Page 16 of Game Changer
"I made some coffee," I offer, gesturing to the small pot on the dresser. The motel room doesn't offer much, but it does have a single-cup coffee maker. "It's not great, but it's caffeine."
"That would be amazing, actually," he says with genuine gratitude.
I pour him a cup, black since we don't have cream or sugar, and hand it to him. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and I notice his hand is trembling slightly.
"Thanks," he says, taking a sip. "Perfect."
Tyler has finally located his dinosaurs and is now arranging them in what appears to be a prehistoric battle scene on the bedspread.
"Dad, you can be the T-Rex," he declares, handing David the largest dinosaur. "He's the king, so he's the most important one."
"Thanks, buddy," David says, his voice warming as he focuses on Tyler. "That's a big responsibility. What sound does a T-Rex make?"
Tyler demonstrates an impressive roar that makes both David and me laugh. For a moment, David's exhaustion seems to lift, replaced by genuine joy as he joins in, making his own dinosaur roar that sends Tyler into fits of giggles.
I sit in the room's only chair, watching them play. It's surreal, seeing them together like this. Tyler has David's mannerisms—the way he tilts his head when he's thinking, the slight furrow between his brows when he's concentrating. How did I never notice these similarities before?
"So," I say after a few minutes of dinosaur warfare, "what's the plan for today?"
David looks up, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "I actually have some ideas, if that's okay. There's a children's museum downtown that's supposed to be really good. Andmaybe lunch after? There's a place that makes pizza in the shape of dinosaurs."
Tyler's eyes widen. "Dinosaur pizza? For real?"
"For real," David confirms.
I'm impressed that he's put thought into this, researched activities that would appeal to a four-year-old. It's more effort than I expected, especially given how rough he looks.
"That sounds great," I say. "The museum is a good idea. It's supposed to rain this afternoon."
"I checked the weather too," David says, and there's a note of pride in his voice, as if he's pleased to have anticipated this parental concern.
We pack up Tyler's backpack with snacks, his water bottle, and a change of clothes (accidents are rare these days, but better safe than sorry). David watches with interest, clearly taking mental notes on the logistics of traveling with a preschooler.
"I got something yesterday," he says as we're preparing to leave. "It's in my car."
Outside, he opens the trunk of his SUV to reveal a brand-new booster seat, still in its box.
"I wasn't sure exactly what kind he needed," he admits. "The website had about fifty options. But the reviews said this one was good for his age and size."
Such a small thing, really—a car seat. A basic necessity for any parent. But the fact that David went out and researched it, bought it, made sure Tyler would be safe in his car. It speaks to an effort I wasn't sure he'd make.
"It's perfect," I say, helping him unbox it while Tyler explores the backseat of the SUV, exclaiming over the cup holders and the window controls.
David struggles slightly with the installation, his hands still not entirely steady, but he refuses my offer of help.
"I need to learn how to do this," he insists, finally clicking everything into place.
Once Tyler is securely buckled in, we head downtown. The museum isn't far, maybe fifteen minutes with traffic. David drives slowly, checking the rearview mirror frequently to glimpse Tyler, who's pointing out everything we pass with endless enthusiasm.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask quietly while Tyler is distracted by a fire truck passing on the opposite side of the street. "You seem... off."
David's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It was a rough night," he admits, keeping his voice low. "Turns out going cold turkey isn't as easy as just deciding to stop."
So, it was withdrawal. My suspicion confirmed, I feel a mixture of concern and unexpected admiration. He could have taken the easy way out, had a drink to ease the symptoms, promised himself he'd quit more gradually. But he didn't.
"Did you sleep at all?" I ask.
"Eventually," he says. "And I talked to my brother this morning. Michael. He offered to help, if I need it."
