Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

32 | Escape From The Window

JUEVES
10:11 AM

Dahlia Gray

I woke up to the feeling of arms wrapped around my body.

My eyes flutter open as I stir awake, groggily shifting in my bed for a few extra minutes of shut-eye. I couldn't move. The ability to do so feels restricted, boxed in. I looked down and found muscular arms wrap around my waist, pulling my back against the heat of a firm chest.

I go rigid. It takes a few seconds to register what happened last night. The memories of Harlow sneaking into my bedroom floods back to me, of our hour-long conversation and of me, falling asleep with the intent of keeping my distance from him.

Yet, somehow, we ended up closer than ever.

I hear the clearing of a throat and wonder if it came from Harlow, waking up in the morning and realizing what he has done. I mean, I don't want to point fingers, but—I didn't wrap my arms around another person, and I didn't take the initiative to pull said person closer. He did.

That doesn't mean I don't like it, though.

The person clears their throat once more, and I look up to find the source coming from my mother, standing at the foot of the bed.

My eyes widen, my heart rate spikes, and I glance down at the criminalizing scene in front of her. I open my mouth, ready to build a defensive argument, when no words fall through. I was afraid the Latina side of her would make an appearance and scream at him to leave—threatening to throw her chancla if he doesn't get out of the house.

She reveals nothing, and her impassive face turns to me. Her blue eyes spare a short glance at the white boy sleeping beside me, cradling me like I was his personal teddy bear. I would be lying if I didn't say I love the attention, but I was too afraid of what's going to happen next.

I quickly untangle myself from Harlow's grip, slipping out of the bed, and turn to my mother with my hands clamp together. "Mami." I plead, my voice in a mere whisper. "Por favor, no hagas una escena, no hicimos nada, te lo juro, y él sólo estaba aquí porque yo lo necesitaba—." Please do not make a scene, we didn't do anything, I swear to you, and he was only here because I needed him—

She swats my hand away, planting a finger to her lips. I silence under her command, petrified, as her gaze shifts away from me to the boy sleeping soundly on my bed.

She hits his leg. "Wake up."

Harlow begins to stir, and the first thing I notice he did was pat down the space I previously occupied, almost like he was searching for me in his wakening. His eyelids begin to open, peering through one by one, and he yawns. Perfectly oblivious to what's going on.

Then, he spotted my mother.

"Fuck," he swore, pulling himself into a sitting position. I wince, not liking the direction this meeting is heading. Harlow turns to me, seeking help, and I give him a guilty look. "Fuck, am I going to get in trouble for swearing?"

That should be the last of your problems.

I shake my head, rubbing my arm. "She doesn't know English."

"Sé suficiente inglés para entender." I know enough English to understand, my mother remarks, turning to me with a warning. "Solo porque no hable inglés no significa que debas subestimarme. Recuerda eso." Just because I don't speak English doesn't mean I'm underestimated. Remember that.

I nod, but my lips pull into a last-attempt pout. "Mami. Por favor," please, I stress, "Déjalo. Te lo suplico. No hicimos nada. Lo juro. Sólo estaba ahí para consolarme. Por favor, créeme." Let him go. I'm begging you. We didn't do anything. I swear on it. He was only there to comfort me. Please, believe me.