WHEN REAGAN PULLED up to the Motorsports International Garage, she almost felt her nervousness subside over the mere simplicity of the venue before her. Yet when she saw a poster plastered out front advertising Nirvana, The Melvin's and the Dwarves as playing that night, her heart sunk back into her stomach.

The Melvins too? she thought, parking her car and getting out. Her hands were trembling, but she did her best to hide them by clutching her bag in front of her. A steady mill of people had gathered out front, sipping beers out of sticky cans and chattering as the sky grew darker. Reagan walked past them with her head down, hoping that no one would recognize her in the crowd.

She frequented shows like the one she was at the. so often that she had no doubts someone would know her as a familiar face.

Reagan tried to recollect Kurt's instructions on how to get to the backstage area as she crossed the threshold into the garage. The lights were glaring along the venue inside, illuminating the rather small stage that was already decorated with the necessary instruments for the show. She tried to guess who was going out first as she maneuvered through more groups of bodies, her mind racing a mile a minute until she discovered a painted black door with a faulty door knob attached.

She rapped her knuckles against it, assuming that it was the only entrance to backstage. It sure did look like it, with the peeling black paint and scratch marks serving as decoration. She assumed that it was the only obvious way that would lead her to Kurt, Krist and whatever destiny awaited her that night.

She had guessed right -- the door swung open and revealed Krist, standing at six-foot-seven and wearing a goofy smile on his face. Even though he had trimmed his hair shorter since she had last seen him, Krist's familiar warmth made Reagan grin in spite of herself.

"Holy fucking shit, you actually came!" the lanky bassist crowed, grabbing Reagan and pulling her into the low-lit room behind him. Reagan staggered on her feet, though she caught herself and laughed.

"Honestly, I was just thinking that to myself in the parking lot."

Krist, being the loving oversized child that he was, bent down to hug Reagan graciously. He jostled her in his long arms, making her laugh a little harder.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you for coming!"

As Krist drew away, Reagan caught sight of the petite, blond-haired frontman who had wrangled her into the circumstances she was then in. Kurt was hiding behind Krist, swathed in an oversized flannel that was patterned in blue and white stripes.

Standing next to Krist, he was totally minuscule, but that hardly distracted from his penetrating blue eyes and sharp features. He was as handsome as any movie star, though he would have vehemently denied such a compliment.

"Reagan," Kurt breathed, sounding alleviated from a bout of uneasiness. He'd held fast to the faith that Reagan would stay true to her word and perform with them, but the small, doubtful side of his personality had feared she would bail out.

"Hi Kurt," Reagan smiled. She walked directly up to him, momentarily forgetting her burdened thoughts in order to appreciate that she had been reunited with two very good friends.

She didn't hesitate in hugging Kurt too, even though he'd only smiled when greeting at her. When she wrapped her arms around his, she inhaled the scent of cigarette smoke and sugar, an odd combination that she attributed to Kurt's appetite for sweets. She had learned from all the nights jamming with him that he frequently ate like a six-year-old.

Kurt barely had any time to hug Reagan back before she pulled away, settling for a two second squeeze so as not to embarrass him. She could not remember an occasion in which she had hugged him before, but the timing seemed appropriate.

"You have no idea how good it is to see you," he said, sounding more authoritative than grateful.

"I told you I'd come, didn't I?"

Suddenly reminded of her predicament, Reagan stuffed her hands into her jean pockets and shrugged her shoulders timidly, raising them nearly all the way up to her ears. She nervously kicked the toe of her boot forward and drew Kurt's attention downward.

In a fit of a remarkable mood swing, Kurt's focus on the show was promptly redirected towards Reagan's choice in footwear.

"Hey, I like your boots. Where'd you get them?"

It was such an odd thing to ask considering the conversation they'd previously been having, though coming from Kurt, the random transition of thought was normal. Reagan looked down at her scuffed motorcycle boots.

"Goodwill. It was up around Burbank, I think."

