Broken Cravings (REVISING AND REWRITING)

Broken Cravings; Eight

As I peered into the distance, a warm glow beckoned from a quaint coffee shop nestled along the lonesome, shadowy road. The flickering lights inside danced like fireflies, casting a golden hue that pierced through the surrounding gloom, offering a refuge from the enveloping darkness. It was already seven p.m., yet I remained alert throughout the journey despite being encouraged to rest. The unsettling events of that morning kept me on edge, eroding any trust I might have had in the man driving the car.

"Come on, we're stopping here," he stated abruptly, turning off the ignition with a deliberate click, his gaze fixated on the steering wheel as if lost in a labyrinth of thought.

"I need to get home. My father will be furious," I replied, a tremor of unease creeping into my voice as I stretched into the backseat for my wallet.

With a chilling stare, he let out a mocking laugh that slashed through the air before he flung the car door wide open, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the stillness of the night. As he ambled around the back of the car, I caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, anxiety gnawing at me as I awaited his approach.

Harold swung the door open so forcefully that I stumbled slightly, barely catching myself against the frame. Reacting quickly, he reached out, his strong arms wrapping around me with surprising warmth to steady me. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I carefully diverted my gaze, desperate to avoid the intensity of his eyes.

"Call your father and tell him you'll be studying late," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

Standing in the enveloping darkness, I felt an undeniable wave of unease wash over me. I fished my phone from my pocket, noticing three missed calls from my dad and a flurry of notifications vying for my attention. Each chime heightened my sense of dread, as I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something significant had transpired in my absence.

The sound of the car door slamming echoed eerily in the still night as he leaned casually against the hood, exuding an unsettling calmness. He drew a cigarette from his pack, the flicker of the lighter briefly illuminating his features before shadows reclaimed him. As I dialed my dad's number, my heart raced with apprehension, each ring resonating through the tranquil surroundings. I found myself fixated on my dad's contact photo, each heartbeat stretching into what felt like an eternity.

"Mmm, hey honey," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, as though battling against the embrace of slumber.

"Dad, are you home?" My eyes darted to Harold, searching his expression for any sign of menace in the familiarity of the quiet road.

"I am... where are you?" His voice sharpened, curiosity mingling with concern.

"I went to Tanya's to study and... I accidentally fell asleep," I said, my gaze flitting to a group of young men sauntering past with their beers, the glow of the coffee shop illuminating their carefree laughter. Turning back to Harold, I noticed he had already extinguished his cigarette, its tendrils of smoke curling into the night air.

"Hmm..."

"Should I ask Tanya's dad to bring me back?"

"It's alright... it's too late to travel now. Just come home tomorrow or after the weekend. Do you have clothes there?" I nodded, dread pooling in my stomach as I caught Harold's unwavering gaze upon me.

"Yeah, Dad. I'll chat later. We're going to get ready for bed," I replied quickly, cutting off his response before hanging up and stuffing my phone between my thighs.

He flicked his cigarette butt away, sauntering to my door, which he opened with careless ease.

"Your dad's fine with it. But I need to be dropped off at my friend's house afterward," I stated, relief mingled with apprehension. He nodded, his hand reaching out toward me. I grasped the door and stepped out, his brows knitting together as he rummaged through the backseat for papers and books.

"If I go missing, half of my contact list knows where I am," I quipped, stepping away as I watched Harold sift through his belongings. A smirk spread across his face at my words.

"Believe me, darling. If I were a kidnapper, you wouldn't be my first choice. You're far too annoying," he teased with a chuckle, and I crossed my arms defensively, clutching my bag tightly.

Inside the coffee shop, I took a sip of my lukewarm hot cocoa, stifling a giggle as I remarked, "I don't think I've ever seen Mayson vandalizing the gym walls. He wouldn't risk his football scholarship."

Harold raised an eyebrow, disbelief painted across his features as he absorbed my words. He dismissed the idea, swimming in confidence that the authorities would reassess Mayson's future once they reviewed his grades. As he spoke, his dark brown hair fell slightly over his forehead, his soft, blush-pink lips shifting as they relaxed into a thoughtful line.

With each word exchanged, waves of frustration surged as I grappled with the dissonance between my views on education and Harold's grim perspective. It took less than ten minutes for me to realize how radically different our approaches to learning were, and I questioned his very motives for becoming a teacher. Even under the oppressive air of his presence, I found my thoughts drifting to someone who mattered to me—my version of Mr. Styles, an educator whom I had quietly admired and harbored feelings for since my freshman year.

A flurry of butterflies fluttered in my stomach, overwhelming and thrilling, forcing me to straighten up as if I were a tall lamp, transfixed by a sudden awareness that enveloped me. Mustering the courage, I murmured, "Mr. Harold..." and tried to steady my voice amidst the whirlwind of emotions swelling within me.