31 | Pop The Trunk

MIÉRCOLES

10:29 PM

Dahlia Gray

It was never a quiet night.

"No llevaste a nuestra hija al hospital. ¡Tenía que llamar a su amiga, su maldita amiga, para dar un paseo! ¿Qué clase de padre hace eso?" You didn't take our daughter to the hospital. She had to call her friend—her fucking friend—for a ride! What kind of father does that? My mother spat, her anger catapulting off her tongue for a taste of justice. She was heated at the hospital, subduing her anger long enough for her words to be crucified at home.

"¡Al menos yo estaba allí! ¿Dónde estabas? ¿Por qué no pudiste llevarla al hospital?" At least I was there! Where were you? Why couldn't you take her to the hospital? Why does the responsibility always fall on me? My father shouts back, his voice strong and bitter. "¡No puedes decir una mierda, Alejandra, cuando ni siquiera estabas allí!" You can't say shit, Alejandra, when you weren't even there!

My mother doesn't reply, stunned from his response. I could see the disbelief clouding her eyes, even from the comforts of my bedroom—because, how do you respond to that? How do you tell someone they're wrong when all their life, they've spent believing they vocalize the words of gods?

Of course my mother wasn't there, but I don't blame her. She was somewhere else, and she couldn't be reached—but my father could. He was downstairs, a couple of steps away, and all he did was sit on his ass and did nothing. He could've driven me to the hospital. But he didn't. That's on him.

I close the bedroom door behind me, muffling their argument. I cruise over to the edge of my bed, and fall to the floor beside it.

At the hospital, it was said I had a severe case of food poisoning. It was nothing too serious—thanks to the smart decision I made to go to the hospital—but it could've been. Since I have bad asthma, if I continue without taking proper procedures, I could've caught a lung bacteria in the midst of my throwing up or coughing. Everything would have panned out much differently had I left it alone.

I fidget with the phone in my hand, running my thumb along the edge of the case—debating on what to do next. The doctor said I should rest and rehydrate all the lost fluids I threw up, but neither options felt appealing.

I didn't want to go to sleep.

I didn't want to go downstairs either.

So, I just stayed here.

I stopped messing with my phone when a notification ping, and it was a message from Aysa.

Aysa: How do you feel? What did the doctor say?

Me: I'm fine. The doctor said I need to rest and drink a lot of water. Something like Gatorade. Too bad the only sports drink around here is capri suns.

Aysa: Then go drink some water.

Me: No, it's fine. I'll probably drink some water later.

Aysa: Later? You need to hydrate now. Stop what you're doing and go.

Me: It's fine, seriously. Don't worry.

Aysa: The amount of hours you spent in urgent care says otherwise.

I smile.

Me: Thank you. Again. I don't know what would've happened if I didn't call you or if I blew it off.

Aysa: It's no problem. I told you, if you ever need me, I would be there. I'm not good at words, but I'm better at actions. Remember that. Be safe.

Aysa: Drink water. Get some rest. I'll see you soon. ♡

I nod, knowing that calls for the end of our conversation. I drop my phone back on the floor beside me and lean my head against the mattress, my back stiffly touching the sideboard. Inhaling a deep breath.

I still feel tired, weak and sore from today. The uncomfortable feeling in my stomach hasn't completely left, but reduced a significant amount. The only thing I can say that's completely gone is the cramps—the terrible, I want to die cramps.

I still wish I could've seen Aysa before she left, because I knew she was waiting outside for me. The only problem was: my father didn't want people to crowd the room, so he asked if it could be family-only visitations. The hospital granted it. They gave me my phone when I was discharged.

My phone rings and I instinctively pick up the device, curious to who made the call. I thought it would be Aysa, or possibly my parents, but to my surprise: it was Harlow.

"Hello?" I raise the phone to my ear.

There's a small pause, and he clears his throat. "Hey." He greets, his voice low and ambiguous. "Are you coming to the bench?"

I didn't know what I was expecting. Maybe I thought he would come to hear that I was in the hospital or something, but the chances were slim. I left before I could warn him, and I never called him. If by some miracle he did—he would've asked about it.

I shake my head. "No," I said, pulling my legs to my chest, setting my chin on my knees. "I can't."

"Why not?" He doesn't sound angry—sort of relief. I suck in a breath.

"I'm not supposed to be out." I'm supposed to be resting, I wanted to add, but it would've raised questions. "Why? Are you going to smoke a box there and hope I wouldn't find out?"

He scoffs, but I picture a faint smile appearing on his face. "How'd you know?"

