Page 3 of Madness

The mention of my parents makes me tense. Their disapproval at my choosing to stay with Miles in LA when I got pregnant, their thinly veiled 'I told you so' when he eventually disappeared and died from an overdose... The thought of facing their judgment again makes my chest tighten.

"I'll think about it," I promise, even though the very idea of returning to Seattle makes my stomach churn. "But right now, I really need to get to work."

Shannon nods, stepping aside to let me pass. "Oh, I almost forgot. Roman was a bit fussy last night. I think he might be coming down with something."

Of course. Just what I need on top of everything else. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll stop by the pharmacy on my way home after the lunch crowd dies down."

After throwing my hair into a ponytail, I peek in on Roman, still sleeping soundly. Putting the back of my hand on his forehead carefully so as not to wake him, I note that he does feel a little warm. Hopefully, it’s just a cold and not another ear infection.

As I head down the hall, I can feel Shannon's eyes on me. I know she means well, but the idea of uprooting our lives, of facing my parents' criticism, just isn’t something I want to deal with. I still have plans here in LA. Still have dreams of my own.

I grab my keys and bag, pausing at the front door. The house is quiet, except for Roman's muffled snores from his room. It's not much, but it's ours. The thought of leaving it behind makes my heart hurt.

I step further into our tiny living room, taking in the toys scattered across the faded carpet. The secondhand couch sags in the middle, covered with a bright throw to hide the worn spots. Roman's artwork adorns the walls, taped up haphazardly, bringing splashes of color to the otherwise dull rental-beige paint. The kitchen is visible through an archway, dishes piled in the sink, and a calendar on the fridge covered in scribbled appointments and reminders.

But then I see the stack of bills on the kitchen counter and think of the long hours at the diner with measly tips that barely keep us afloat. Maybe Shannon's right. Maybe a fresh start is precisely what we need.

I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside. I can't deal with this now. I've got a shift to get through, a potentially sick toddler to tend to, and a mountain of other worries to ignore.

As I step out into the pre-dawn chill, I take a deep breath. One day at a time, Lauren. That's all you can do.

But as I start my ancient car, Miles' voice comes through the stereo system as it automatically pairs to my phone’s last playlist, an old Earth Sign song that makes my heart ache even more. I quickly turn it off, but the damage is done. Tears prick at my eyes as I back out of the driveway.

He's been gone exactly three years now, and it still hits me like a punch to the gut every time I hear his voice. Will it ever get easier?

With a sigh, I point the car towards Sunny's Diner. Time to put on my waitress smile and pretend everything's fine. I can't afford to fall apart, not here, not now. And I certainly can't afford to let my parents' judgment dictate my life again. But with Shannon now leaving, do I have a choice?

Honestly, though, what do I have keeping me here in LA? Just bad memories and ghosts. But then, Seattle’s not exactly ‘home sweet home’ either. I need a better reason to stay, other than it’s slightly better than another bad place. My dream of nursing school could happen anywhere, I guess.

Come on, powers that be, help me out here. Give me a reason to stay or go. Make up my mind for me.

3

LIGHT IN LIFE

DAKOTA

Ishift uncomfortably in the plush hotel chair, trying to ignore the pounding in my head. The Rolling Stone interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman in her thirties, clicks her pen and smiles at us. I force myself to breathe evenly, to appear calm and collected. I’ve already forgotten her name. I always do.

Just another day in the life of a rockstar, right?

The penthouse suite we’re in is all luxury and fucking intimidating – thick carpets that swallow our footsteps, heavy curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows with a million-dollar view of the LA skyline. Our armchairs are arranged in a semi-circle, facing a sleek coffee table where the reporter’s recorder sits like a ticking time bomb. At least three cameras are pointing at us, with boom mics stationed over our heads.

I can do this. I can do this.

"Let's start with your journey, Dakota," she begins. "You joined Chaos Fuel in quite an unusual way. Can you tell us more about that?"

Jesus Christ. Why does she have to fucking start with me?

I hesitate for a moment, my hand unconsciously tightening around my water bottle. "It's pretty wild, actually," I say, my voice a little rough. I clear my throat and continue, "I saw their post online about needing a new bassist, and I figured, why not? Sent in a video of me playing one of their songs, and somehow, out of thousands of submissions, they picked me."

Our lead singer, Brad, leans forward, eager to jump in. Always our front man. Mr. Charisma. "It wasn't just 'somehow,'" he insists, his long blonde hair swaying as he shakes his head. "Dakota absolutely killed it. We'd been through so many bassists, but when we saw his video, we knew he was the missing piece."

I feel a flush of pride at Brad's words, but it’s mixed with a twinge of guilt. If only they knew how close I came to falling apart last night. Actually, no. I did fall apart last night. I just hope I put myself together enough for no one to notice today.

The interviewer nods, jotting down notes even though the cameras recording this whole thing. "And you've been touring with the band for a year now. How has that experience been?"

Fuck. Why is she focusing so much on me? Today of all days?

---