JUNE 9th, 2000, LOS ANGELES, CA

"I FUCKING HATE L.A."

Reagan let out a laugh at Chris's remark, reminded of how she'd spent months proclaiming the very same thing until she'd tired herself of repeating it. The sentiment was still there and she was relieved that another Washington-native shared the feeling that she couldn't escape.

"Welcome to the club," she told Chris, stretching her legs out on the couch and folding her arms over her stomach.

"Seriously, what's with the smog? It looks like the atmosphere is caving in," Chris scoffed from her place on the floor. She leaned up against the couch, her elbows resting on her knobby knees. She'd bitterly traded in her torn jeans for shorts, accommodating to the heat wave presently laying thick over Los Angeles.

"I would have moved back to Olympia a long time ago if it wasn't for my job," Reagan said. "And . . . Dave," she added as a quiet afterthought, having not forgotten that she couldn't remove Gracie out of her ex's general territory.

Chris didn't linger on the mention of his name. A wry smile lit up her face as she turned her attention back to Gracie, who was sitting across from them with her bass guitar propped into her lap. Her auburn hair kept falling into her face as she leaned over the bass, plucking at the strings with determined concentration.

"How am I supposed to teach her to play when she won't let me?" Chris asked, tilting her head back to stare at Reagan.

Reagan chuckled. She'd presumed that Gracie would adore the idea of Chris helping her to practice bass-playing, being that Chris was well-versed in the art, but her eight-year-old was stubborn. She'd been insisting that she could do it on her own since the moment Chris had first tried to demonstrate.

"You're not here to teach her. You're here to celebrate my birthday," Reagan teased.

"Oh, right! I totally forgot." Chris smacked herself sarcastically on the forehead. "How does it feel to be thirty-one today?"

"The same way it felt to be thirty."

"If it helps, you still look twenty-five."

Reagan had to disagree. While she tried not to spend too much time nitpicking her appearance in the mirror, the lines that had popped around her eyes and the stray gray hairs she'd plucked from her head had felt more prominent than they actually were. They were all signs that her life had flown by a lot faster than she'd thought it would.

She'd never cared to make a big deal out of her birthday, though that year, she'd invited Chris down to California in hopes that her company would be of some comfort. She would have asked Kate to tag along, but her sister was reveling in being newly engaged, having finally been given a diamond ring from Christoper that past May.

Chris had been more than happy to make the trip in order to brighten up Reagan's birthday. She'd promised that it would be low-key, consisting of drinks shared at the house and quality time with Gracie. She'd even forced Reagan to take the Friday off from work, insisting that the day be filled with nothing but their mutual laziness. Gracie had even missed school for the occasion.

"Hey Gracie," Chris called out, "you're playing a G major when I think you're looking for a G minor."

Gracie glanced up with a huff. "I can do it, Aunt Chris."

Chris held up her hands in surrender and looked back at Reagan, who was chewing the inside of her lip to keep from grinning.

"She gets that bitchiness from you," Chris whispered.

"It's not that. She just refuses to be taught. The only one who can sit her down and instruct her is Dave," Reagan admitted.

"Ah. Still a daddy's girl through and through, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

Reagan looked at Gracie remorsefully. She wasn't envious in the least bit of her daughter's hero-worship of Dave, finding it to be endearing more than anything else, but it continually served as a constant reminder of the divorce. In some way, Reagan guessed that she'd always feel guilty for making the final decision to split their family up, reducing Gracie's time with Dave to alternating weeks that only came about if his touring schedule allowed it.

She was highly aware of the fact that the relationship Dave and Gracie shared was a special one. Despite the divorce, she'd continued to tend to it as best as she could, never keeping Gracie away from Dave, even when he was on tour.

In March, they'd made the drive down to San Francisco to see the Foos play The Fillmore. It had been a treat for Gracie, who hadn't seen Dave in weeks, but crippling for Reagan. Throughout the duration of the show, she'd been locked in a mental battle with herself from the wings of the stage, watching Dave play while fighting the pull of feelings that she'd been trying to bury for a year. It hadn't helped that Gracie had been squealing beside her, cheering for Dave and reaching her arms out to him for a kiss and hug every time he swooped by, guitar in hand.

That had been a false reality, a crude depiction of what had once been between the three of them. Reagan still hadn't forgotten her and Dave's uncomfortable exchange after the show, when he'd accidentally gone in for a kiss while she was trying to envelop him into an awkward, congratulatory hug.