"Call it intuition." I quip, just as another roar of argument erupts from the first floor. This time, it's accompanied with the sound of doors slamming and glass shattering. I wince. "I got to go. Maybe tomorrow."

I don't give him a chance to reply when I end the call, sinking deeper into my spot. My shoulders slouch as I wrap my arms around my legs, squeezing them confidingly.

I wish I could go to the bench. I wish I could be anywhere but here. My sole goal when I called Aysa was to not create conflict between my parents. Secure a simple transaction. It's exhausting, tiring, and I'm absolutely done with my father's neediness defenses.

A couple more months, Dahlia.

Just a couple more months.

I heard a knock on the windows, causing me to jump. My gaze avert to the curtained windows, a dark shadow peering through.

I push myself off the floor, taking slow, cautious steps towards the window. My legs wobble—afraid of an intruder—when I rip the curtains away, I find Harlow on the other side of the glass.

"What the hell?" I gape, cracking the window open and allowing him in. He slips through mechanically, dropping his feet to the floor and I shut the window behind him. He turns to me. "What are you doing here?"

"You said you couldn't come to the fucking bench." He spoke easily, taking a step closer. His gaze falls to my face, tracing every inch of my features. Taking everything in. My heart lunged in my chest. "So, I came to you."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel. I remain speechless as emotions inside me soar, and I feel absolutely everything. I was happy, relieved, surprised, scared. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but at the same time, I was afraid of taking that intimate step.

Harlow and I aren't anything.

But at the same time, we're everything.

So, I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him close. I bury my face into the crook of his neck and tip on my toes to reach his height.

I didn't know how he was going to react—and for a split second—I was afraid he was going to throw me off. Push me away. Remind me that I'm nothing of importance to him, and we were barely a label.

But he didn't.

He returns the embrace and encloses the rest of the space with his arms, wrapping them around my frame, almost like he was shielding me away from the rest of the world. His grip was firm but not suffocating, his touch was delicate but strong. He holds me like he was afraid I was going to break, but he touches me like he was going to piece me back together.

Thunder claps and it forces us to pull apart, turning to the uncovered windows. Rain patter against the glass as the sky strikes with glowing white streaks and a shadow of purple that follows against the pitch black night. I would've jumped away from the window, if not for Harlow holding my wrist.

"Come on." I pull him towards the space beside my bed. I fall to the floor, collapsing on my ass, and Harlow follows in suit. He takes the spot beside me, leaning against the wooden frame securing my mattress.

I cross my legs in a crisscross motion, and his touch never wavers. My eyes trailed down to his hand wrapped around mine, and found a thin black band cuffed at his wrist. I smile.

Another crack of thunder shakes the house and I finch, shifting closer to Harlow. I freeze. I didn't mean to get so close. It forces me to look up, meet his gaze, and grimace. "Good thing you made it just in time, huh?"

He scoffs, "yeah, it's perfect."

It didn't sound like a joke. I pull my brows together. "Why?"

"Because I like the rain," he explains, glancing back at the window. Lightning cracks in the view. "And the thunder, and the storm. I don't fucking know why, but it's calming."

I don't believe him. "You just find it calming to hear loud thunders and cracks of lightning? Even dogs are scared of them—how are you not?"

He turns to me, and for the first time, he offers a sad smile. "When I was a kid, and we had just lost our mom, my brother and I went into foster care together." He begins to explain, turning back to the window to hide the vulnerability seeping through. "And a lot of the time, we were in bad homes, where the foster parents argue day and night, and the kids would be sent to their rooms."

"I fucking hated the sound of parents arguing, because it would remind me of my own before my dad fucked off. So, my brother would tell me to watch the lightning. To listen to the thunder. It had life, and meaning, and was all created with a purpose. And most times, when he told me that, it fucking worked." He scoffs, shaking his head at the nostalgia. "I didn't hear them anymore, and I only focused on the rain, the thunder, and the lightning. As a kid, I was memorized with the colors and shit, and growing up, that acted as my source of comfort."

We went quiet, and I didn't know what to say. I'm surprised—and really happy—that Harlow would voluntarily share this with me. It's huge, despite the story being small, because it shows that: as much as I trust him, he trusts me.

"I'm sorry." I whisper.

He closes his eyes and shake his head, "don't fucking say that."

"I just...I don't know what to say." I told him, honestly.

"You don't have to say anything," his hand trails down my wrist and intertwines our fingers. I don't think he even notices he did that. "You're just...you're here. That's fucking more than enough."

