23 | Pop The Trunk

DOMINGO

8:31 PM

Dahlia Gray

"¿Sabes qué día es hoy?" Do you know what day it is?

My mother looks up from her cooking; the low sizzle of oil on heat cracks through the air and a light aroma of spices satisfy the atmosphere. Beside her, sitting on the counter, are a couple of plates filled with black beans, white rice, and fried plantains.

She meets my gaze for a few seconds, and her tight features softens. She pulls her full lips into a thin line and returns back to the frying pan. "Deberías ir a buscar a tu padre. La cena está casi lista." You should go get your father. Dinner is almost ready.

I don't protest, and stand from my seat. I found my father in the living room, sitting on the couch, furiously typing on his phone.

"Dad. Time for dinner." I announce, just to see him wave a dismissive hand in my direction.

"Just start without me," he proclaims, to which I nod without complaint. I've grown accustomed to these types of reactions whenever I ask him to come to dinner that I practically stopped trying. I head back to the kitchen, just to see my mother set three plates of pabellón criollo on the breakfast table.

My mother looks at me, and her expression morphs to pure disappointment when she realizes her husband doesn't appear beside me. She swallows, "¿Qué dijo?" What'd he say?

"Dijo que empezaramos sin él." He said start without him.

She nods, dropping her gaze to the table and gestures with her hand. I reclaim my previous seat, and my mother takes the one in front of me. I take one of the metal forks and dig in; while my mother closes her eyes, slips her hands together, and begins a prayer.

Her words were small and swift, hard to comprehend. Her eyes were squeezed shut, like she was asking a favor from God, and while I didn't know what she was talking to her God about—one thing's for sure: she said Lucía's name.

My aunt.

Her sister.

My father walks in shortly after and takes the seat between the two of us. He doesn't say anything—no greeting, no thank you—and begins his dinner.

Compared to the dinner party with Hannah and Josie, our family dinners were always stiff and awkward. It was amplified through the clinks of the chinaware, our unnatural silence and inability to contribute to a flowing conversation. It wasn't an enjoyment, but rather was an inconvenience to our daily routine.

"¿Qué tienes en el brazo, Dahlia?" What's that on your arm, Dahlia? My father asks, pointing to my left arm.

I drop my fork and look, noticing ink smears trailing down my forearm like a modern painting. The side of my hand was worse and stains with fade imprints of words made from gel ink. This is why I hate writing in pen.

I turn back to my father, swallowing a gulp, "El cumpleaños de Lucía es hoy." Lucia's birthday is today.

My father's brows pull together in confusion. "¿Quién?" Who?

"Lucía. La hermana de mamá." Mom's sister.

The recognition dawns on him and he gives me a scoff, "¿A quién le importa esa puta? Ella siempre fue muy entrometida y molesta. Lo juro, ella—" Who cares about that cunt? She was always so nosy and annoying. I swear, she—

"Clayton," my mother whispers sharply, cutting him off. He turns away from me, meeting my mother's stern eyes, "Es mi hermana." That's my sister.

"¿Y qué? ¿A quién le importa tu hermana, Alejandra? Era una perra. Ella me odiaba, y honestamente, el sentimiento es mutuo. Me alegro de que nos hayamos alejado de ella." So? Who cares about your sister, Alejandra? She was a bitch. She hated me, and honestly, the feeling is mutual. I'm glad we moved away from her.

My mother's brown eyes soften. "Ella no te odiaba. No le gustabamos juntos." She didn't hate you. She just didn't like us together.

My father's features tighten in irritation. "Eso es lo mismo. Me odiaba y odiaba el hecho de que salías con un hombre blanco. ¿Por qué estás tan a la defensiva, sigues hablando con ella?" That's the same thing. She hated me and she hated the fact that you were dating a white man. Why are you so defensive—are you still talking to her?

My mother's eyes widen, before she shakes her head. "¡No, no! ¡Yo no!" No, no! I'm not!

