxiety from showing. I turn away from admiring the backseats of the car to Harlow's gaze. I swallow, "Presley has a nice car."

He does a guarded nod. "He does."

"I really hope I don't do anything stupid," I mumble softly, taking a second glance at the nice car. My lips pull to a subtle frown. I feel scared. "I don't want him to be upset."

I don't want a lot of things to happen in the process. I don't want Harlow to yell at me when I make a minor mistake. I don't want him to scream at me to make a turn, or scold me like a stupid child when I don't. I've gotten enough of that at home.

I drop my gaze to my lap, loping the keys in my hands and my fingers slightly tremble. I haul in a long breath, trying to tame everything from becoming uncontrollable. I look at the ignition. "I'm supposed to put the keys into the ignition, right?"

"Yeah," he nods, and I noticed that he's trying to hold in a lot of his emotions. "Now, what are you supposed to do next?"

"Um," I look around the car, as if it would reveal itself to me in neon lights. I feel panic rising to my neck, and we haven't even started driving yet. It's almost like I'm prepared to get into a crash. "Wait, um,"

"Daisy," Harlow says, causing me to turn to him. I'm too anxious to even try to correct him. "I'm not here to fucking test you. Relax. I'm just trying to see if you know the correct protocols before you drive."

I nod, appreciating his efforts to try and calm me, and I turn back to the car. In that moment, I'm hit with another sense of reality, where my fingers tremble uncontrollably and I swerve into a ditch. I make mistakes. I refuse to touch the steering wheel as I search—every time my hands come near, I pull back—and I continue to look around the same compact space for ideas.

I don't know.

I'm too scared to try.

"You wear your seatbelt," he offers tightly, as my lips parted in realization, my shoulders slouch. I turn to the side, taking the seatbelt and strapping it across my body, clicking at the buckle. My fear is still riding in my throat like bile. "Now, you adjust your seat."

"Why?" I ask, turning to him with confusion brewing in my features.

"Everyone is different," he begins, and I hear slight aggravation seeping through his tone. "Since Presley is taller than you, he adjusts his seat to have more leg room, but since you're shorter, you should pull your seat closer to the steering wheel."

It took me a moment to process his words—some had to be translated to Spanish for me to fully grasp—before I dip my head in understanding. I turn away from him and look towards the side of the seat, blindly reaching for the adjustment settings. I feel something, and I drag it up, just as the seat follows through, and I'm moved closer to the steering wheel.

My lips break into a small victorious smile, "I did it," I mumble quietly, trying hard not to let excitement seep through my tone. I turn back to him. "What's next?"

I feel slightly more comfortable.

"Adjust your rear-view mirror," Harlow says, pointing to the mirror hanging between us. It sounds like he's trying to control his temper. "Since you're shorter than Presley, you would want to adjust it downward, so you could see the cars behind you."

"Um, okay," I nod, trying to repeat the steps in my head. I pull down to the mirror to meet eye-level. "Ignition. Seatbelt. Seat. Mirror."

It took him a second to realize what I'm trying to do. "Yeah."

"ISSM," I abbreviate, "I can do this."

I turn back to the dashboard and point to the stations for visual dept. I point to the ignition, tap the seatbelt sling across my chest, touch the side of the seat, and point to the mirror. Once I finished, and ISSM was ingrained in my brain, I turn to Harlow. He's trying to hold in his emotions. "What's next?—why are you smiling?"

He realizes his mistake, and blanks his features before shaking his head. "Nothing," he turns away from me, looking anywhere but. "Next thing we should focus on is the pedals and the gear shift."

I know this one. "There's a gas and a brake."

"Wow, you actually know something,"

I turn to him with a slight glare, but couldn't help but feel the tension dissolve in the atmosphere. "I'm just saying," he says, raising both hands in defense. "You haven't known much up to this point, and I was fucking surprised. Could you blame a guy?"

I roll my eyes, stopping a small smile from peeking through my lips. I felt slightly better, and the heavy consumption of my parents was leaving my mind.

I decide to turn back to the dashboard, peeking under to check the pedals. I feel my hair move and get into my way, blocking a good portion of my vision. I pull it back with one hand, and examine the pedals. "This is for right-footed people."

"The store ran out of left-footed cars."

I lift my head from under and give him a second glare. He cocks a brow at me. "Am I wrong? There's no such thing as fucking left-footed cars in the shop."

"I'm left-footed," I declare, releasing my hold on my hair. It falls across my shoulders. "I kick a soccer ball with my left foot, and it seems more natural to use my left foot."

"Well," he sighs, "for this situation, you're going to have to learn how to switch. Because you are not going to be able to drive with your left foot."

Estupendo.

"Coño," I mumble under my breath, sighing out of defeat.

I turn back to Harlow, just to see his brows pulled together in confusion, and his blue eyes lace with questions. However, he doesn't attempt to say anything else.

"What about the gear shift?" I ask, pointing down to the stick between us. "What does the N and the S mean?"

It takes a second before Harlow explains. "N stands for neutral," he says, snapping out of his thoughts. He points to the N, "it disengages the transmission and rear wheels, but allows the car to roll freely but not under its own power. It's mostly used for when someone is towing away your car, or if you're going through a car wash."

"Oh," I say, that makes sense. "What about the S?"

"It stands for sport," he points to the S symbol, "when you're driving through sharp turns and you need better control of your vehicle. It lowers the gears so you would have more power coming out of the curves."

