JANUARY 27th, 2001, LOS ANGELES, CA

      "HOLY SHIT, CHRIS," Reagan marveled from her place on the edge of her hotel room bed, widening her eyes as her best friend walked out of the bathroom in front of her. "You look hot."

Chris scowled at her, holding her arms stiffly out from her sides in a refusal to relax. She looked down at the tight, little black dress that she donned with disdain.

"I look like a poor caricature of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman," she said through her teeth.

"Not at all," Reagan insisted, leaping up from the bed to approach Chris. "You look like a sexier Sinéad O'Connor, except with longer hair." To emphasize her point, she ruffled a hand through Chris's shorn tufts of hair that stuck up haphazardly from her scalp.

Chris batted her hand away. "I look like an idiot. Don't try to fluff my ego when you know I can't get out of this now."

Gripping Chris's shoulders, Reagan steered her towards the vanity mirror that was perfectly placed in the corner of the room. She grabbed a tube of hair gel that had been left sitting on top of Chris's suitcase and squeezed out a dollop of it into her hand. Rubbing it together, she began working it through Chris's hair.

"Should I remind you that you're an amazing friend? The greatest friend I could ever ask for?" she prompted into Chris's ear.

Chris rolled her eyes as she put on a grumpy frown. "You're gonna' need to tell me that at least fifty more times before I forgive you this. Don't forget that I had to take time off of work for this shit show."

"And you're going to have the time of your life, I promise you."

It wasn't exactly an assurance that Reagan could guarantee, especially when she wasn't sure that even she would have the so-called time of her life that night. She'd been forced into the event from the start by Geffen and the only thing that had made her bitterly accept her fate was the addition of her own hotel room that night, booked where the party was being held.

It was all so tediously exhausting. She still couldn't understand why Geffen had insisted that she attend such a sham of a celebration, a late New Year's event in downtown L.A. that was to be populated by employees and artists of the label alike. It was so laughably close to what she perceived as an office Christmas party that she had a difficult time not gagging at the idea of it.

From what Geffen had advertised to her, it was supposed to be more lavish than that. There was to be celebrities filling the hotel's ballroom that night, racking up tabs at the bar and overall promoting the notion that Geffen was the only suitable label to sign at.

Reagan didn't care about any of it. She would have much rather been at home, spending the Saturday evening with Gracie watching cartoons instead of leaving in the care of one of her friends' parents. It felt artificial to present herself as a stereotypical 'label person,' gushing over Geffen and toting around a flute of champagne as she sang its praises.

"I wish I had never said yes to this," Chris fumed as she angrily jerked the top of her dress up, trying to cover up more of her chest. "Why the fuck did I agree to this?"

"Because I told you there would be free liquor, courtesy of my status as an employee of Geffen," Reagan reminded her, putting the finishing touches on Chris's hair with a flick of her fingers.

"You could have asked someone else. You can't tell me that you don't have any fucking friends in L.A."

"Not any that I'd bring with me here. I can't stand the majority of them."

"Priss."

"Hey!" Reagan cried defensively. "You know as well as I do that half the people in this city suck."

"True. But you still could have picked someone else to be your little date. I mean, fuck, if Jesse hadn't-,"

Chris stopped her sentence dead in her tracks, glancing at Reagan in the reflection of the mirror before she busied herself with the low neckline of her dress again.

Reagan brushed the mention of Jesse aside. His rejection had stung, but it hadn't been the end of the world, either. She hadn't expected him to stay with her after she'd dropped the bombshell that she wasn't willing to start a family with him.

"I know, but you're here, you spent money on the plane ticket to come, and you can't leave now," Reagan said soundly, adjusting the zipper on the back of Chris's dress. "Deal with it."

"You realize that you owe me big time, right?"

"Sure. Anything you want."

"You're shelling out the cash to come home to see me, then."

"Done. I already have my flight booked for Kate's wedding next month."

"I'm not talking about coming because of a previous engagement," Chris grumbled. "You're gonna' take time off from work, same as I did. And I'm going to drag you wherever I want all across Olympia."

"It'll be a great reenactment of our adolescent years, then," Reagan said back teasingly. "Can you stand up straight? I've got to get this zipper up further."

"Why couldn't you have loaned me another dress?" Chris demanded, sucking in a deep breath of air and placing her hand over her stomach as Reagan finagled the zipper of the dress higher up.

