Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

49 | Red Lights

SÁBADO
2:31 PM

Dahlia Gray

I pick up the phone, "Where are you?"

My brows pull together, as I spare a glance towards Aysa—who was, unsurprisingly, studying—before answering. "Um," I muse, pulling the phone from my ear and checking the caller ID a second time. Presley. "Did you dial the right number?"

I hear him chuckle on the other end, accompanied with the low rumbles of his Mustang engine I was all too familiar with. "Dahlia Gray, right? The girl that—" he catches himself, abruptly pulling his sentence to a halt. This made me curious.

"Hello?" I perk, wondering if our line got disconnected or if he's going through a tunnel. I hoped it was the latter, wishing to exploit whatever detail he almost slipped.

"I'm here." He responds gruffly, perfectly audible through the line. I frown, wishing I caught him by surprise and he would repeat himself.

"Oh." I said unenthusiastically; I still have no idea why he called me. "Um, you called me?"

"Yeah," he clears his throat, "where are you?"

"At work," I stop, getting an odd feeling in my stomach. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing," he answers swiftly, almost predicting this reaction from me. "I was just calling to ask you what you got for Harlow. I have no idea what to get."

This might be one of the most confusing conversations I've ever had with anyone.

I clutch onto the phone, with both hands, "what are you talking about? Get him what?"

I feel Aysa kick me from under the table, and I glance up to see her mouthing: what's wrong? I shake my head, not knowing the situation myself.

Presley pauses, the silence thickening as the rumbles of his engine roar to life, indicating his acceleration. "You don't...he didn't...he didn't tell you it's his birthday tomorrow?"

It took me a second to register what he said. I stood up from my seat. "Birthday?" I repeat, my voice raising a couple of volumes that I collected a couple of stares. My shoulders slouch at the unwanted attention, resigning back into my seat. I whisper into the device, "it's his birthday?"

No response, and I'm getting anxious. I usually love birthday parties, but I'm rarely on the receiving end of obtaining invitations. Nonetheless, I would've thought—or, at least hoped—that Harlow would tell me it was his birthday coming up.

Are we not as close as I thought we are?

Presley scoffs, but doesn't answer my question. "Can you get off of work? I'm heading to the mall to pick up a present for him."

My heart is racing, from the overwhelm of information being processed. His birthday. Out of everything, he didn't tell me it's his birthday tomorrow.

"Dahlia, you there?"

"Huh?" I shake my head, snapping out of my thoughts. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a bit hurt. "Oh, yeah. I'm here. I'm here."

"I'm going to the mall," he repeats, "it's about a twenty minute drive from SAINT, and I'm almost near. Just give me the answer so I can get ready to make a turn."

There were so many thoughts racing through my head at the moment: of Harlow not telling it's his birthday, of being in a car with Presley, of skipping out on work to collect a present for him. Everything is coming at me so quick, I don't know if I can breathe.