Page 45 of Madness

As I start to dress, a familiar pre-tour energy begins to hum through me. Part of me is itching to get on the road, to feel the rush of performing night after night. But for the first time, that excitement is tempered by a strong pull to stay right here, with Lauren and Roman.

I don’t want to fucking go.

We move around each other in a kind of dance as we get dressed, stealing glances and touches. The air feels heavy with unspoken words and emotions.

Finally, I'm packed and standing by the front door. Lauren stands before me, Roman on her hip, still sleepy-eyed and clutching his stuffed dinosaur.

"So," I say, my throat tight. "This is it."

Lauren nods, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Yeah. This is it."

I lean in and kiss her, trying to pour everything I'm feeling into that one gesture. When we part, I ruffle Roman's hair gently. "Be good for your mom, little man. I'll see you soon."

As I walk to my car, I hear the door close behind me. It takes everything in me not to turn back. I slide behind the wheel, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

Three months. I can do this. We can do this.

With one last look at Lauren's house, I start the engine and pull away. The silence in the car is deafening, a stark contrast to the warmth I've just left behind. I reach for the radio, needing something to fill the void.

As the opening chords of our new single fill the car, I feel a familiar energy start to build. The road stretches out before me, full of possibility and promise. But even as I merge onto the highway, my mind lingers on the rearview mirror, on what - and who - I'm leaving behind.

25

I MISS YOU

LAUREN

The house feels impossibly quiet after Dakota leaves. Even Roman, usually a bundle of energy this early in the morning, seems subdued, as if he can sense the shift in the air.

"Mommy," Roman's small voice breaks the silence as I'm pouring his cereal. "Where'd Dakota go?"

I freeze, the milk carton hovering over his bowl. We'd explained it to him this morning, but of course, at three years old, he might not have fully understood. I set the carton down and kneel beside his chair, meeting his confused gaze.

"Remember, sweetie? We talked about this. Dakota had to go away for work for a little while."

Roman's lower lip trembles slightly. "But he'll come back?"

"Of course he will," I assure him, smoothing his unruly hair. "He's just going to be gone for... for a long time."

"How long?" Roman persists, his little brow furrowed.

I hesitate. How do you explain three months to a toddler? "Remember when we counted the sleeps until your birthday? It's like that, but more sleeps."

Roman considers this, absently stirring his cereal. "Lots of sleeps," he echoes softly.

"That's right, baby. But we'll talk to him on the phone, and maybe even see him on the computer sometimes."

Roman nods, seeming to accept this explanation for now. But as I watch him eat his breakfast, his usual chatter replaced by thoughtful silence, I feel a pang of guilt. It's not just me who'll be missing Dakota these next few months.

Later in the afternoon as we're getting ready to leave for daycare, Roman suddenly runs to his room. He returns, clutching the stuffed dinosaur Dakota gave him for his birthday.

"Can I take Rex to daycare?" he asks, his eyes wide and pleading.

I feel my throat tighten with emotion. "Of course you can, sweetheart," I manage, helping him tuck Rex securely into his backpack.

As we head out the door, Roman's small hand in mine, I realize that navigating this separation isn't just about managing my own emotions. It's about helping Roman through it, too. Somehow, that makes it both harder and easier at the same time.

It's not until I'm back home that night after work, the house silent, that the reality of Dakota's departure truly hits me. Three months. Ninety days of sleeping alone, of explaining to Roman why Dakota isn't here, of juggling everything on my own again.

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