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?

I've never been this close to a boy ever since Mom caught me and Matt Thompson kissing in the tool shed back in middle school. 

My ears still ring from her generous cheek-slap all those years ago, and I hear her preaching voice: "Boys only bring trouble, April. Trust me, you don't need that kind of pain in your life this early on."

"Um, it's actually just a scrape." I grin at Dave like a complete idiot. My hand twitches towards the injured spot, then freezes mid-air, unsure of what to do.

This isn't just about showing him my arm. It's about revealing a vulnerability: a crack in the protective shell I built around myself. Taking a leap of faith. Not just with him, but with that possibility of something more. Something Marjorie deemed off limits.

The alternative is returning to the suffocating air of my former home, defeated. Facing my mom's disappointed gaze, and the endless yells and questions about my scrape, and my attempt to escape.

His hand moves closer, his touch a warm whisper against my skin. Closing my eyes for a fleeting moment, I take a deep breath, the words tumbling out like a long-held secret.

"Okay, sure."

The squeak of surrender in my voice is embarassing. I place my arm in Dave's hand. It's warm, strong and inviting — a stark contrast to the repelling chill of the night.

The worn leather seat against my back feels oddly comforting. Dave doesn't turn on the lights, leaving us bathed in the soft glow of the dashboard, and he grabs a first aid kit from under the seat.

"How come you didn't see me coming?" He soaks a gauze pad in a saline solution, his soft eyes not leaving mine for a second. "Or hear me?"

"Oh, well, I was jamming with my Walkman and I guess I just..." I'm aware that's not an excuse.

When I wince, his forehead wrinkles and his pressure on the wound becomes gentler. "Where were you going?"

I shrug, the truth a bitter pill to swallow and no one to share it with. "Somewhere. Nowhere. Whatever. Why do you care?"

"Take a chill pill, Lewis." Dave rolls his eyes, but he doesn't press me further, for which I'm grateful. He dabs a generous layer of a smelly ointment over my wound. It brings an instant relief.

"It didn't go too deep in the skin."

"Okay, perfect." I press on the car door lock, ready to head out. "Thanks."

"Hang on." His usually mocking eyes now hold genuine concern that disarms me. "Let me get you home. It's the least I can do."

"No!" I shout, a bit rougher than intended. "Home is the last place I want to be right now."

"I can understand that."

I glance at him, surprised.

"Do you need me to take you somewhere, though?"

"Can you understand English? Would you please stay out of my life? I want to be left alone. And I'm in a hurry."

I glance at my wristwatch and its illuminated clock mocks me with its flashing digits. Oh no. Nine p.m. The last bus to L.A. has already left.

Despair threatens to swallow me whole. The plan I've been preparing for months, the careful timing — all for nothing. I sink my head in my hands.

"What's wrong?" Dave squeezes my shoulder.

I'm not sure what to reply to that.

How about everything, Rivera? Everything is wrong.

I might as well tell him. "I missed the bus. To L.A."

"Whoa, whoa whoa. L.A.? Aren't you going on a school trip tomorrow?"

"Aren't you?" I fire back at him.

"Fair enough." He chuckles. His laughter is soft and pleasant.

We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant hum of traffic.

"I could take you there." His statement is bold. It comes out of left field.

I snap my head up. "You? But I... I couldn't ask you to do that."

He shrugs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I'm headed in that direction anyway. Let me make you a deal: I'll take you to L.A. as long as you don't report me to the cops. I'm lucky no one saw what just happened. I fucking don't need another thing to add to my rap sheet."

His casual offer sends a wave of emotions crashing over me.

Can I trust him with this journey? Would it be reckless to just throw myself into the unknown with him?

My heart pounds like crazy, though I'm not sure if all from fear. From under my eyelashes, I soak in his features. He doesn't look dangerous and the little smile is kind of cute. Comforting. Oddly understanding of what I'm going through.

Besides, what choice do I have? It's either that or going back home. Facing the suffocating walls of my life. And I don't have enough money for another bus ticket. 

Wait, did he mean free of charge?

"In this car?" I start playfully. "There's no way this heap's gonna make it to L.A."

"Hey, don't hate on the car. That's a 1980s Pontiac Trans AM. You seen Smokey and the Bandit?" His eyes shine as he speaks about the machine.

"Duh." Who hasn't? "But I'm more of a Back to the Future kind of gal."

"The car was my dad's. It'll get us there." Dave swallows and there's strange pride in his voice.

"Look. I don't... I can't... I can't afford to pay you. I only had this on me."  I lamely wave the now-useless Greyhound ticket. "And some spare cash for two days worth of food."

"You for real? Money's not a problem. I've brought plenty." He cracks up. "Plus, it's the least I can do, after almost killing you. And in exchange for your silence, of course. You gonna need a ride back?

"No, I just... You know, I need to get there. One way ticket."

Bazillion questions bloom in his perceptive brown eyes, but then they simply remain there, unspoken.

Emboldened by the silence, I ask one of my own instead. "Isn't your family, like, going to wonder where you are?"

Dave's lips tighten. "Nope."

Taking a deep breath, I meet his mischievous gaze, the weight of my decision settling on me. "Okay. I'll come with you."

This is it. The point of no return. At the same time, the strange sense of calm washes over me.

It was either going back or going forward. I picked forward.

Maybe, just maybe, this unexpected detour is exactly what I need.

"Alright, Lewis. That backpack all you have?"

I nod, and he tosses it on the back seat. "Let's head out, then."

The engine roars to life, the headlights cutting through the darkness. We pull away, and as I'm being jostled about the Pontiac like I'm on horseback, I look over at Dave.

Did I want to get stuck with this obnoxious, money-is-not-a-problem guy instead of riding the Greyhound bus to L.A.? I sure as hell did not. But I missed the bus, and Dave Rivera is all I have now.

I lean into the funny-smelling leather seat, and another line from Dad's letter comes to mind.

"Use the tools at your disposal. When life gives you balloons, you fly up in the sky."