"So," Chris began, bringing Reagan back to the present. "I'm guessing those aren't from your secretary?"

She was eyeing the massive bouquet of white roses sitting across the way on a countertop. They practically overflowed out of their vase, burying the glass beneath their bulk of petals and stems.

Reagan's face brightened red. "He sent them for my birthday. They got here yesterday morning."

"Oh, David," Chris said, shaking her head. "What? Did he get you a diamond necklace, too?"

"Close," Reagan replied in a mutter. She got up and went to the counter, retrieving the small box that had come in delivery with the roses. Handing it to Chris, she watched her pop it open.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet that held a piece of green sea glass collected from Australia's Gold Coast in its middle. Holding it up as it dangled from her finger, Chris raised her eyebrows.

"Wow. And here I thought you guys were divorced."

"Shh," Reagan hissed. She grabbed the bracelet and hid it in her closed fist, stealing a glance at Gracie who was still consumed in her bass. The dreaded 'D-word' was something that she still couldn't find the will say in front of her daughter, even though Gracie had long ago accepted truth as reality.

"I'm just saying Reags," Chris said, lowering her voice. "I mean, what the fuck? Flowers? Gifts? Are you guys still fucking or something?"

"No," Reagan said, feeling her neck warm. "It's just my birthday. You know how he is. Too generous for his own good."

"You sure he's not trying to send a message?"

"What message? He knows better than I do that we're done."

"Maybe he's trying to assert his dominance. He probably thinks there's another dude sneaking around here."

"That's the farthest thing from true." Reagan looked away stubbornly. She hadn't even noticed another man since she and Dave had finalized their divorce.

"Yeah, but it's psychological," Chris shrugged. "God only knows how many chicks he's banging on tour. It probably makes him think you're over here doing the same thing."

Reagan inhaled sharply, disguising the sound as she pressed her lips together over it. That was one thing she preferred not to think about, even if she had no right to be upset over it. It was best not to consider how many women Dave had taken to his bed over the last few months.

Keeping her voice quiet so that Gracie couldn't hear over the low sounds of her bass-picking, Chris leaned in closer.

"Have you ever thought of going on a date or something? Just to get out of the house?"

"No. It's too soon for Gracie."

That was only partially the truth. Reagan strayed as far as she could away from dating not only for the sake of Gracie, but because she couldn't picture herself with anyone but Dave. It was like trying to envision the sky as being purple instead of blue. It didn't make sense and her only hope was that over time, that logic would eventually dissipate.

"You haven't even seen a guy that you thought about dating?" Chris pressed.

Reagan shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Sure, there had been a few men over the last few months that had tried their luck with her. Usually they came out of the woodwork from Geffen or other labels, sneaking up on her with charm and invites to exchange phone numbers.

"It's not reasonable right now," she said with a sigh, running one hand back through her hair. "Even if Gracie was fine with it, it wouldn't be fair to the guy. I wouldn't be . . . emotionally invested."

"Oh, I see. I know what you need," Chris said smugly through a snicker, turning around and sinking back further against the couch.

"What?" Reagan asked defensively, already positive that she herself was calculatingly aware of everything that she needed.

"Forget a relationship," Chris said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth and still trying to quell her laughter. "What you really need is to get laid."

______________

Reagan was up to her eyeballs in paperwork behind her desk. For a job that had once promised to exercise her passionate love for music, she'd never considered the sheer amount of documents requiring her review that would come along with it.

As she sifted through the papers one by one, wishing that she could transport herself to the Friday before when it had been her birthday and Chris was still in town, she questioned why another one of Geffen's departments wasn't handling all of this. Being the head of A&R certainly had its lows — no longer was her day-to-day work centered solely on finding talent for the label. Now, she had to deal with everything that followed after the initial discovery of a new artist.

"Reagan?"

She heard her name being called softly from her office door. Looking up, she saw her secretary's head wedged between the door and the wall, her one hand gripping the knob.

"Yeah?" Reagan asked tiredly, sliding a fat manila envelope to the side as she looked back down reluctantly to her desk.

"You have a call waiting. I don't know if you saw it."

The red light of Reagan's desk phone was indeed flashing red, indicating that there was someone on the line.

She felt a thrill of panic whirl through her, wondering if she'd kept someone far more important than she was waiting.