"Because," Reagan said through her focus, "it's a formal event. And this dress looks good on you."

"It also prevents me from breathing. Did you bother to take that into account?"

"You're not alone. I can't breathe, either."

Reagan stepped back and mimicked Chris's body language, laying her own hand across her rib cage. Contrary to Chris, she actually liked her dress. It was a deep red, the sleeves spilling off of her shoulders and gathering around her arms. It was also short, maybe even too short, but it nonetheless made Reagan feel confident.

"I could have worn jeans," Chris pleaded. "Or if you really needed me to wear a dress, we could have gone with something that didn't almost bare my ass to the world."

"I could have put you in a nightgown and you still would have complained," Reagan said.

Chris messed with her gelled hair, adjusting pieces of it around her face with narrowed eyes.

"Maybe the reason I'm complaining is because this shit is ridiculous."

"Do you not want to come with me anymore?"

Reagan was asking sincerely. She didn't want to walk into the hotel ballroom alone that night, but upsetting Chris wasn't worth having a date.

"I do," Chris said, sighing impatiently as she gave up on her hair and turned to face Reagan. "I can suck it up for one night. But I can't promise I'll be nice to everyone."

"You don't have to be."

"I'll be nice to you, though. You look really good, Reags."

Reagan gently touched her curled hair that had been gathered to one side of her shoulder, glimpsing at herself in the mirror and seeing a stranger looking back. It wasn't a bad thing — she was mostly impressed that she'd single-handedly dolled herself up for the evening, wielding a curling iron and applying her makeup with a steady hand.

"Thanks. I tried."

"You succeeded."

Chris opened her arms wide and flopped down on the enormous, gold duvet-laden king bed that they would be sharing later that night.

"I don't want to get up," she moaned with her face buried into the comforter.

Reagan bent forward to grasp Chris's ankle. "I'll make a deal with you. We can show our faces for an hour and a half, and then you have my full permission to come up here and help yourself to the mini-fridge bar."

"Careful what you offer. I'll rack up a charge if you let me," Chris warned, rolling over on her side.

"Geffen's paying for it, so go crazy."

"Well, in that case."

Slipping off the bed, Chris went over to the mini-fridge and popped it open, pulling out a small shooter of tequila. She unscrewed the lid and knocked it back with an ease that made Reagan stammer out a laugh.

Chris smacked her lips with a satisfied 'ah.' "Good stuff," she said, waving the tiny bottle in the air. "Do you want one?"

"I'm going to make an attempt not to get trashed tonight," Reagan replied, smoothing her hands over her dress.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because we're picking Gracie up tomorrow at eleven and taking her to the movies, remember? I'd prefer not to have a hangover."

"I work in a bar. I manage my hangovers all the time."

Together, Reagan and Chris left their hotel room and began their walk to the elevator. The whole ride down to the first floor, Chris led a debate on what kind of music Geffen would choose to play for the event.

"There's going to be a deejay," Reagan told her, her eyes raised as she watched the floor numbers tick by.

"I know, but are they going to be predictable and only play music from artists signed to Geffen? Because it might be awkward if they don't. I mean, anyone not signed to the label is kind of like competition, right? They can't just play Ricky Martin when they don't own Ricky Martin," Chris rambled.

"Ricky Martin?" Reagan questioned, trying not to laugh as she quirked a single eyebrow.

"It was just an example."

"Really? You're telling me that you don't secretly listen to 'Livin' la Vida Loca'?"

Chris elbowed Reagan in the side as they walked out of the elevator and towards the open doors of the ballroom, where the party was already in full swing.

Reagan had assumed that it would be formal, way more formal than the event that Chris was imagining in her head, and she was pretty much correct. The inside of the hotel ballroom had been plastered over with color coordinated black and white tables and decor. The hotel staff was walking around in finely
pressed suits, holding platters of hors d'oeuvres and coupe glasses of champagne as they navigated through throngs of guests.

The bar was fully stocked and all of Geffen's employees were dressed in their black-tie best, a light, airy jazz number being played over the speakers attached to the deejay's setup near the front of the room.

Reagan started laughing before she even got the chance to see Chris's face.

"This is the party?" Chris gawked with clear disappointment.