I can't help but smile, and when I do, I bury myself into Harlow's shoulder. I don't know if I was going to cry out of happiness, or out of sadness. Because, I'm here. For once, someone actually appreciated and believed I was enough.

Not because I was smart, or pretty, or useful.

Just because I was.

Just enough.

"Do you..." I sniff, wiping my tears so they wouldn't fall on his hoodie. "Do you want to know a secret?"

He doesn't say anything, or object, and I think that's his way of telling me to continue.

"I..." I suck in a deep breath, pulling away from him. Not enough where I lose his touch, but enough to see him. For him to see me. "I once tried to kill myself."

The words fell out more painful than I thought they would be–because I spent so long hiding them. My mother thought it was a shameful act, because of our culture, and my father never tried to talk to me about it. He ignored it, pretending the whole day didn't exist.

It worked, but I never healed.

Harlow's blue eyes widen, and for a second, his gaze falls to my wrists and my arms, and they examine every inch of me. To find some sort of evidence.

"It's okay," I said softly, cupping his chin. "I'm okay now."

"Dahlia..." He says my name—my real name—and not just some random flower he knew from the top of his head. That's when I know it's serious. "Are you sure?"

"I'm okay. I'm okay. I swear." I promised him, because I would never do that again. I know I have much more to live for, even if I believed I didn't. I had my mother, I had potential, and I had a life ahead of me. I could be anything, and everything, if I wanted to.

Life is worth living.

"In my culture, talking about suicide attempts are stigmatized. Or, talking about mental health in general. We believe in...our faith. Our God. If you want to talk about something, you're being dramatic. If you want therapy, just pray for it to go away. Put your faith in God and He will do you justice." I explain, my voice cracking, he catches my other wrist. "And as much as I love my mom, she never got it."

I started losing faith in my own religion when I discovered my mother was using God's name to excuse a lot of things. My father's behavior, my attempt. It didn't feel right to put all your faith into a God you're not even sure is real.

Harlow doesn't say anything, but he squeezes my hand. To let me know he's here, to know I'm alive. I found myself offering a sad smile, my eyes welling with tears.

I drop my hand cupping his face and wipe my tears, breaking into a sad smile. "Gosh, this day is turning out to be such a sad day. Even the rain is mimicking our feelings." I forge a laugh, trying to lighten the mood when Harlow barely nudges. His eyes found my face, studying me. The thickness of my brows, the freckles scatter across the bridge of my nose, the almond shape of my eyes. His gaze examines me everywhere, and when the conclusion lands, he stops on my lips.

The heat of his gaze makes me want to run and hide under the comforts of a blanket, but at the same time, it makes me confident. A fluttery feeling erupts in my stomach, my heart running loops inside my ribcage, and my skin burns at the thought of all the things I wanted to do—but can't say.

I wanted to kiss him.

But I knew where we stood.

I force myself to tear my eyes away from Harlow and look ahead, at the blank walls voided of any pretentious decorations. The slick coat of baby blue covers every corner, with little to no imagination. I always told myself that I was going to do better, express my personality through art, when I move out.

Yet, sitting here right now, it felt like a stupid call to make.

I inhale and exhale to force my raging heart to calm, closing my eyes for a split second to imagine all the things that could've happened if I was brave enough.

My free hand slips from my side, and for a second, I had to remember that Harlow is beside me. Instead of doing what I want, I place the gesture over my heart and remind myself to breathe.

One, two, three.

I'm alive.

"I know you were at the hospital." Harlow proclaims, in a mere whisper. It forces my eyes to open, and I turn to him with a surprise look.

"How?" I question. "I didn't—wait, but—I never told you."

"I tried to call you earlier and your friend picked up." He explains, shaking his head. He tears his eyes off my lips. "She said you were in the hospital and you called her to give you a ride."

"I wanted to call you." I confess, needing the information to be known. "I wanted to call you first, but I didn't know your number. I had the house phone in my hand and I didn't know anyone I could call. I had to go downstairs to get my phone, and when I did, I called the first person in my contact."

I didn't want him to assume I didn't trust him. I do. I trust him more than I've trusted anyone. It's so hard to let someone in, who doesn't have your situation, but I did. I don't regret that.

"I trust you," I whisper, forcing his eyes on mine, "so much."

He doesn't respond but his eyes soften. Another argument implodes downstairs and I wince, knowing this time, I couldn't end the call to hide the shame floating just beneath us. Harlow glances at the door, Spanish heard through the muffle of the oak.

Coño. Harlow doesn't like hearing parents arguing.