"Bien. Entonces vamos a dejarlo, carajo." Good. Then let's fucking drop it.

The conversation goes dead from there, and the tension stiffens in the air. I want to finish my dinner as fast as possible—not wanting to be here any longer than necessary—and from the looks of it, neither does my mother. When the topic touched over to Lucía, I knew we were about to breach bad territory. My father's spite over my aunt is so vicious that my mother had to cut all ties with her family in Venezuela.

My mother continues to eat her food, but spare a couple of glances over in my father's direction. Her forehead wrinkles in concern, while his brown eyes were hard and he ate each bite with aggression. He looks ahead, ignoring both our presences like we were nuisances in his life. I think he's still pissed off about my mother defending her sister.

My mother clears her throat, "¿Te conté la historia?" did I tell you the story, she prompts, eyes flickering over to my father, "Sobre el incidente de la bolsa de la compra?" About the grocery bag incident?

I shake my head, and she forces a smile. "Hace un par de días, estaba tomando las bolsas de comestibles del baúl y entré y las dejé para poder ir a buscar el resto de las bolsas." A couple of days ago, I was taking the grocery bags from the trunk and went inside and dropped them off so I could make another run.

She looks up to my father, trying to seek his attention, when he gives her none. She continues. "cuando volví a tomar el segundo lote, vi un coche parado en medio de la carretera, esperando. No sé si estaban esperando a alguien, pero estaban mirando mi baúl como si estuviera lleno de tesoros. Afortunadamente, cuando regresé, se fueron." when I came back to grab the second batch, I saw a car pulled up in the middle of the road, just waiting. I don't know if they were waiting for someone, but they were looking at my trunk like it was full of treasures. Thankfully, when I came back, they left.

My eyes widen, "¿Estás bien?" Are you okay?

"Estoy bien." I'm fine, she shrugs off, "No pasó nada, gracias a Dios." Nothing happened, thank God.

"Un día de estos te van a robar, y todo será culpa tuya." One of these days you're going to get robbed, and it's going to be all your fault. My father cuts in, his eyes turning to my mother with a hardened glare and a know-at-all attitude. "Por tus estúpidas y descuidadas acciones." Because of your stupid, careless actions.

"Clayton," my mother gape, "No hice nada, sólo estaba diciendo cómo estaba consiguiendo mis cosas y dejé el baúl abierto—" I didn't do anything, I was just saying how I was getting my stuff and left the trunk opened—

"Y ese es tu primer error," And that is your first mistake, he barks, like he was disciplining a child. Like he was trying to teach me. "Hacer algo tan descuidado como ese podría haber costado algo, y esta vez, podrás haber zafado esta vez, pero la próxima vez, puede que no tengas tanta suerte." Doing something so careless like that could've cost something, and this time, you might've gotten away, but next time, you might not be so lucky.

My mother's face completely drops and she looks completely defeated. Like she couldn't comprehend the words passing his lips and she couldn't find it in herself to respond. To try.

The ability my father has to make my mother doubt herself works wonders.

He continues, "cuando algo como esto suceda de nuevo," when something like this happens again, he pauses, "No vengas llorando." Don't come crying to me.

"Dad." I snap, catching his attention to mine. "Basta. Mamá está tratando de contarte sobre su día y la estás haciendo sentir como si ella—" Stop it. Mom is trying to tell you about her day and you're making her feel like she's a—

"Dahlia." My father cuts me off sharply. The undeniable sense of alpha dominance wagers over him. "Si quieres cometer los mismos errores que tu madre, por supuesto. Sólo trato de advertirte. Tu madre cometió un error tonto y necesita entenderlo." If you want to make the same mistakes as your mother, by all means. I'm just merely trying to warn you. Your mother made a dumb mistake and she needs to understand that.

I open my mouth, about to retaliate, when my mother cuts me off. "Dahlia," my mother commands, causing me to turn to her. Her heated blue eyes met mine, and told me to back down before it was too late. I made a face—one only she could read—but she shakes her head. It was almost like she was repeating to herself: it's not worth it. "Sólo cómete la cena." Just eat your dinner.

