Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

63 | After Dark

DOMINGO
3:35 AM

Dahlia Gray

I didn't listen to Presley's voicemail until I left office.

I didn't get to leave the office until one am, after staying overtime at SAINT due to some complications with the files and lack of organization. I was one of the interns tasked with cleaning it up before tomorrow, due to some big project we're about to start on.

So, I shut my phone off for the night and turned it back on when I got into the car (that I'm renting under my mother's name). When the notifications rolled in—with several missed calls from Presley—I knew something was off. I didn't get the chance to call him back before I saw the voicemail he left: detailing how Harlow ran away to stay with his brother.

It was a short and simple message, laced with the hurt that throbbed in the back of his throat.

I think I went over the speed limit trying to get to his house.

I didn't know where to start. I tried to call Harlow on the way, but he didn't pick up. His rings went straight to voicemail, and I didn't know if it's because he's ignoring me or something happened to his phone.

It better be the latter.

I round the empty street entering into the Soberano-Godfrey neighborhood—when something caught my attention. Under the streetlights, illuminating the sidewalks of the park in its yellowing hue, a lonesome figure sat on a bench.

Not just any bench.

With a bit of a struggle, I reverse from my destination and turn into the lot, parking the car. I put the keys between my fingers once I stepped out of the vehicle—just in case I was wrong—but as I cautiously approached the bench, I began to draw the outline of my boyfriend's figure leaning against the headboard of the bench, reeling in the constellations on the clear sky.

I don't think he hears me approaching.

"I left for eight days and you ran away," I declare in the stillness of the night, causing Harlow to raise his head and stare ahead. His expression blank of emotions, before the corner of his lips slightly quirks in a sad, forced smile.

"Hi, baby," he mumbles, his voice raspy—like he's been crying. When I got close enough, and with the assistance of the streetlights, I noticed his eyes were puffy, blotches of reddened skin around his face, and his cheeks were stained with streaks.

I don't say anything as I slide into the seat beside him, lowering the makeshift weapon I fasten from my keys and cup his face into my small palm, running the pad of my thumb under his eyes and feeling the moisture and heat of his flesh from his reign of tears.

"I thought I was going to have to search all night for you," I whisper, searching his face for anything unusual. The tousle of his dark brown hair remains, his blue eyes sharp with the clarity of the ocean, and his skin refrains from any bruising. I lower my hand to tuck under his chin, raising him to meet my gaze. "What happened?"

He scoffs for a second, but doesn't move from my touch. I hear a faint click, and glance down to see a lighter in his hands, the flame dancing against the blow of the wind. I lean back, loosen my grip, afraid he would be carrying the scent of nicotine and cause my system to release a fit of coughs.

He must've noticed. It was impossible not to. His eyes, still on me, drops to the lighter in his hand and he removes his thumb, the flame extinguishes from existence.

"I'm going to quit smoking again," he says with intent, the slight grit of his jaw sharpens his cheekbones. "I'm going to do it and this time, I'm going to succeed."