OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

sixty-nine.

It hadn't been the worst thing ever to talk about, but it'd still been awkward to consider the money Dave had made within the last year touring and what that meant in terms of how it could be spent. Reagan loved their tiny little apartment — she couldn't see herself tending to a big house with many bedrooms and elegance that lacked her favorite quality, which was charm. Together, they'd closed the conversation by assuming they could manage a newborn in their small abode for at least a few months. Maybe then would they be ready to assume their roles as real adults.

Everyone around them seemed to be waiting impatiently for updates as to what their exact plans were. Questions were thrown around constantly by Ginny and Kate, usually all of them concerning whether or not Dave and Reagan were prepared for Gracie's arrival. Yet just as soon as they could reassure their family members that they had it under control and that they were ready to embark into parenthood independently, someone else was insisting that they offer their help.

Even Richard and Kimberly, who still struggled under a financial burden, had pestered the couple with insistences that they would supply them with baby things. Ginny had argued with Dave over the phone that she ought to be the one to buy a crib.

"Mom," Dave had said in disbelief, feeling as if Ginny had forgotten that his band had peaked number one on the Billboard charts. "We've got it covered."

It had all honestly made Reagan question if they were ready. Of course they were ready to have their baby with them, but she worried that from the outside looking in, their friends and family had deemed them totally unqualified to be parents. They were still young and she would give them all that; but Gracie was dearly wanted and come hell or high water, Reagan knew that she would be cared for and doted on no matter what. She and Dave were more than capable of doing that.

"Is this up to your standards?" Dave teased. He joined Reagan again in the living room and set a plate carrying her grilled cheese into her lap.

"It looks amazing," Reagan said, suddenly feeling more hungry than she realized. She began wolfing down the sandwich before abruptly stopping mid-bite after finishing her first slice.

"What?" Dave asked, noticing the paled look of her complexion.

Taking the napkin Dave had tucked under the plate into her hand, Reagan spat the bite she had taken into it. She wadded the napkin up and shuddered as Dave immediately put his arm around her with concern.

"What happened?" he demanded. "You don't like it?"

"No, it's fine. It's fine. I just got nauseous all of the sudden."

Dave's face fell. "Is your morning sickness back?"

"No. That's long gone. I don't know what's up," Reagan said.

Sadly, she pushed her half-eaten grilled cheese away and sank back into the couch. The twisting, turning feeling in her stomach was distinctly unpleasant, and even more so in the sense that it had come on quickly. She swallowed back the bad taste in her mouth and tried to focus on anything else except her rising queasiness.

"Guess Gracie doesn't like my grilled cheeses," Dave said playfully, earning a weak smile from Reagan in return. He took the plate from the coffee table and stood, glancing down concernedly at her. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "It's nothing."

She was certain that it was nothing. It had to be nothing except one of the weird quirks that came along with pregnancy. Reagan had gotten used to nearly all of them within those last few months, identifying each as they hit her with their usual levels of intensity. She never questioned them — it was her first time being pregnant after all, and she couldn't pretend to know the ins and outs of pregnancy besides understanding what her doctors and nurses told her. But even after an hour passed, her condition did not improve. In fact, it steadily worsened.