Fury burns in my ribcage, ripping at my bones about my father's blatant disrespect for my mother—and my inability to do anything about it. Adrenaline pumps through me, filled with the urge to speak up and say something, when all I end up doing is shutting my mouth.

I slouch back against the chair, pick up the fork, and stare at my half-eaten dinner—but all I could feel is a wave of nausea. I push the plate back, dropping the fork onto the china with a clink. "Ya no tengo hambre." I'm not hungry anymore.

My father scoffs at my declaration and shakes his head. My lips part—ready to snap—but my mother's eyes remind me to stay calm, collected, cool. I shake my head, with a locked jaw, and stand from my chair.

I needed to leave, and with that, I took the initiative to exit from the kitchen and head to the stairs. My mother's calls are trying to pull me back into the kitchen, but my father shushes her, telling her to let me be. I didn't bother to check back and instead ran to my room to grab my phone and earbuds.

While descending down the stairs, I unravel the cords with each step taken. I could hear the faint whispers of Spanish being shared in the background, with my father telling my mother how her daughter needs to have a better attitude when it comes to adult business.

It just ticked me off even more.

I slip on my shoes and exit from the house, slamming the door close behind me. The wind immediately greets me, sending a shiver that prickles down my spine and strong whips that send my hair flying all over the place. It made me wish I brought a jacket, but instead of bruising my pride and going back inside, I toughen it out and begin to walk down the sidewalk.

My earbuds plug in and I press the play button. The melody hums in my ear, the voice of the singer alongside the euphony, and I drag my volume to full blast—allowing the music to sedate my senses. It drowns out everything around me, and for a moment, it was blissful. It was safe.

The park comes into view, and the streetlights illuminate in a yellow hue. The outline of the trees, benches and stretches of grassland lines up in my vision and the desolated parking lot completes the mood. It was late, nearing eleven pm, and I wasn't expecting anyone.

Yet, I did.

Harlow sits at my bench, accompanied by a tiny orange flame. He sported dark clothes—no surprise—and his eyes blankly stared ahead.

It's unparallel how much he reminds me of my father.

I take the seat beside him and a waft of cigarette smoke blows my way. I couldn't help but feel a tug at my heartstrings, and instantaneously, it ripples with hatred. The same emotions I possessed for my father moments ago, intertwine with my feelings for Harlow.

It burns at the thought, and I can't help but remember what I know. I hate the smell of cigarettes nearing so close to me and I hate how I came here to escape my father, but in the end, I'm met with a duplicate who uses the same brand—the same coping technique.

It made me hate Harlow for a second.

So much—that I was ready to snap at him.

My agenda is postponed when another whiff of the smoke causes my lungs to clog, and I found myself reaching for the collar of my shirt and coughing into the soft cotton to eliminate the smell from my system.

Harlow must've noticed because he spontaneously stands from his spot and walks over to the other side, establishing a distance between us. It wasn't much and he didn't discard the cigarette or crush the butt underneath his shoe—but he moved away. He understood that I hate the smell and that I couldn't breath with it in range.

Something my father would've never considered.

The hatred building in my chest begins to fade and I attempt to pacify the emotions coursing through my body like rages in a storm. It cuts deep, reminding me that sometimes, when I feel, it isn't valid enough. That my immediate reactions are too harsh to be considered honest.

My hand slips to my side, tucked between my thighs, and crawls up to my chest, settling on my heart. For a moment, I thought I didn't deserve to feel. I didn't deserve to be here.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

Harlow returns back to the bench and settles down, the cigarette no longer occupies the space between his fingers. A small whiff of cigarette smoke lingers on his body like a body odor, but thanks to the strength of the wind, it quickly dissolves against the breeze.

He doesn't say anything.

Neither do I.

And we sat in total silence.

