12. Remember Me – Dakota
12
REMEMBER ME
DAKOTA
T he city lights blur past my window as I navigate the late-night streets of LA. My hands are steady on the wheel, steadier than they've been in days. The tremors that have haunted me since my slip-up are gone, replaced by a strange calm.
Lauren's scent still lingers on my clothes, a mix of coffee and something uniquely her. I can still feel the softness of her skin where I kissed her forehead, can still see the surprise in her eyes at the gesture. Maybe I overstepped. But God, it felt right.
I turn up the radio, trying to drown out the voice in my head that's screaming at me to turn around, to go back to her. It's too soon. We both know it. But knowing doesn't make it any easier.
At a red light, I find myself reaching for my phone. I want to text her, to make sure she got home safe, to hear her voice one more time. But I stop myself. Slow, I remind myself. We agreed on slow.
The light turns green, and I accelerate, feeling the power of the car beneath me. It's nothing compared to the rush I felt talking to Lauren, though. And that scares the shit out of me.
I've been down this road before. Falling fast, thinking someone could save me from myself. But Lauren... she's different. She's not trying to save me. She's inspiring me to save myself.
As I pull into my driveway, I realize I've driven the whole way without once thinking about drinking. Without that gnawing need clawing at my insides. It's been so long since that happened, I almost don't recognize the feeling.
Is this what hope feels like?
I kill the engine and sit in the darkness for a moment, letting the events of the night wash over me. The pain of almost slipping, the fear of disappointing the band, the unexpected connection with Lauren. It's all swirling in my head, a cocktail of emotions I'm not sure how to process.
But one thing is clear as I finally drag myself out of the car and towards my front door: something has shifted. Something fundamental.
For the first time in three years, I'm looking forward to tomorrow. And it's not because of a show, or a recording session, or anything to do with the band.
It's because of her. Because of Lauren.
As I fumble with my keys, a realization hits me like a ton of bricks: I'm in trouble. Deep, life-changing trouble.
And the scariest part? I think I might be okay with that.
I push open the front door, the silence of the house a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts in my head. But as I step into the living room, I realize it's not as empty as I expected.
Connor, my roommate, is sprawled on the couch, an empty bottle of Angel's Envy on the coffee table in front of him. My stomach drops as I recognize it—the same bottle I bought last night in my moment of weakness.
"Hey, man," Connor slurs, lifting his head. "You're home late."
I stand frozen, staring at the empty bottle. The bottle that was supposed to be my downfall. The bottle I resisted. "Connor, what the fuck?"
He follows my gaze and has the decency to look sheepish. "Oh, that. I found it in your room when I was looking for a phone charger. Figured I'd help you out, you know? Can't drink it if it's gone, right?"
His words hit me like a truck. Is that what it looks like from the outside? Your friend finding your hidden stash and thinking the only way to help is to remove the temptation?
"You shouldn't have done that," I say, my voice low and controlled despite the anger and shame bubbling up inside me.
Connor sits up, swaying slightly. "Come on, Dakota. We both know you're not supposed to have that stuff around. I was just looking out for you."
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I open them, I see Connor through new eyes. The worry lines on his forehead, the cautious way he's watching me, like I might explode at any moment. Is this how everyone sees me? A ticking time bomb of addiction?
"I appreciate the thought," I say finally, "but next time, just talk to me, okay? Don't go through my stuff, and definitely don't drink yourself into a stupor on my account."
Connor nods, looking properly chastised. "Sorry, man. I just... I worry about you, you know?"
The anger drains out of me, replaced by a weariness that settles deep in my bones. "I know. But I'm working on it. I'm trying to be better."
As I help Connor to his feet and guide him to his room, Lauren's face flashes in my mind. Her belief in me, her cautious hope. I want to be the person she sees when she looks at me, not this fragile addict that everyone else seems to see.
Back in my own room, I sink onto the bed, the events of the night crashing over me. The near-miss with drinking, the unexpected connection with Lauren, and now this sobering reminder of how far I still have to go.