I think I got it.

Park. Reverse. Drive. Neutral. Sport.

"Okay," I nod, returning back to meeting his gaze. "I got it. What's next?"

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SÁBADO

3:33 PM

Dahlia Gray

After three hours of learning the ropes to a Mustang, Harlow finally called it a day.

I think I got a little bit better with understanding the gadgets, the gear shift, and a bit of using my right foot instead of instinctively going for my left. Though we haven't left the parking lot—gracias dios—I feel a little bit better at being behind the wheel; the one controlling the vehicle.

I still don't know about driving, though.

I exit from the car, pulling the keys from the ignition. I slam the door close behind me, and head towards the trunk of the Mustang to meet Harlow. He wears a guarded expression on his face, and a cigarette between his lips.

My lips scrunch in disgust, and I take the further distance I could from him—while still being able to lean against the trunk.

He takes the nicotine-filled disease from his lips, and releases a puff of smoke. I look the other way, not wanting the smell to waft towards my direction and cause me to choke. I didn't think to bring my inhaler today.

I debate telling him to not smoke around me—especially during our lessons—but it felt too complicated, and too early. I'm not entirely comfortable with Harlow, but I was comfortable enough to where I don't feel like he hates my guts. He doesn't know my issues with smoking, he just assumes I hate it.

I decide to hold it in for another day.

"You're not going to leave the bench, are you?" I ask, playing with the keys in my hands. I bounce it from hand to hand, fidgeting.

He scoffs. "I'm teaching you how to fucking drive, and you want to kick me out of the bench?"

"No," I answer sharply, more strong than I intended, "I wasn't trying to—not like—wait."

I stopped myself from talking because my words were coming out in stutters, and I couldn't finish a complete sentence. I did a mental check, on what to say, before I inhaled sharply. "I mean," I begin, "I was trying to ask you. So, if you want to smoke at the bench—my bench—could you do it somewhere else?"

He doesn't reply.

"I'm not going to stop smoking just for this lesson,"

"I'm not asking you to," I snap back, matching his fire with mine. I instantly felt regret pouring over me the moment the words were released. I let out another sigh. "I'm just—the bench is my spot, okay? It's my place to be without my dad, and I don't want to be reminded of his cigarettes or how he smokes, or how I'm choking on air and he doesn't care that his daughter is asthmatic. I just...I just don't want to smell nicotine there."

I looked down to my palms, holding the keys, and I found myself staring at the concrete instead. Picturing the little pebbles ingrained in the ground, and patching them up like constellations in the sky. I always like the stars. They were calm.

"Okay," Harlow agrees after an agonizing silence. "I'll try."

A small smile begins to approach my lips, at this happy conclusion, but I try not to let it show too much. A try is not the same as a yes, and I can't keep confusing them like I've done before.

"How you feel?" Harlow prompts, turning to me with an analytical gaze. "About the whole lesson."

I let out a small sigh, holding out the keys for him to take. I would've taken it home if he didn't remind me. "I feel a little bit better, knowing a bit more about the car. My dad never taught me."

Harlow quirks a brow at me, "your dad taught you before?"

I hesitate to answer. "In a way," I answer vaguely, not wanting to dig back up that memory. "It wasn't—how do I say this—as informative as you taught me."

"I'm sensing there's a story behind that," Harlow declares solemnly. I try to hide the frown in my lips.

"I don't know if we'll ever get to it." I say honestly, with a shrug. I look back down to my now-emptied hands. "I'm hoping we won't."

He doesn't say anything to that, and I don't expect him to. Harlow, despite his aggressive demeanor, was never demanding. If I had to pull one difference between him and my father, that would be it.

"Whenever you're ready," he proclaims. "I'll be here."

It feels like a breath of fresh air. To have someone, without the fear of judgement. Though, he doesn't know the entirety of my situation—of my mother's opinions towards my father, of my father's good graces to his devilish sins—he is still a person. A person who's willing to listen.

I can't say I've ever had that.

"Thank you," I say, turning to him, "by the way."

"I already told you, you don't need to thank me after every lesson. I already offered—"

"No, it's not that," I shake my head, stopping him from ranting about my lack of discipline in handing out thank yous. I drop my gaze to the concrete. "Um, you asked me when we started if there's anything going on at home—" I feel him stiffen beside me. "—It's not too bad, but, you know, it could be better."

He's silent for a second. "Did he...did your dad do anything?"

"Not to me," I say, releasing a sigh. "It's my mom. He just—he doesn't respect my mom, and it causes a lot of issues, especially with me and how protective I am over her."

I can imagine the gears shifting in his head, debating if he should ask me to continue the story, or tell a portion of it. I don't feel like it right now. "I don't want to talk about it," I say, denying any chances for him to ask. "I just...I wanted to thank you, because this whole afternoon, I didn't think about the problems at home once. I was just Dahlia; Dahlia learning how to drive."

He doesn't respond, and I didn't think he would. Harlow is more conservative with his emotions. He doesn't push. I remember him panicking over what to do with me, when I was crying. It's sort of a funny memory, if you think about it.

"I'm going to go," I said, pointing to the neighborhood where I live. "I'll text you, so you'll get my number. Just, call me or whatever, for our next lesson."

I don't say anything else, as I push myself off of the trunk and begin to walk back home.

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AVA'S NOTES

i thought it would be fair to do a double update bc i made you guys wait so long. i hope you enjoyed. it was one of my favorites so far. :)

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