"Nice," Kurt remarked, genuinely intrigued by the boots. Reagan noticed that instead of a beer in his hand, he held a Hi-C juice box.

"So what have you been doing, Abner? Still running around Olympia fixing up cars?" Krist asked, hopping into the discussion with enthusiasm.

"I don't do the fixing, you know that. If I did, well, I'd want you to shoot me and put me out of my own misery," Reagan said, rolling her eyes.

"Did you miss us while we were away?" Krist teased, exaggerating the motherly tone in his voice. He jutted out his lower lip and Reagan playfully punched his shoulder.

"There are other places to jam at in Olympia, Krist."

"Perhaps, but those places are lacking the essentials -- and by essentials, I mean us."

"Okay," Reagan laughed. "Whatever you say."

She was content to banter back and forth with Krist no matter how silly the subject matter became. It was a nice distraction from the mental preparation of telling herself what was about to happen. While Reagan had sought out silence and alone time only minutes earlier, she was now relieved to be around two other humans who are understood her.

"How's Shelli?" Reagan inquired.

Krist turned around and swiped a beer that sat in an open cooler, shoving it into Reagan's hand. Reagan snorted, but popped the can open anyway and took a swig. She would only drink a little; there was no way in hell she'd get drunk before they went on.

"Ah, she's good," Krist nodded. He took a gulp of his own beer, smacking his lips. "Same old, same old."

Reagan side-eyed Kurt, who was watching her exchange with Krist intently.

"And how's Tracy, Kurt?"

Kurt's jaw locked, the muscle jumping as he locked his teeth together and tightened his fingers around his Hi-C . He pondered the bad taste on his tongue before finally answering Reagan's question, avoiding her eyes.

"Uh, we broke up. She moved out of the apartment."

"Oh, really?" Reagan said in surprise.

She had not meant to ask such an open-ended question when Kurt clearly wished to avoid the conversation, but she was admittedly surprise. Tracy and Kurt had always seemed really happy together. And Reagan really liked Tracy on top of that. She was well known around Olympia's music scene and had good taste in her selections of bands.

"Yeah. Shit happens. I guess."

Reagan bobbed her head in agreement, deciding not to apologize for Kurt's disappointing news. She thought that 'I'm sorry' didn't necessarily fit the situation, since Kurt seemed less than distraught over the breakup. Reagan nursed her beer and allowed Kurt to momentarily drift away in his own head.

It didn't last very long. He cleared his throat awkwardly, moving a step closer to Reagan and wielding his earnest, shining eyes onto her.

"Thanks for coming. I really do mean that. We'd be so fucked without you tonight."

Reagan almost wished that Kurt would not look so closely at her while wearing such a look; his startling blue irises made her stomach turn inside out in a way reminiscence of girly crushes and lofty middle school romances. In honest comparison, they were as different as night and day and Reagan never saw herself falling for the thousand-piece puzzle that was Kurt.

He was more complex than her best dreams and worst nightmares and she feared for anyone who would ever love him. She may not have known him inside and out, but to Reagan, Kurt was like the beautiful thunderheads that rolled lazily into Washington's summer sky. Gorgeous and chaotic all at once.

"Yeah, of course," Reagan said, looking down into the small opening of her beer can. It would have been nice to forget the impending show for just a little bit longer.

"Can we go over some stuff?" Kurt pressed, nodding his head towards the spare set of drums shoved in between a variety of other instruments in the back.

"Mhm hm," Reagan agreed through closed lips. She set her beer down and pulled her bag around, unzipping it and revealing her drum sticks. Kurt smiled at her.

"We had drum sticks here, you know," he reminded her.

"Ah, these are my . . . uhm, lucky pair," Reagan explained, shyly fingering the worn wooden smoothness of her sticks.

Kurt did not question it any further. They walked over to a drum set that appeared to be as old both Kurt and Reagan combined. This did not deter Reagan from confidently taking her seat at the stool, surveying the kit with interest. She had learned in the past to play just about anything thanks to Richard.

"What have you been listening to lately?" she asked Kurt conversationally.

