Love, Dad | ✔️

2 | PLAY THE CARDS YOU ARE DEALT

My red Walkman skitters away, the Runaway song fading into a distant echo.

Before I can react, the world warps around me. The ground rushes up to meet me, the impact knocking the wind out of my lungs. Disoriented, gasping for air, I blink at the harsh, invading light. My trembling hand scrapes against rough asphalt, sending a tremendous jolt of pain up my right arm.

Vision slowly clearing, I force myself to stand, limbs shaky, heart hammering against my ribs.

A tall figure rushes out from the car, its silhouette stark against the blinding headlights. "Shit, shit, shit!" A gruff, vaguely familiar male voice swears. "God dammit. Hey, you okay?"

I nod numbly, attempting to crawl towards my Walkman — my lifeline to hold onto.

Ignoring whoever the hell came out of the car, I hold my head between my hands, my mind tangled in a whirlwind of thoughts.

"Oh no, my Sony!" I exclaim, my voice tinged with panic when I finally reach the device. I kneel down next to it quickly, picking it up with trembling fingers.

"It was so expensive, and my Dad gave it to me... Did it break?"

I fumble with the buttons, praying the thing still works. This walkman is more than just a piece of tech; it's a connection to my dad.

A tangible witness of our shared love for music. 

Please, let it be okay.

Please, please, please let it be okay.

It's not. 

Ah, great, April! Not even five minutes out of the house, and you were almost run over by a car.

I resist the urge to cackle.

Did my controlling Mom have a point all along? Life sure is dangerous out here.

"Hang on, lemme help you. Get you off the road." The guy's cadence is soothing, gentle, despite the anxious tremor in it.

Strong, muscular arms scoop me up from the asphalt as if I weighed next to nothing. The car door opens with a loud thud. Next thing I know, I'm being placed on a co-pilot seat.

I glance up, meeting a pair of worried, silky brown eyes, and almost yelp out loud.

Dave Rivera?!

My former classmate, twenty one years old. He finally managed to graduate from high school three years behind schedule because of his bad attitude. A teacher's nightmare and voted the school's bad boy for the final year book. Tall, tan and buff, he looks like he's hitting the gym 24/7. He's wearing a washed out black hoodie, and dark-brown strands of hair are poking out from the top. His ripped blue jeans only add to the devil-may-care vibe. I take in a familiar compass tattoo on his neck and a non-familiar briny scent of his aftershave.

"Lewis?" He looks me over with an arched brow.

"No duh." I cough out.

This is officially the closest I've ever been to him — the three-word exchange is the most we've ever talked. And that's saying something.

"Did I hit you? Did you break anything?" He runs his long, nimble fingers across my sore sides, and I watch goosebumps bloom on my skin.

"No, I..." I hate my trembling voice. "You braked on time. I just... Mmm... I think I tripped and fell from shock, and maybe I scraped my right arm a little."

"Can I see?"

He extends a hand, and I hesitate. Do I trust him? What do I even know about David Rivera?