Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

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?"