My head tilts backwards and stares at the twinkling sky. One of the main reasons why I always love this bench was because it's the only one with access to the stars with a clear view. There's no disruption from overcrowding of branches or nests of birds flying in and out. It was perfect. Open. Free.

"Are you going to fucking sit there and not say anything, or am I going to have to ask?" Harlow said, drawing out slight concern in his tone. The earbuds slightly muffled his voice.

I don't reply, crossing my arms over my chest. The wind is freezing, and I almost wished I went back into the house to pick out a jacket. But I knew my pride would never forgive me.

"Fine." He huffs, and I hear shuffling from his end. My head slightly tilted to get a better view, and I noticed he's mimicking me. The nape of his neck presses against the wooden slat and he stares off in the sky. I shake my head.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to find out what's in the sky that's so fucking interesting," he declares without missing a beat, his features relax. "Maybe the stars can tell me why the girl beside me is not talking to me."

I shake my head, with a faint smile growing on my lips. "They're not going to tell you anything."

"I can fucking try," he announces, crossing his muscular arms against his chest. "It's better than sitting in silence, coming up with scenarios on what when wrong at home. Let me guess: your dad?"

The smile falls from my lips at the mention of my father, and I turn away from him. My attention spams back to the sky, dotted with stars of all shapes and sizes, of bright and dimmed ones. My energy to socialize falls down to a complete zero.

"I guess I'm hitting a spot," Harlow said, the song blocking out the sound of his voice. "I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it."

Sometimes, I feel like I'm suffocating him with so many tales of my unstable home, that all I seem to be consumed with is daddy issues and a mother who won't leave. Sometimes, I feel like that's all I am.

I know Harlow got an access to a part of me that absolutely no one knows about, and I know he's done nothing that gives me the impression that he has ulterior motives—but I can't help but picture Hannah and Josie.

They're sweet, and kind, and compassionate—but they don't understand my situation. They don't understand my life. If they caught a whiff of my situation, they would judge. They would assume, and question—and they probably wouldn't believe me. They have perfect families. I don't.

And I know, Harlow and the girls are a total contrast to each other, but there's a voice scratching at the back of my head everytime I reveal a detail to Harlow. I may feel a weight off my shoulder at the moment, but when the hour passes—I feel shame, guilt and feel like my emotions aren't valid enough to express such animosity towards someone.

It's better to hold it in.

"What are you listening to?" I hear Harlow ask through the transition of the current song to the next. This took me by surprise—as I thought he was going to try to persuade me to reveal the situation—and I hesitate to answer.

Instead, I take out one earbud, and I offer him the right one.

Something I don't do for anyone.

And he takes it.

He scoots a little closer due to the restriction of the cord and he plugs the white bud into his ear. The music switches, and plays a song that completely contrasts the previous track. My music taste is all over the place, and for a second, I thought he was going to make a comment about it.

Anything—to make me doubt him.

But he keeps quiet, and listens.

My eyes don't depart from the stars and I stare ahead as I collect the constellations I'm able to read on this clear night. It wasn't much, and I could see the classics—but it wasn't anything too special.

Just another regular night.

"I like to find constellations." I reveal out of the blue. I knew I wasn't going to explain my family problems to him tonight, especially after deep consideration. Harlow has a clip of my history. He shouldn't be able to take the whole book.

Not when our relationship isn't even worthy of a title.

"Why?"

I suck in a deep breath, my eyes dancing across the sky. "It calms me."

There's radio silence in response and I found myself growing embarrassed at this reveal of information. Out of all the possible interesting things about me—counting stars is the route I choose to go.

"What do you see tonight?"

His question sounds completely honest, and for a second, it gave me an opportunity to think beyond my situation. I knew I had many thoughts racing through my head at one-hundred miles an hour, but when I think about the stars—it calms me. My problems vanish.

His question helps me gravitate towards simplicity—where all my worries about my parents disappears. Where I don't have to think about the issues concerning my father, the reluctance that follows my mother. It allows me to be me. Dahlia.

And I tell him.

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