"Shit. Did you message me on the intercom?"

"I did, but you didn't respond," the secretary said uneasily, blushing pink.

Reagan cringed. She'd been ignorant of so much those days, even when a voice was blaring at her from her desk to pick up the damn phone.

She grabbed it from its cradle as her secretary slipped out of the door, closing it gently.

"Reagan Abner," she said brusquely into the receiver. She still wasn't quite adjusted to using her maiden name, which she'd reinstated after the divorce. To that day it confused people, who expected a 'Reagan Grohl' to be answering the phone rather than the nobody that was Reagan Abner.

"You really know how to keep a guy waiting."

The voice on the other end was at once familiar, though Reagan couldn't place where she'd heard it before. The laidback introduction suggested that it wasn't anyone calling with a professional inquiry, which left her immediately perplexed.

"May I ask whose speaking?"

The voice laughed. "I forgot. You wouldn't really remember, at least not over the phone."

"I'm afraid I don't." She was beginning to feel defensive, unsure of the caller on the line and what their intentions were. It wouldn't be the first time that she'd entertained thoughts of receiving random, creepy phone calls, namely from Dave's fans who had somehow gotten a hold of her office number.

Being that his fame had skyrocketed ten fold, it wouldn't have come as a surprise that someone obsessive had tracked her down.

"Jesse Evans. I'd reintroduce myself all over again, but I already did that. The VMAs in ninety-seven?"

All at once, Reagan connected a face to the name that was being given to her. She even paired the voice to that face, needing no second introduction to the person she suddenly remembered.

Jesse Evans, of the failed band Acid Pill that she'd attempted to sign to DGC. She remembered his smiling, sweet face and the mass of brown hair that had surrounded it, along with the leisurely way he'd managed to bring her comfort outside of Radio City Music Hall on that September night.

"Jesse!" she exclaimed. "Oh my god. I didn't recognize your voice."

She could tell that he must have been smiling when he answered. "I wouldn't expect you to. We didn't talk for very long."

"Wow." Reagan pushed herself away from her desk, standing up to walk off the initial shock she'd felt. "I didn't think I'd hear from you again."

Why would she have? Her brief reunion with Jesse had been in passing, as he'd only made small talk with her in an attempt to recall a silly memory. She hadn't thought of him since then, having put the encounter aside as one of the many that she had because of her work.

"Yeah, it took me long enough to call," he chuckled.

"How did . . . how did you get my office number?"

"It wasn't hard. Department head of A&R at Geffen? Hell, I'm surprised we haven't talked sooner than this."

"Do you make it a habit to call the A&R departments of record labels?"

"For work sometimes, yes. I've got my own recording studio just south of the Hills."

A snippet of their last conversation sparked Reagan's memory and she remembered Jesse telling her that he wanted to get into producing. He'd had plans to move out to Los Angeles, seeking out a studio that had been provided courteously by a friend.

"So it happened?" she asked with pleasant surprise. "You started up your own studio?" It was an impressive feat, one that she couldn't help celebrating for him.

"Somehow," Jesse laughed. "I can't believe it hasn't crashed and burned yet."

"What's it called? Have I heard of it?"

"Maybe. You might have sent some of your people my way. It's Big Apple Sound."

Reagan had in fact heard of Jesse's studio, though she'd never known he was behind it. It had been deemed up and coming, favorable for artists that still held fast to the rock genre. She was even sure that one of the three-piece bands recently signed to Geffen had gone there to start work on their first album.

"I've heard of it," she said. "Always thought the name was funny. Big Apple in the Hollywood Hills?"

"I had to incorporate my New York roots in some way. It's corny right?"

She hesitated as she smiled awkwardly to herself. "Maybe a little. But I like it."

"That's what my buddy said," he laughed, unperturbed by her honesty.

The one thing she had forgotten about him was his laugh. It was nice, reckoning strongly with the sun in terms of how inviting and warm it was.

"Well, congratulations. I'm happy to hear you did what you'd said you'd do," she said, leaning back up against her desk.

"It wasn't easy, but hey, I'm here."

"Right. I forgot, we both have the same opinion about L.A."

"Horrible place," he agreed, "but the location pays the bills."

"One would hope," she said, still smiling in spite of herself. "I can always recommend you to anyone who comes along looking for a studio. That is, if you can make a good record."

