13. Drive – Lauren
13
DRIVE
LAUREN
T he dinner rush is in full swing, and I'm juggling plates and orders with practiced ease. But even as I smile at customers and refill coffee cups, a part of my mind is elsewhere. With him.
Dakota.
Every time the bell above the door jingles, my heart does a little flip. I find myself scanning the incoming customers, half-expecting to see his tall frame and messy dark hair. But as the night wears on, there's no sign of him.
"Order up for table six!" Jen's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I grab the plates, forcing myself to focus. What am I doing? We never even exchanged numbers. He said he wanted to see me again, but maybe he changed his mind. If he’d really wanted to see me again, wouldn’t he have gotten my number? Maybe the light of day made him realize how complicated this could get. It’s not as if I’m a great catch being a poor single mom. I know this.
But then again, a small voice in my head argues, maybe he's respecting your boundaries. You did say you needed to take things slow. And isn't showing up in person more meaningful than a text? It takes more effort, more courage.
I shake my head, trying to clear these conflicting thoughts. Maybe he's just as nervous and unsure as I am. God knows I've been second-guessing myself all day.
The truth is, I have no idea what he's thinking. And that uncertainty is both thrilling and terrifying.
As I deliver the food to a boisterous family, I can't help but think of Roman. Of how his face lit up this morning when I told him about our upcoming day off together. How can I even consider bringing someone new into our carefully balanced life? Someone like Dakota would definitely upset our norm. But then, with Shannon leaving soon, it’s all going to change anyway, right? Why not add another factor to the messed-up equation?
But still, as the night progresses, I can't shake the memory of Dakota's gentle eyes, the warmth of his hand on mine. The way he made me feel seen for the first time in years. Things like that have to mean something, don’t they?
Finally, the last customer leaves, and I flip the sign to 'Closed' with a mixture of relief and disappointment. He didn't come. I try to squash the feeling of being let down as I clean up and gather my things.
"Goodnight, Jen," I call as I head out the back door. The cool night air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
And then I see him.
My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, I'm frozen in place. A wave of heat rushes through me, from my toes to the tips of my ears, followed by a swarm of butterflies taking flight in my stomach. My heart, which had been steadily slowing after the busy shift, suddenly shifts into overdrive.
Dakota is leaning against my car, just like last night. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks up as I approach, nervousness and hope on his face. In the dim light of the parking lot, his eyes seem to glow, drawing me in like a magnet. I have to consciously remind myself to breathe, to put one foot in front of the other as I walk towards him.
My fingers tingle with the memory of his touch, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and make sure he's real, not just a figment of my imagination conjured up by a long day and too much wishful thinking.
"Hi," he says softly.
"Hi," I reply, my heart suddenly racing. "I didn't think you'd come."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as a nervous habit. "I wasn't sure if I should. But I couldn't stop thinking about you all day."
The admission sends a warm flutter through my chest. "Me too," I confess before I can stop myself.
A smile breaks across his face, and God, it's beautiful. "Yeah?"
I nod, unable to keep the answering smile off my face. "Yeah."
We stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. There's so much I want to say, so many questions I want to ask. But for now, this feels like enough. This quiet moment of connection in the dim light of the parking lot.
A small voice in the back of my mind reminds me of the practicalities. How would this work? My life revolves around early mornings with Roman, long shifts at the diner, and stolen moments of rest in between. Dakota's world of late-night gigs, recording sessions, and unpredictable schedules seems so far removed from mine.
I think about Jen's knowing looks when I've been distracted all day, about how I'll need to be even more focused to avoid mistakes at work. About the possibility of Dakota showing up during my shifts, and how that might affect my job performance. Would my boss understand if I got flustered because a rockstar was sitting in my section?
And what about Roman's routine? His stability is everything to me. How would I balance bedtime stories and Dakota's evening shows? Parent-teacher conferences and backstage passes?
The questions swirl in my mind, a dizzying array of 'what ifs' and 'how coulds.' But as I look at Dakota, feeling the warmth of his presence, I realize that, for once, I want to push those practical concerns aside. Just for a moment, I want to exist in this bubble where anything seems possible.
"So," Dakota says finally, "do you maybe want to grab a coffee again or something? If you're not too tired, I mean."
I glance at my watch, a reflex born from years of juggling responsibilities. It's later than I thought, and I know Shannon is probably waiting up for me. She's been packing for her move to Seattle, and we were supposed to go over some logistics for her departure. Roman should be asleep by now, but what if he wakes up and I'm not there?
The responsible part of me, the part that's always aware of time ticking away and obligations to be met, urges me to decline. To thank Dakota for coming, but to head home where I'm needed. Shannon's leaving soon, and every moment with her feels precious now.
But another part of me, a part I thought had long since gone dormant, rebels against the constant tug of responsibility. Just this once , it whispers, just for a little while, can't you do something for yourself?
I look back at Dakota, seeing the hope in his eyes, and I make a decision.
I know I should say no. I should go home to Roman, stick to my routine, and play it safe. But as I look into Dakota's eyes, I find myself nodding.
"I'd like that," I say.
As we walk towards the all-night diner down the street, our hands brushing together and our fingers eventually entwining, I can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something beautiful.
And terrifying.
But mostly beautiful.
