2. Dakota
2
DAKOTA
This can’t be happening.
I’m turning the key over in the ignition to my beat-up truck, putting my entire body into this sucker, and nothing. Why?
How are people actually capable of remaining calm in situations like this? I finally found a way to escape the DDS, Department of Driver Services, and check off the task of getting my license, only to face another dilemma. It seems today is the day for life to test me to the brink of my patience.
I’m giving it my best effort, but this makes me feel like I could cry from frustration alone.
I won’t because I know once those floodgates open, there’s no recovery from the emotional disaster to follow.
Tears burn the back of my eyes as I do my best to take a deep breath and recenter myself before I fall apart.
It’s okay, Dakota. There’s a solution to this.
All I need is for it to start so I can make it out of this parking lot and back to Trevor’s place before he gets home. Is that so much to ask?
Apparently, my best isn’t good enough because the truck doesn’t budge. I’m useless when it comes to trucks. Let alone maintaining one. I do the bare minimum: oil change, tire rotation, gas, and all the other essential things to keep it running.
Chevy was my Dad’s baby. Still in near-perfect condition, considering his care knew no bounds. Chevy is also the truck he drove when he first met my Mom. The truck they shared their first date, first kiss, first so many moments in. Hell, I was most likely conceived in the back seat.
Now it’s only us—Chevy and me.
Without them.
Today is one of those days when you wake up and you know it’s bound to derail. I could feel it brewing. My intuition on that feeling is usually never misguided, with my current situation being a case in point.
Taking in a long exhale, I feel assured that I should probably get some help. Help with Chevy, I mean. There’s no way I would even remotely know what to look for under the worn hood, and I think it’s best I keep from trying—leave the job to those who are qualified.
My anxiety is dampening my already sour mood like a wet blanket, leading me to reach for my unhealthy addiction, one I refuse ever to quit. I rummage through my purse and pull out my last chocolate chip cookie. It’s no Biscoff, but it’ll do. This cookie is my last-ditch effort to calm the irritation simmering through me with some sugar.
My cookie addiction started in college. I wish I could say I had this big moment where they became everything I needed— that sounds ridiculous just thinking about it —but I found myself knee-deep in finals pressure, and cookies were the vice that kept me sane.
I’ve never been an energy or soda drinker, but a baked good , I’m so far up in all that, there’s no chance of ever conquering it .
It’s most likely where all my curves come from and the reason I have to work extra hard to stay toned.
Once I feel like the sugar has equipped me enough to figure out some damage control, I grab my phone to call the woman I consider my means of survival: Navy.
She is passion and fury combined, and lucky for me, my best friend.
Navy is dating her high school sweetheart, Luke, and is on her way to being the best sports anchor Atlanta has ever seen. I have no idea what she’s up to right now, but if I had to guess, I’d say either doing yoga in her living room or spending too much time taming her hair to withstand this heat.
Navy answers on the first ring. “Woman, this better be good. Schmidt just started singing to CeCe, and you know they give me the feels. Better be good to interrupt the feels, Kodi.”
She’s watching New Girl .
The nostalgia from it makes me crave a lazy day where I can binge-watch every episode and say fuck you to life for a little while. Unfortunately, there’s no time for that.
I need her.
“I need you, Navs. Today has been awful, and you know I’m not one to ask for favors, but I have no other option,” I blurt out in one breath as fast as I can.
Greeted with silence, I check the phone, still connected. Crickets may be louder than her breathing. Is she even breathing?
“Navy?” My loud-mouthed friend chooses now to stay silent.
“Who do I need to kill?”
Does she have a pen and paper? The list could go on.
“No one at the moment. But I do need your help. ”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s hear it.”
Realizing I don’t have much to lose, and Navy is the one person I trust with my entire life, I ask her, “Can you pick me up from the DDS, please? My truck won’t start, and I’m trying to get to the apartment before Trevor shows up.”
I really hope she’s not already at work. In that case, it looks like I’ll be either ubering or walking—neither sounding comforting at the moment.
“You know I’d do anything for you, babe.”
I sense a but coming. “But you can’t.”
A long pause draws out before she speaks, “I’m sorry. Please don’t be upset with me. You know I’d do anything to be there for you, but I have a meeting in an hour, and Jared might physically murder me and sell my body if I leave him hanging on this one.”
My heart drops. I’m ready for this day to be over.
The tears I’ve been holding in since this morning threaten to escape. I can’t tell her that, though, because Navy would crumble if she knew I was this upset.
It feels like I can’t catch a break, and I’m exhausted.
The moment things finally settle in my life, and I start to see the light at the end of the tunnel, life goes in reverse, and I’m back to square one.
I’m spiraling, but I’ve worked too hard to even get this far.
Although I’m nowhere close to being healed, if I’d even call it that, I would give anything for even the smallest win.
It looks like I’m on my own, then.
Doing my best not to seem overwhelmed, I sigh, “Seriously, no problem. Forget I asked. I’m so proud of you and how hard you work. Go kick ass, and I’ll figure it out.”
There’s nothing I hate more than feeling like a burden to people. That’s how I’ve felt this last year .
Since losing my parents, the amount of “pity help” I’ve received has been unbearable. I appreciate it more than words can say, but the part of me that’s still hurting so badly wants it all to stop.
I want people to look at me and not see loss but to be my friend and treat me less like a broken toy.
Navy has never made me feel that way.
Navy and her mom were the ones who showed up for me the most after my parents passed and continued to show up for months after. Our friendship is straightforward, which I appreciate because I’m a straight shooter, always have been, and Navy is the same. It works for us.
Before I have a chance to end the call, she blurts out, “Oh wait. Cal can take you. He’s headed to the field anyway for conditioning, and the apartment is right up the street.”
Great. Great. I should have seen this coming.
Despite how I feel about her volunteering Callaway, these are the moments where I feel so grateful to have a friend like Navy. Although the beauty in her outward appearance is difficult to ignore, the inward part makes up my best friend.
The idea of seeing Callaway Hayes makes my blood pressure spike.
Shockingly, my hair hasn’t turned gray at the rate this man stresses me out without having even met him. It’s not like he even knows who I am, but I know who he is.
Everyone does.
I’m a speck in the number of women he encounters daily, but I also happen to be his sister’s best friend, and he still has yet to recognize my existence.
It's my fault for preferring isolation in the dark rather than the light, I suppose, but I’m a woman, and being noticed still means something.
Even if I come across as it doesn't .
Not that I would ever volunteer that information to anyone.
I quickly jump in to stop her. “Absolutely not. We haven’t spoken two words to each other. I am not about to mooch off of my best friend's brother for a ride. I’ll text Trevor and tell him I can’t make it today and call myself an Uber.”
I already know how this will play out.
Navy has never known how to take no for an answer.
“Absolutely he’ll pick you up. I texted him while you were rambling on about God knows what, and he’s currently en route to your destination. I shared your location, so don’t go bailing now. Take the help. You need it and know that I love you.”
“Nav-”
She hung up on me.
The last thing I want is to make small talk with someone who’s practically a stranger. I can’t even handle the conversations I have with myself.
But at least I have a ride.
Like always, Navy did what she always does. She showed up.
Except this time, in the form of unobtainable man candy, likely to be wrapped in tight pants.
Lucky me.
This should be fun.