My body feels heavy, like I've just played a three-hour set. Every muscle aches, tension coiled tight in my shoulders and neck. I run a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's grown throughout the day, rough against my palm. My eyes burn with exhaustion, and there's a dull throbbing at my temples - the precursor to what will likely be a killer headache.
But despite the physical toll, there's something else there, too. A strange lightness in my chest, as if a weight I've been carrying for years has started to lift. It's an unfamiliar feeling, this mixture of bone-deep weariness and... hope?
As I lay there in the darkness, I realize something. For the first time in years, I'm not reaching for a bottle to numb these feelings. I'm sitting with them, uncomfortable as they are.
Maybe that's what real progress looks like.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, allowing the emotions I usually avoid to wash over me. It's uncomfortable, like an ill-fitting suit, but I force myself to sit with it.
First, there's the shame. Shame that Connor felt he needed to "save" me from myself. Shame that I bought that bottle in the first place. It's a familiar feeling, one that's been my constant companion for years. But now, instead of drowning it in alcohol, I let it exist. I acknowledge it. This shame is part of me, but it doesn't define me.
Then there's the fear. Fear of falling off the wagon for real next time. Fear of disappointing the band, my fans, myself. And now, fear of disappointing Lauren. It's a paralyzing feeling, but I breathe through it. Fear means I care. It means I have something to lose, something to fight for.
Anger bubbles up next. Anger at myself for being weak, at Connor for overstepping, at the world for making sobriety so damn hard. I clench and unclench my fists, letting the anger flow through me without acting on it. It's okay to be angry, I remind myself. It's what I do with that anger that matters.
And underneath it all, there's a current of grief. Grief for Chloe, for the life we could have had. It's been three years, but the pain is still there, a dull ache in my chest. I let myself feel it fully for the first time in a long time. Tears prick at my eyes, and I let them fall. It's okay to miss her, to mourn what could have been.
If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been slowly and silently drowning in this grief every fucking day. Missing what we had. Missing what we could have had. Just an entire piece of me – missing. It’s no way to fucking live.
Not anymore.
But then I get really honest. In my grief, I’ve only mourned the good times. In truth, they weren’t all good. Both of us struggled with our sobriety, and sometimes, it was downright ugly. But the heart doesn’t want to remember that shit. It only wants to focus on the good that we’ve lost. Not the bad. Why the fuck does my brain work that way? Turning Chloe into some sort of saint because she’s dead?
Because she loved me. And I loved her. And that was all that mattered in the end.
The end… how fucking poetic. What good is it now? What was all that love for if it was going to turn out the way it did anyway? Am I even grieving a person anymore? Or just my memory of her? Is there a fucking difference?
Is there a right way to grieve? A socially correct way? A time limit? What does ‘letting go’ even feel like? What am I letting go of? My loyalty? My love? Or is it just my obsession with my loss?
Whatever it is, I can feel that tether thinning. My white-knuckled grasp on it is loosening. It hurts like fucking hell, but I can’t go on like this.
I need to let Chloe go.
As I lay there, feeling everything, a new thought surfaces. The matching three-year anniversary. Lauren's loss mirroring my own. It still bothers me. An itch at the back of my mind that I can't quite scratch. It's too neat, too coincidental. But I push that thought aside for now. That's a mystery for another day.
For now, I focus on breathing. In and out. Feeling each emotion as it comes, acknowledging it, and letting it pass. It's exhausting, but also... freeing. Like I'm finally facing the demons I've been running from for so long.
I realize that this - sitting with my feelings, processing them without numbing them - this is how I can deal with them now. It's not easy, and it's not pleasant, but it's real. It's growth.
As the first light of dawn starts to peek through my curtains, I feel drained but oddly at peace. I've made it through the night without a drink, faced my emotions head-on, and come out the other side.
Maybe this is what Lauren sees in me. Not just the mess, but the potential. The strength to face my demons and keep going.
With that thought, I finally drift off to sleep, feeling more like myself than I have in years. Tomorrow is a new day, and for the first time in a long time, I feel ready to face it.