I was about to open my mouth to apologize—or maybe even direct his attention to the window for some lightning—when he stands from his spot and walks over to my desk. Since he's holding my hand, he pulls me up and drags me along with him.

He glosses over everything—the mess, the homework I need to finish, the assignment for SAINT—and takes a marker.

He loosens our touch and takes my arm, pulling me towards the edge of the mattress, taking a seat and inviting me to take the spot beside him. I do, and he uncaps the marker and begins to draw numbers on my forearm.

When he finishes, he says, "this is my number. Try to remember it. Even do that little fucking trick you do when you tried to remember ISSM. Anything." He meets my gaze, "just...I want to be there for you when you fucking need me."

My eyes scan the digits across my arm, mumbling the numbers as I read. I try to recite them back to him, but notice I missed a couple of placements.

I did it again, and again, until I could remember the cordial line without looking. And when I did, Harlow gave me a corner smile in accomplishment.

I smile back, and another clap of lightning strikes through the window and flashes into my bedroom. I flinch, once more, and Harlow grabs my shoulders to calm me down. I look at him, my body goes rigid.

"I think you should get some sleep." He offers, glancing at the bed we're sitting on. I shake my head.

"I'm not tired," I lied, knowing my body is gnawing from exhaustion. I should be getting rest, because the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach is returning (and it's not about Harlow), but I just don't want to. "I can stay up."

He looked at me, and it was almost like he could detect the lie rolling off my tongue. He shakes his head and drops his hand to the side, forcing me to feel the cold absence of his touch. "I'll fucking sleep beside you if you want."

Yes.

I take the right side and Harlow takes the left. We turn to face each other, and offer nothing in between to fill the silence. I don't hear my parents arguing downstairs anymore, and the soft patters of the rain hits the window in calmer doses.

I study him and take him in, just like the other day. The wave of his brown locks, the drowsiness in his features. The way his body loosens up, his dark brows relaxing, and his lips falling to a neutral set. The tension in his jaw loosens, and he closes his eyes for a second.

I thought he was going to fall asleep, until he spoke: "tell me something you've never told me before."

"I never told you a lot of things before," I whisper in return, watching the way the corner of his lips curve upwards. "I am a woman of many mysteries."

He sucks in a breath, "then tell me something you've never told me before...about me."

I pause, trying to think of something to confess—but never did—because I was too afraid. Too afraid of crossing a line, too afraid of breaking our label-less relationship.

I trust him.

"I hate it when you smoke," I confess solemnly, "my dad does it, and whenever he does, he never really cared that his daughter was asthmatic. So, in turn, I kinda...hated anyone who smokes. Anyone and everyone. It's something I associated with my dad, and you...when I first met you...you were smoking."

"You hated me?" He opens his eyes, his blue eyes staring back at me.

"...Yeah. It was just—that bench, I've always went there to get away from my dad. Like, it was my place of comfort. No one was there, no one was trying to find me, and it was the perfect spot. Then, one day, you came along and you found it. And you were a smoker. And I just...I hated you. So much."

"Do I still remind you of your dad?"

I exhale sharply, lowering my gaze to the space between us. I didn't want to look at him and give it away, because sometimes—still, he does remind me of my father. Not from his appearance, but his personality. The sharp tone, the way he moves through life. The comparison is quite uncanny.

"Oh."

I don't say anything and just close my eyes, now deciding that this is the perfect time to sleep.

"When I was fifteen, I smoked my first cigarette." Harlow reveals, and I can feel the heat of his gaze on me. "My brother used to smoke a couple sometimes, but he never let me have any—because he didn't want me to form any fucking habits—and I've always agreed."

"Then, when he left, and I had no one, the foster family I was with had left cigarette boxes lying around. So, I fucking took one, because—he wasn't there." He spoke sharply, trying to hide the choke behind his words. "He wasn't there to protect me, or control me or tell me what to do. I was fucking done. I was abused, and tired, and just wanted something to take the pain away."

"So, you decided on cigarettes?" I said through closed eyes. My voice growing drowsy, my heart tightening.

"Yeah. Because why the fuck not?"

Because, I hate cigarettes.

Because, you're killing yourself to live.

Because, why the hell should you?

"Okay." I said, not wanting to get into another argument. I turn around, facing the wall and my back facing him. "I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."

"Dahlia..."

"I'm just tired." I lied, "goodnight."

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AVA'S NOTES

i realized how BAD my writing is y'all. and i cant believe u guys are still reading it. that's wild.

anyways: how we feeling?

please vote and comment!!