10. Help – Dakota
10
HELP
DAKOTA
T he fluorescent lights of the diner feel harsh after the dim glow of the streetlamps. Lauren slides into a booth, and I follow, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands. I'm sober, but the cravings are still there, lurking beneath the surface.
A tired-looking waitress approaches, and Lauren orders coffee for both of us. As the waitress walks away, an awkward silence settles over us.
"So," Lauren says finally, her fingers nervously tracing the tattoo on her wrist. "You wanted to talk."
I nod, suddenly unsure where to start. "Yeah, I... Thanks for agreeing to this. I know it's late, and you probably want to get home to Roman."
She gives me a small smile. "It's okay. He's with my cousin. But yeah, let's talk."
I take a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize again for not coming in earlier. And for showing up at your car like that. It wasn't... I wasn't thinking straight."
Lauren nods, her expression guarded. "You said you almost did something you'd regret. Do you want to talk about that?"
The waitress returns with our coffees, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts. As she walks away, I wrap my hands around the warm mug, anchoring myself.
"I almost drank last night," I admit quietly. "Went as far as buying a bottle. But I couldn't do it. I've worked too hard to throw it all away."
Lauren's eyes soften slightly. She leans forward, her elbows on the table, coffee mug cradled between her hands. The steam rises, momentarily obscuring her face. "That must have been difficult. How long have you been sober?"
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the grease and grime from the day. A reminder of how close I came to falling apart completely. "Three years," I say, my voice rough. I clear my throat. "Well, until a couple nights ago. I slipped up, but I'm trying to get back on track."
She nods, and I can see her processing this information. Her fingers tap a rhythmless beat on the side of her mug. A nervous habit, maybe. "Can I ask... what made you want to drink?"
I laugh humorlessly, the sound harsh in the quiet diner. A few booths over, an elderly couple looks our way. I lower my voice. "What didn't? The third anniversary of my wife's death, the pressure of the band, the constant temptation..." I gesture vaguely with my hand, nearly knocking over the sugar dispenser. Lauren catches it deftly. Our fingers brush, and I feel a jolt of... something. Connection? Electricity? I pull back quickly. "Sometimes it feels like everything's pushing me towards it."
Lauren looks thoughtful for a moment, then says, "You know, it's been three years for me too."
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by the coincidence. "Three years since...?"
Lauren takes a deep breath, her fingers tightening around her coffee mug. "Since Miles, Roman's father, died while I was pregnant. It was an overdose."
The weight of her words hangs between us. I feel a strange mix of connection and unease. My stomach tightens, a chill running down my spine despite the warmth of the diner. The coincidence is too stark, too precise. Three years ago. An overdose. Just like Chloe. It's as if the universe is playing some cruel joke.
"I'm so sorry, Lauren," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "That must have been incredibly difficult."
She nods, her eyes distant. "It was. Still is, sometimes, especially for Roman. He wasn't even born yet. He never knew his dad at all. And vice versa."
I swallow hard, trying to push down the growing sense of disquiet. "And Chloe... my wife," I say softly, the words feeling heavy on my tongue, "she overdosed too."
Lauren's eyes meet mine, a flash of understanding passing between us. But beneath that, I see a flicker of something else. Confusion? Suspicion? It's gone before I can place it.
"It's a strange coincidence, isn't it?" she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Both of us losing someone that way, at the same time."
I nod, unsure what to say. The parallels in our stories are striking, but there's something about it that nags at me, a piece that doesn't quite fit. A shadow of doubt creeps into my mind, but I push it aside, not ready to face whatever it might mean.
"I guess we both know something about grief then, too, huh?" I say, trying to lighten the mood slightly.
Lauren gives me a small smile. "Yeah, I guess we do. It's not exactly the kind of common ground you hope for when getting to know someone."
"No," I agree, "but maybe it helps us understand each other a little better."
She nods, and I can see her relaxing slightly. "Maybe it does. And look, you resisted the temptation last night. That’s positive."
"Yeah. Barely." I look up at her. "Talking to you... it helped. More than you know."
Lauren looks surprised. "Me? But we barely know each other."
"I know. But you saw me as a person, not just a fucking rockstar or whatever. It's been a long time since anyone's done that."
She's quiet for a moment, stirring her coffee. "Dakota, I... I appreciate your honesty. But I need you to understand something. I have a son. I can't... I can't expose him to..."
"To someone like me," I finish for her.
She winces. "That's not what I meant. It's just... I've been down this road before. Obviously, it didn't end well."
I nod, understanding and disappointment warring inside me. "I get it. I do. And you're right to be cautious. I'm not... I'm not in the best place right now."
"Then why are you here?" she asks, her voice gentle but firm.
I meet her eyes, trying to convey the sincerity I feel. "Because talking to you makes me want to be better. To do better. I know that's a lot of pressure to put on someone I barely know, and I'm sorry for that. But I just... I felt a connection with you, and I wanted to explore that. If you're willing."
Lauren looks conflicted, and I brace myself for rejection. But then she surprises me.
"Okay," she says slowly, holding out a hand. "Let's start over. Hi, I'm Lauren. I'm a single mom who works too much and worries too much. And you are?"
I can't help but smile, reaching out to shake her hand. "I'm Dakota. Bassist for Chaos Fuel, recovering addict, and guy who's trying to figure out how to be a decent human being."
As we continue talking, I find myself drawn to the way her eyes change with her emotions. When she talks about Roman, they light up with fierce love and pride. But when the conversation turns to Miles, a shadow passes over them, darkening their hazel hue to almost green. It's not just grief I see there, but a strength, a resilience that's both beautiful and intimidating.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that seems unconscious but draws my attention to the graceful curve of her neck. There's a small scar just below her jawline, barely noticeable unless you're looking closely. I find myself wondering about its story, about all the stories etched into her skin and hidden behind her eyes.
But it's more than just physical attraction. It's the way she holds herself, shoulders back, chin up, despite the weight she carries. It's the hint of a dimple when she offers a half-smile, as if she's not quite ready to let herself fully express joy. It's the gentle but firm way she speaks, every word measured and meaningful.
I realize I'm staring and quickly look down at my coffee. But the image of her stays with me, a complex tapestry of strength and vulnerability that I find myself wanting to understand more deeply.
"Sorry," I say, realizing she's waiting for me to respond. "I just... you remind me of someone."
"Oh?" she asks, eyebrow raised.
I shake my head, smiling ruefully. "No, not like that. You remind me of who I want to be, I guess. Someone who's been through hell but still shows up every day, still fights."
A faint blush colors her cheeks, and for a moment, I see her guard lower just a fraction. It's enough to make me want to see more, to be the kind of person she might let in.
“Thank you,” she mutters, dropping her eyes to the table to avoid my gaze. “I just do whatever I have to. Like any mother would. I’m not special.”
“Wrong,” I say a bit too forcefully. “I have a feeling you’re very special.”
I reach over and grab her fidgeting hand, noticing that my own has stopped trembling for once. She tenses at first but then relaxes into my palm. Her skin is warm and soft against my callouses, and I rub my thumb along her knuckles slowly, savoring the feeling.
As we settle into a more relaxed conversation, sharing stories and laughing over the terrible diner pie, I can't shake the feeling that this—whatever this is—could be the beginning of something important. Something healing for both of us.
I just hope I don't fucking screw it up.