"Give it some time," Reagan encouraged. "I'm sure once the elders of the label clear out, it will better fit your expectations."

As a waiter drifted by, Chris snatched a glass of champagne from his tray and drank it one gulp, looking grudgingly over the glass's rim.

"It fucking better, or I'm flying back to Washington tonight."

______________

"Dude, I want to get back on the road."

Dave nodded in silent agreement with Taylor's exclamation, lifting his slick glass of beer to his mouth as he took a sip. He liked being back home because of Gracie, but at the present moment, he would have done anything to escape Los Angeles.

"Shit's boring around here right now," Taylor continued, drumming his fingers on the sleek bar of the Roxy.

"Can't be that boring if you're sitting here with me," Dave quipped, folding his arms over each other and raising his beer back up for a long swig.

Taylor snorted. "Yeah, and I'm still fucking bored."

"You must be if you consider the Roxy boring now. Who the hell even are you and what have you done with my drummer?"

"We do this shit all the time. Don't you want to go somewhere new?"

"Nope."

A smile twitched its way onto Dave's lips as he saw Taylor scowl from the corner of his eyes. He partially shared his best friend's sentiment that traveling the world would have been better than crawling around L.A., looking for something to do, but their ultimate goals were slightly different.

Taylor was looking to get fucked up and have fun, as he should have been while riding the high of his success and fame, but Dave was searching for just a sliver of peace.

It was ironic that he typically found such peace in places like the Roxy, where his eardrums were under constant threat of bursting and alcohol tainted every drop of blood in his veins, but it was better than sitting at home and struggling to accept that not only was he getting older, having just turned thirty-two two weeks ago, but his predictions for his life had gone awry.

He felt more accepting of it than he had several months prior. He could think about Reagan, see her in person, and not feel the barbs of pain that usually followed upon looking at her face. He still wanted her and he would always miss her, but she'd made it apparently clear that she'd moved on.

Or so he'd thought.

From a rumor fed into one ear to the next, Dave had heard that Reagan's new relationship hadn't worked out. He'd felt a little sorry for her when he'd heard, and had even gently apologized to her when he'd last gone to pick up Gracie, but she'd seemed fine and he definitely wasn't going to mope over the fact that she was single again.

She was probably going to find someone else, someone that wasn't him, but when there was no one attached to her side it was easier for Dave to imagine himself reunited with her.

"You know, I heard that Geffen is throwing some big ass party at the Ritz tonight," Taylor said, turning around and propping his elbows on the bar. "Wanna' gatecrash it?"

Dave chuckled, shaking his head with his hand still firmly wrapped around his beer. "We're not signed to Geffen, dude."

"Hence the word 'gatecrash,'" Taylor said, enunciating himself with mocking clarity and lightly punching Dave's shoulder. "Come on, it will be fun. Book yourself a room. Have a good night. Flip some tables, start a riot."

It wasn't the worst idea that Taylor had ever had. It was better than any of the raucous bullshit he'd come up with when they'd been in Australia. Dave was mostly able to admit that because he knew Reagan would be there, attending Geffen's party that night as one of their most revered employees. He took another thoughtful sip of his beer.

"Start a riot, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, just strip down naked and walk in. People will be running away screaming and no time."

Dave slid his beer away on the bar, feeling just the right amount of drunk to give in to Taylor's proposal, and smiled wryly.

If it weren't for the couple of beers that he'd already had, he probably would have said no. He would have declined in consideration of Reagan, who would have likely been mortified if he showed up, but cause for concern had been thrown right over his shoulder and out the metaphorical window.

He wanted to see her. Even if it was from afar and even if they didn't speak a word that night, Dave had slipped into a mood that coaxed him into a dire need of wanting to be in Reagan's presence.

"Alright. Fuck it. Let's go."

Taylor's eyes brightened with excitement. "For real?"

"Hell yeah. I'll even book a room for the night, like you said. Best suite in the whole god damn place."

The plan had already clicked seamlessly together in Dave's head. What was a few hundred, maybe a thousand dollars, shelled out for a swanky ass hotel room that he could pass out in after drinking the night away? It would be a reprieve from dragging himself back to his house in the Valley, burdened by the same rotten thoughts had followed him like a shadow for months.

He was crashing a record label's party that night. He didn't give a shit about much else.