OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

eight.

SEPTEMBER 22. 1990, SEATTLE, WA

A WHOLE DAY had raced by faster than Reagan could have ever imagined possible. On the morning of Nirvana's Seattle show, she woke up with a dry throat and nauseous pit in her stomach. In a matter of hours, it felt like her life had suddenly jerked off course.

By the end of the night, she would have officially been able to check 'perform live with a band' off of her nonexistent bucket list.

Reagan knew that her own conscious was angry with her, demanding an answer as to why she'd agreed so readily to play drums for Nirvana. She wished she could figure out for herself why she'd said yes to Kurt over the phone.

Reagan had dressed carefully that morning, selecting a pair of hip-hugging jeans and a cropped, striped sweater with torn seams at the sleeves. She'd slipped her pair of drumsticks, the same pair that Richard had first ever gifted her, into her bag and scribbled out an explanatory note for Kate.

While Reagan rarely felt the need to shelter certain secrets from her family, she didn't think it would be the best of ideas to let them know about the show. Kimberly would only prattle on about her being out so late before a work day. Therefore, she entrusted Kate with the truth of where she was going and instructions on how to cover up the secret.

As far as Reagan's family would be concerned, she was to be out late that night with Chris, watching a band perform in downtown Olympia.

When she got to work, Tommy had been waiting outside for her, holding a styrofoam cup of gas station coffee. He knew her order by heart — medium roast, four pumps of cream and a sugar packet. He'd been smiling when she walked up.

"Morning. I like your hair like that."

Reagan's hair, which she usually kept tied back for work, was only pulled halfway up that morning. Her bangs, along with a few stray pieces that had fallen loose, hung around her face. As soon as Tommy made the comment, her hand flew to her chestnut locks, draped over her shoulder.

"Oh. Thanks."

He had not asked right away, but Reagan sensed that Tommy was dying to know where she was going after work. He knew enough about her to know that when she let her hair down and applied mascara to her already naturally long lashes, it usually meant something was happening.

Shortly after their lunch break, Tommy had finally asked Reagan what her plans were later that night. When she'd told him, he had pursed his lips and cordially wished her luck, neglecting to commentate any further. He was more concerned about who she was drumming for rather than the fact that she was drumming.

Wounded by Tommy's snub, Reagan had kept her distance from him the rest of the day, choosing instead to train her attention on her bag where her drumsticks remained hidden. The hours flew by incessantly as she stared, imaging that instead of a pair of wooden sticks, she had a bomb stuffed amongst her belongings.

When it came time to leave, Reagan glanced at Tommy and muttered a goodbye before hurrying out to her car. As much as she would have loved a shoulder to lean on in the moment, she knew that such support wouldn't come from Tommy. He cared about her too much — so much that it had blinded him from the bigger picture of what was happening to her.

Her talent had finally been recognized by a local, certified musical genius, but all that mattered was that the genius was a guy.

She'd started the hour drive to Seattle with her music blaring loudly, trying to amp herself up for the big night ahead. The static of the local radio station practically vibrated her windows, the dial turned all the way up as she drove out of Olympia's city limits.