We settle into a booth at the all-night diner, the same one we were in just last night. It feels familiar and strange, like we're picking up a conversation we never finished.
"So," Dakota says, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. "Tell me more about Miles. If you're comfortable with that, I mean."
I take a deep breath, stirring my tea absently. "It's... complicated," I start, then laugh humorlessly. "But I guess that's true for most relationships, right?"
Dakota nods, his eyes encouraging me to continue.
"Miles and I, we weren't... we weren't in a good place when he died," I admit, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. "We fought a lot. About his drug use, his drinking, about money, about the baby... about everything, really."
I see a flicker of surprise in Dakota's eyes. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "That must have been hard."
I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "The thing is, I was angry with him for so long. Even after he died, I was angry. And then I felt guilty for being angry because you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, right?"
Dakota reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The warmth of his touch is comforting. "There's no right or wrong way to grieve, Lauren."
His words unlock something in me, and suddenly, I'm talking more than I have in years. "I loved Miles, I did. But towards the end, I think I loved the idea of who he could be more than who he actually was. And then he died, and I was left with all these unresolved feelings and a baby on the way."
I look up at Dakota, suddenly aware of how different our situations are. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be dumping all this on you. Your loss... it's different."
Dakota squeezes my hand gently. "Different, yeah. But pain is pain, Lauren. Your feelings are valid."
He's quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. "Chloe and I, we were happy. At least, I thought we were. Her death... it blindsided me. One day, we were planning our future, and the next..."
He trails off, and I can see the raw pain in his eyes. I turn my hand over, intertwining our fingers. "I'm so sorry, Dakota."
He gives me a sad smile. "Sometimes I think it might have been easier if we had been fighting. If there had been signs. I mean, things weren’t perfect. They never are. But it was so sudden, so final. I didn't get to say goodbye, didn't get to tell her one last time that I loved her."
We sit in silence for a moment, both lost in our memories. Despite the differences in our experiences, there's a shared understanding between us. A recognition of the pain, the guilt, the what-ifs that come with loss.
"You know," I say finally, "I think in some ways, you're braver than I am."
Dakota looks at me, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You loved Chloe wholly, without reservation. Even now, you honor that love," I explain. "I've been so scared to love like that again. Scared to be hurt, scared to lose someone else."
Dakota's thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "I don't know if it's bravery," he says softly. "Sometimes it feels more like a curse. To have known that kind of love and lost it."
I nod, understanding. "But you're here," I say, gesturing between us. "You're trying. That's brave."
He smiles, a real smile that reaches his eyes. "So are you, Lauren. So are you.”
After a comfortable pause, Dakota leans back, his fingers still intertwined with mine. "So, enough about the heavy stuff for now. Tell me something good, something you're looking forward to or dreaming about."
I hesitate for a moment, then decide to share. "Well, I've been thinking about going back to school. Nursing, actually."
Dakota's eyes light up. "Really? That's awesome, Lauren. What made you choose nursing?"
I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "I've always wanted to help people. And after everything with Miles, and then taking care of Roman... I don't know. It just feels right. I’m a caretaker by nature, I think. Like I could make a real difference, you know?"
He nods, understanding in his eyes. "I get that. It's like with music for me. When I'm playing, when I see how our songs affect people, it feels like I'm doing something meaningful."
"Speaking of music," I say, genuinely curious, "how's everything going with the band? You mentioned you guys are getting ready for a tour?"
Dakota's face lights up, and I can see the passion he has for his work. "Yeah, we're in the final stages of prep. It's exciting but also a little terrifying. We're playing bigger venues this time, more press coverage. It's a whole new level for us."
"That sounds amazing," I say, trying to imagine what that kind of life must be like. "How do you balance it all? The touring, the recording, the public attention?"
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly? Sometimes, I'm not sure I do balance it. It's a lot of late nights, early mornings, and living out of a suitcase. But when we're on stage, when everything clicks, and the crowd is with us... there's no feeling like it in the world."
I listen, fascinated, as he tells me about life on the road, about the camaraderie with his bandmates, about the thrill of creating music. It's a world so different from mine, and yet I find myself drawn in by his passion.
"You know," I say, a thought occurring to me, "I think there's something similar in what we both want to do. Different scales, maybe, but the core is the same."
Dakota looks intrigued. "What do you mean?"
"Well, as a nurse, I'd be trying to help people, to make their lives better in some way, even if it's just easing their pain for a moment," I explain. "And isn't that what you do with your music? You connect with people, you make them feel something, maybe help them through tough times or celebrate good ones."
His eyes widen slightly, and a slow smile spreads across his face. "I never thought about it like that, but you're right. It's all about human connection, isn't it?"
I nod, feeling a surge of warmth at his understanding. "Exactly. Different methods, same goal."
As we continue chatting, jumping from topic to topic with an ease that surprises me, I realize how much we actually have in common despite our different worlds. We both value connection - whether it's with an audience or with patients. We both want to make a difference in people's lives. And we both know what it's like to have a passion that drives us.
The conversation flows naturally, punctuated by laughter and moments of shared understanding. And with each passing minute, I feel the connection between us growing stronger, more real.
It's scary and exhilarating all at once. But for the first time in years, I find myself excited about the possibilities the future might hold.