They had formulated a game in the past in which Kurt could name a band and one of their songs and Reagan would play the coordinating drum track effortlessly. It never failed to put a smile on Kurt's face. He must have remembered their game too, for he flashed Reagan a small smile.

"I don't think you would know any of it," he challenged her coyly.

Reagan cocked an eyebrow, sardonically laughing. "Did you forget who you're dealing with, Cobain?"

Kurt grinned a little wider, sitting down on a nearby amplifier and raising his juice box his lips. Reagan couldn't help but to giggle -- the juice box looked so funny in the hand of a grown adult.

"I'm guessing you've heard of Bikini Kill?" Kurt said.

As soon as the band's name left his mouth, Reagan pinched her lips together and allowed the name to flow through her now jaundiced mind.

She had heard of Bikini Kill, being that two of the band's creators had attended Evergreen State College. They were alright girls who thrived in a feminist culture that Reagan admired, but she hardly cared for their music and secretly laughed at their die-hard worship of punk rebellion.

In her opinion, there was more to punk than just rebellion, and there were definitely other ideals to live by.

"Yeah, I know them," Reagan answered. "I'm guessing you're a fan?"

"Yeah. You know Tobi, their drummer? We've been sort of seeing each other. She's . . . she's really something else."

Ah, shit, Reagan thought as she watched Kurt's stoic face transform into a gross expression of dreaminess.

Well, one thing was for certain. It was too late to steer Kurt out of love's way.

"You're dating . . . Tobi?" Reagan clarified.

From what she knew of Bikini Kill's young, brazen drummer, Tobi Vail was not the kind of girl to date, even if it meant being with the coolest guy in the world. She was much too concentrated on pushing her 'riot grrrl' agenda that she elaborated on in her fanzine. In the two times that they had crossed paths, Reagan had found Tobi to be quite uppity for someone claiming to be the pinnacle of punk and female-friendly music.

"Sort of," Kurt struggled. "It isn't official yet."

Reagan could not imagine why anyone would have wanted to leave a girl like Tracy for someone like Tobi, who seemed to linger far outside the realm of true love, but it did not take her long to deduce why. Talent wise, Tobi and Kurt prospered at the exact same level. With the exception of their personalities, they could have been the female and male equivalents of one another.

"If I tell you to be careful, will you?" Reagan said, hoping Kurt would understand that she was referencing the protection of his heart.

"I'm sort of tired of people telling me what to do," Kurt replied wryly.

Reagan said nothing more. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Kurt before they performed.

Under his supervision, she rehearsed the handful of songs that Nirvana was slated to play. Kurt appeared impressed, rarely interjecting to redirect her as she practiced. The only song they spent a longer time on was a track called 'In Bloom.' Kurt told Reagan they would be playing it for the first time that evening.

"Does it sound like how you want?" Reagan asked, steadying the crash cymbal as she stopped playing in the middle of the chorus.

"Yeah. Maybe a little louder, though."

"I don't want to break the kit, Kurt."

"He's probably going to break it for you, anyways," Krist chimed in, walking over to where Reagan practiced.

Reagan's eyes grew rounder as she realized what Krist meant. She had seen Kurt destroy entire sets of instruments at the end of the shows. Poor Chad had almost been hit in the face with flying guitars and cymbals more times than she could count. Sometimes, Kurt even launched his own body at his drummer, flying over the kit like a humanoid airplane.

"If you break my face, or my arm or something, I'll kill you," Reagan threatened. They could destroy the actual drum kit all they wanted -- it wasn't hers, after all. But she did need to be able to walk the next day in order to go to work.

"I won't hurt you, I promise," Kurt swore.

To prove his point, he walked behind the drums and swooped down to kiss the crown of Reagan's head, patting her in the same spot like she was a child. Reagan looked after him skeptically, feeling bizarrely amused by Kurt's behavior.

They were close to going on and the only thing Reagan had become certain of since she'd walked backstage was that Kurt was more thankful for her showing up that night than she could have ever imagined possible.