Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

30 | Twisting And Turning (Part One)

MIÉRCOLES
12:04 PM

Dahlia Gray

"Dahlia, you're friends with Reid and you didn't tell us?"

I look to Hannah through gritted teeth, trying my best to appear neutral and bubbly. Another round of bullets flares through my system, brazing every inch of nerves. The auburn-haired girl takes a seat in front of me, completely unaware of my misery, and drops her phone face flat against the table to give me her utmost attention.

"Huh?" I gawk, her question barely having the chance to register as another shot of pain sends up my spine and forces me to go rigid. My elbow propped on the table, my hand slapped across my forehead in a lazy attempt to minimize the face of my pain.

"I said," Hannah clears her throat theatrically, her sole warning that tells she's going to raise the volume of her voice by a couple of notches. Josie notices and playfully hits her arm, slyly attempting to stop her before her words become an announcement for the whole cafeteria to witness. Hannah laughs. "You're friends with Reid Harlow and you didn't tell us?"

I grind my teeth together as another wave of pain passes through my stomach. It felt like a cramp—very similar to my period—but it was much worse. It was uncomfortable and ripping. My bones felt like they were shifting, poking, tightening to subdue the agony. I'm almost ready to surrender my entire soul to get rid of this feeling.

My breathing labor as I suck in a couple of choke breaths, contemplating on what to do. "Dahlia..." Josie spoke, her voice morphing into concern. I can't see her from the edge of my sight, my eyes beginning to close. My free hand slips from my side and pockets into my jacket, praying I remember to bring my inhaler. "are you okay?"

I only found lint.

Coño.

"I...I...um," I stammer, squeezing my eyes for a good second. I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. "I need to call my mom."

"Okay, okay," Josie said, her voice slightly etching with panic. The tension in the air feels thick, like my friends knew something was wrong but didn't know exactly how to help me. "Um, um, do you know where your phone is? Do you want to use mine?"

"It's in the first compartment of my backpack—" I cut myself short, my hands involuntarily balling into fists and my toes curls at the pain. I swallow the urge to let out a scream. "Please."

I hear rustling from my left, where my backpack leans against the table, and before long, a cool slick screen slaps against my palm. I force myself to open my eyes as I find my mother's contact. I hold the phone to my ear.

Please, pick up. Please, pick up.

The call fell flat, and I ended up dialing for a second, third, and fourth time before I gave in.

I knew she was going somewhere—the first time in a while—when she offered me breakfast and told me this morning. It was a hushed secret, and I wasn't supposed to tell my father, but I didn't think she would need to shut her phone for the occasion. She is always there when I need her.

"Dahlia." I hear Hannah coming to my side, offering a comforting hand on my shoulder. The act was pleasant, but the touch felt unfamiliar. Every inch of playfulness on her face is replaced with a seriousness. "Call your dad. I'm sure he'll pick you up."

I inhale sharply.

My first contact would never be my father, and he wouldn't be my second choice either. I would rather call Harlow than him—but the issue stands. Harlow doesn't have a car. He doesn't drive Presley's car to school or for day-to-day activities, and I know he has classes.