OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-thirteen.

            THE CAR RIDE home from the airport had been heavy with a blanket of dead silence. As Taylor drove, one hand draped over the steering wheel, Dave sat tensely in the passenger seat and hadn't turned his eyes away from the window since they'd left LAX.

He was partially grateful that Taylor wasn't saying anything or prodding to make conversation. There wasn't much to say. They had already beaten to death the only subject that Dave was able to focus on earlier that morning in Cabo.

So much for a relaxing trip.

Massaging his fingers across his jawline, Dave considered taking the cowardly route out of the situation that he'd tangled himself into. He wouldn't have minded hiding out at Taylor's place for the next several years of his life, too ashamed to even face the general population in fear that the word CHEATER was blaring like a neon sign across his forehead, but that wouldn't have solved anything.

He had fucked up. It was the worst that he'd ever fucked up, and he'd do done a fair share of that in his lifetime. Even though he knew that he'd fucked up, he still had no idea what he was coming home to.

Maybe the divorce papers would already be sitting on the counter, complete with neatly placed tabs indicating where he was meant to sign.

Dave had finally lost control of the situation despite having tried so hard to rein it in. There was nothing he could do or say to make it better and it was all because he had flown to Cabo and dug his own grave to fling himself into.

Even confiding in Taylor had been hard, which was a rarity in their friendship. After the first night that Dave had had sex with Louise, he'd gone straight to Taylor's room the next morning, his face blanched to a sickly white that wasn't just from his raging hangover.

They'd surmised that it would be fine. He'd been drunk and in pain over his and Reagan's confrontation from the day before, so he'd fucked up and done something stupid to impulsively try to make it better for himself. It had been one time.

After the second time though, Taylor hadn't known what to tell him that would result in a 'problem solved' kind of ending.

You fucked her AGAIN? he'd demanded in shock when Dave had practically crawled back to his room on that second morning, rambling lifelessly about making the same mistake twice.

There were no excuses for that second time. He'd been drunk again, already suffering from the spins early into the night, but that didn't excuse it. It had happened and it had sealed the envelope that held the outcome to his and Reagan's future together.

Do I tell her? Dave had asked in an empty voice, sitting  on Taylor's hotel room balcony and smoking his fourth cigarette that morning.

You said she's divorcing you, Taylor had replied uncertainly, tapping ashes off the end of his own cigarette. So maybe don't, unless you want this whole thing to end with your dick getting chopped off.

It was strange for Dave to confront that he couldn't find it in his heart to agree with Taylor. Pretending it had never happened appeared on a surface-level to be the best option, namely if Dave's theory had been correct and Reagan was indeed going to leave him.

But even then, he still felt the need to tell her. Not telling was just the same as lying, and even if his arrival home was met with Reagan's bags sitting packed in the doorway, he couldn't let her go without knowing that he'd made his bed, too. He had done more than his fair share of contributing to the break-up.

For the first time in eight years, he had slept with someone else.

Taylor pulled up to Dave's winding driveway, putting the car in park and turning halfway in his seat to look at him. He leaned an elbow over the steering wheel and sighed.