OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-twenty-eight.

IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a happy day. Reagan knew that, had known that, even days in advance. Her and Dave were meant to be celebrating Gracie's together, just the three of them, on the last day of her spring break before she returned to school.

They'd already had the big blow-out party at the start of the month, closer to the day of Gracie's actual birthday, and Reagan was grateful that it had passed. She wouldn't have been able to cope with her emotions if they'd been wriggling under her skin during Gracie's initial party with ten other children running around and her family, flown down from Washington, watching her.

That didn't ease her pain, though. She and Dave had just spent the evening serenading Gracie over a homemade birthday cake, cooking her her favorite dish — Dave's damn fucking barbecue, of course — and giving her more presents that she was able to open privately, only in front of them.

Gracie had reveled in it all. The magic of what was happening, seeing her parents together as they'd celebrated her arrival at the age of nine, had pleased her beyond measure. Reagan had watched tortuously through her own agony as Gracie had smiled, showering her and Dave both with hugs and a boundless happiness that just kept on coming.

She wished that she hadn't waited so long. As soon as Dave had arrived back from Virginia with Gracie in tow, she should have addressed her conversation with Louise then. It would have at least gotten it out of the way and erased the heaviness of wanting to confront him on that day of all days, when they should have been marveling over how easy it had been to slip back into their old familial routine.

Reagan considered that maybe it was unnecessary. Maybe, even as bitterly as she didn't want to admit, it was useless to rehash the past with Dave when she'd made the exhausting uphill climb to push it behind them.

But he'd said things about her to Louise, things she had at once believed from the sincerity that Louise had confessed them with. Those things were acting as a massive roadblock in Reagan's path to letting him back in and as badly as she wanted to pretend that they hadn't resurfaced, the undeniable truth was that they were consuming her.

"She's out," Dave said cheerfully, bounding down the steps to the stairs where Reagan was waiting for him, her arms folded uncomfortably across her chest. "Didn't even last five seconds after I tucked her in. She had a big day."

He snaked both arms around Reagan's waist, pulling her in for one of those nightly kisses that typically set the mood for the rest of the evening. She discreetly angled her face to the side and let him kiss her jaw, which he accepted without complaint. She felt his mouth move to her neck.

"Dave," she said, wrapping her fingers around his forearms and gently pushing them away from her hips. "I . . . need to talk to you about something."

He bounced back, his face suddenly brightening with an eagerness that made Reagan's heart hollow. She already knew what he was thinking. He was assuming that what she had to say was positive, likely an update as to where they stood in their budding reconnection. He was waiting for it — the day when he could be Dave Grohl, the rockstar and the husband again, a combination title that most guys in a band dreaded, yet he yearned for.

He hadn't bothered to take note of the tightness in her voice.

"Yeah? What's up?" he asked. The hopeful sheen in his eyes didn't waver.

"I don't know how to say it," she said, pinching her upper lip under her teeth.

Dave's face fell. "That doesn't sound good."

Reagan couldn't cope with standing in front of him any longer, having to watch the fear dawn over him. Her resolve dimmed and she suddenly turned, walking towards the dining room table that was still littered with paper plates and shredded wrapping paper from earlier. She built a stack of the trash in her arms, avoiding Dave's eyes.