OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

one-hundred-twenty-nine.

Dave patted his shoulder and Reagan happily fell against it, letting out a sigh that lasted forever as she unsnapped the lid to her mashed potatoes and dug into them with a fork. He chuckled and rubbed her arm, alternating between soft caresses and gentle squeezes that felt incredibly good after how long she'd sat stiff.

"I'm assuming your day has been better than mine?" she questioned after swallowing a bite. "Dicking around with Taylor in Topanga?"

"It was most definitely not dicking around," he countered with a pretend look of disdain. "There were zero dicks involved."

"I can think of two that were probably present. One of which I've been well-acquainted with."

"Look at you, rolling out the pervy jokes," he taunted, nudging her in her side right where he knew it would tickle. He got the reaction he wanted when she giggled and squirmed away from him, only to lean back against his arm.

"Nah, we got some stuff done," he continued. He fiddled with the lace of his shoe as he spoke. "The demos aren't so bad. At least so far. We're definitely ahead of the game before Europe in the fall."

Hearing him remind her out loud of what awaited her in the coming months made her muscles grow taut. A splinter of ice zinged a chilling path up her stomach, through her chest, and all the way to her throat where it gagged her. The mashed potatoes in her mouth suddenly took on a glue-like consistency.

"The . . . festivals," she said uneasily, forcing the words out as she wiped her mouth. "That's right."

Dave advanced on without noticing the change in her body and voice. He cocked his head to the side thoughtfully, rambling without pause.

"Things could be better. I mean, it's a lot, but it's good material and I'm glad some of it is out of the way before we're overseas otherwise I'd be stressing. But that's not until July, really, and besides one gig this month I've got time . . ."

He finally noticed the shift in Reagan's demeanor when she sat up, setting her food aside and tucking her arms around her abdomen. She rocked back and forth slightly, a now instinctual reaction that she couldn't subdue whenever the subject of the Foo Fighters touring occurred to her. She'd always had a knack for hiding the emotions that she didn't want people to read, especially when it came to Dave, but too much had changed for that to still be true.

Touring. Overseas. Him, alone except for the companion of his bandmates. Women.

Lots and lots of women.

"Reags?" he asked, clasping his fingers over her shoulder to steady her twitching movements. "You okay?"

You could at least try not to let him see that you're falling to fucking pieces, her ego hissed.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Her voice was too pitchy, falsifying a sense of reassurance that nowhere near matched the anxiety brewing inside of her. She could feel her mind drifting, taking her away from the present moment.

She was no longer in her living room. She was in the hellish memories of her imagination, revisiting the scenarios she'd tried to conjure after he'd cheated on her. Even his voice tried to find its place in those vague versions of reality. She could hear him assuring another woman that she was out of his life — she was a regret.

Regret. A regret. You are a regret. He regrets you.

"Reagan." Dave's voice was more anxious now, his grip firmer on her arm. She felt his fingers dig into her collarbone. "Breathe, baby. Breathe."

She listened to him and sucked in a gasp of air, the relief flooding her lungs. She hadn't even realized that she'd been holding her breath.

"Jesus. You were turning fucking blue!" he cried.