"Listen to Nine Inch Nails' last album and tell me what you think."

Reagan was automatically flustered. "That was . . . you?"

"Yeah." He chuckled, amused by her clear sense of bewilderment. "But uh, that's not what I'm calling you. Not for a publicity crutch, I mean."

"It isn't?"

"No. I'm calling because I wanted to hear your voice again."

Oh, fuck.

Reagan's knees turned rubbery and she slumped harder against her desk, reaching back to catch herself on the edge with her hand.

She had no idea how to reply. It had been a little indicative back in ninety-seven that Jesse had found her attractive, but things had changed since then. She was single, which didn't make his fondness of her as inappropriate.

The only problem was that she was the only person who couldn't recognize that she was single and no longer bound by marriage.

"Oh," she finally managed to say, embarrassed by how the word fell flat.

"I'm sorry," Jesse apologized quickly. "I know that sounds . . . bad."

"It's not that," Reagan murmured. Her face felt suddenly hot, as if her office had shot up in temperature.

"I know you're . . . um, just recently divorced. I heard about that through the grapevine. And I'm not trying to be the creepy dude who was waiting for you in the shadows or anything."

"I don't . . . think that," she said, struggling to formulate a coherent response. All she could think about was how horribly unprepared she'd been for this moment, especially as she remembered how kind Jesse had been to her and how painful it would be to let him down gently.

"Look," he said with a sigh. "I'll let my guard down here. Make an ass out of myself. I've always had what I guess you could call a crush on you."

"Me?" She squeaked the word out, trying to delay an outwards understanding of what she already knew.

"Yeah. And I never forgot you, I mean, not only because it's you but because of who you were married to. I loved Nirvana. I think the Foo Fighters are great."

Reagan couldn't process that she was hearing Dave's bands being named by the same man who was confessing that he was attracted to her. It was dreamlike, seeming like the kind of situation she'd concoct in her sleep.

"I'll admit I've always kind of admired Dave," Jesse continued, starting to sound more nervous. "I was even a little jealous of him. But not because of his music. I think . . . the only thing I ever envied him of was you."

"Jesse," Reagan began, her throat tightening. It had never been hard to turn a man down until then. He was so nice, so easy to like, and she found it hard to crush his hopes when all things considered, he wouldn't have been a bad guy to be with.

"Wait, wait, wait. Before you tell me to screw off, just hear me out. I know I sound like a dumb ass right now but I've been wanting to tell you this since I met you and at least it's over the phone, so I can walk away with a little bit of dignity."

Even though she knew she should have, Reagan didn't put down the phone. She waited for Jesse to continue, her stomach turning in a series of flip-flops as she stared out the window and imagined him only miles away, in the same nerve-wracking position that she was suddenly frozen in.

"I know you're a mom," he said after a deep breath. "I know that comes first for you. And I know you haven't been single for very long. But I would never expect anything out of you. We don't even have to call it dating. I just want to be next to you. In person."

He'd said the opposite of what she'd anticipated hearing. She'd supposed that he would plead, insisting that it was stupid of her to turn him down when she had nothing to lose, but his explanation caught her off guard.

It sounded to her, at least off the bat, that he wasn't seeking her out for anything more than her companionship. He'd made it clear that he liked her, but his neglect to hound her for something more, something she couldn't give, was refreshing.

It was exactly the kind of thing someone as sweet as Jesse would say.

Reagan thought back to the night of the VMAs and how it had felt to stand beside him in VIP, strangely calmed by his presence and easy way of speaking. He'd relieved her of all the turmoil that had been growing in size inside of her at the time, acting as a numbing agent, a physical wall that had shielded her from what had been breaking her down.

He was a good person, down to his core. She'd decided that from the moment she had said goodbye to him that night, never expecting to see him again but thankful she'd gotten the chance to be in his company if only for a short amount of time.

She could see Jesse being a friend to her. Maybe he could have been something more, but she didn't have it in her to wonder about that. She'd been through hell and back twice over in a matter of months and all she'd ever wanted throughout the experience was someone to comfort him, to be easily accessible instead of hundreds of miles away.

Chipping away at a loose fleck of paint on her desk with her fingernail, Reagan made her decision. She wasn't entirely ready to put the memory of her and Dave's relationship to rest, but a step in the right direction wouldn't hurt. She knew that only by taking those baby steps would she be able to move on.

"Okay," she said. "When and where?"