DECEMBER, 1990, OLYMPIA, WA

        "WHEN'S YOUR BIRTHDAY again?" Dave asked from the kitchen. He appeared from behind the rows of cabinets, a jar of mayonnaise in one hand and a butter knife in the other. His face was pinched as he asked his question.

Reagan was sitting on his and Kurt's couch, MTV playing a continuous circuit of hit music videos from the television. She'd been engrossed in Warrant's popular video, the lewdly allusive "Cherry Pie," wondering how a bunch of guys with teased hair had managed to nab a knockout like Bobbie Brown for filming, but Dave interrupted her thoughts. Dave guffawed when he saw what she was watching.

"Are you seriously watching that?" he smirked. He said it like he had never appreciated the work of at least one lite-metal hair band in his life.

"I was just thinking that the girl in the video is really pretty," Reagan explained, gesturing to the screen where Bobbie Brown shook and shimmied her hips in a skimpy red top and daisy dukes.

Dave inched into the living room, craning his neck so he could get a glimpse of the scene unfolding on the television screen. He made his evaluation and then shrugged.

"She's hot. But not as hot as you," he simpered.

Reagan scoffed. "She's a model, don't be ridiculous. I'd bet all the savings in my bank account that you'd rather have her crawling into your bed at night than me."

"Can I have both of you crawling into my bed at night?"

Reagan lobbed a composition notebook that sat on the coffee table at Dave. He dodged the notebook as it sailed over his head, hit the wall, and fell to the floor.

"I'm kidding," he laughed. "I just want you in my bed at night. No model music video blondes for me. Just one gorgeous redhead who I'm slightly afraid of. And hey, you might want to get that notebook. Those are Kurt's lyrics."

Reagan got up and retrieved the notebook that she'd thrown, picking it up carefully in hopes that she had not damaged its already battered spine. Thankfully, it was intact, along with all of Kurt's scrawlings. She made her way back to the couch and flipped the notebook open curiously.

"Does he share them with you?" she questioned, turning over a coffee stained page that displayed a collection of graphic doodles and weird Kurt-like mantras.

"Sometimes. I wouldn't look through it without his permission. If he catches you, you're going to wake up in the middle of the night with a doll hanging over you, bleeding from its eyes."

Reagan cocked an eyebrow as she closed the notebook. "I'm guessing this has happened to you before?"

"Nope, but it's going to happen to you if you read his journal."

She laid the notebook gingerly back in its original place, deciding that she too would have been angry if someone read her inner thoughts. Kurt deserved his privacy, even though it would have been a treat to delve into his bizarre mind. As confusing as he could be, he was also talented, and she wanted to see how such talented flourished. But she respected him too much to pry.

"You didn't answer my question," Dave called, continuing to make the sandwich he was dressing up on the kitchen counter.

"What question?" Reagan couldn't recall what he'd inquired about. She was too busy thinking about the snatches of lyrics that she'd seen in Kurt's notebook, amused by certain verses and budding song titles.

"About your birthday. I can't remember when you said it was. When is it?"

"Oh. June ninth. Why do you ask?"

"Damn," Dave sighed, making a show of lifting and dropping his shoulders with disappointment. Reagan eyed him suspiciously.

"What?" she demanded. He was a terrible actor.

"It's nothing. I just thought that if it were sooner, it would have meant we could celebrate. And maybe you'd finally let me meet your family."

Reagan's face flushed red. She surmised quickly that Dave had not really needed reminding of when her birthday was; in fact, he had just made a comment about it the other day. It was all a ploy to see if she had changed her mind about permitting him to be introduced to her family.

"No," she said automatically. "Sorry, but you can't."

In the months that she had known him, Reagan felt like she understood Dave quite well. He did sometimes leave her with open-ended questions, but usually, those were easily answered within time. She learned more and more abut him with every passing day and prided herself on being well-versed in all things Dave related.

But the one thing she would never understand about him was his persistent desire to meet her family.

She had a few theories. One could be traced back to Dave's longing to be in the company of his own family, still dwelling in Virginia while he worked on his career in Washington. He'd entertained Reagan with countless stories about his sweet mother, Virginia, and his humorous sister Lisa. When he spoke of them, she always sensed the yearning his voice, the inevitable pining that came along with being enduringly far from home for the first time.

Her other theory was related to the reasoning why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place; Dave was not like other guys. It sounded corny when she said it -- how many infatuated teenage girls before her had shrieked to their parents that their boyfriends weren't like the others -- but it was true. Dave was just different, and that was evident in the very DNA molecules that made him who he was.

As easy of a way out as it would have been, Reagan knew she'd been daft to anticipate a future in which Dave would have cringed at the idea of meeting her family. On the contrary, he loved her enough to genuinely want to prove to them, as well as to her, that he was her person. Looking past the tattoos, tangled hair and sailor's mouth, he was a perfect gentleman.

"Reags, come on," Dave complained. He finished his sandwich and brought it with him over to where she sat, stuffing a large bite into his mouth. She stifled a laugh when he got close to her face, chomping on a mixture of bread and turkey. "I 'illy 'unt oo eat em."

"What?" she cried, shaking her head. He gulped back the food in his mouth.

"I really want to meet them," he repeated, this time clearer than before. "I bet they want to meet me too."

Reagan tried not to make a face. Dave didn't know it, but the only member of her family who even knew of his existence was Kate. And Robbie, she supposed, but that was only because of his eavesdropping. And even then, he was too young to understand what kind of situation Reagan really was in. For Robbie, he would have needed to physically see Dave standing in front of him to register that his sister was indeed in a relationship. So really, it was just Kate.

"You really don't want to meet them. Trust me."

"But I do. You tell me so much about them. I know that Kate's crazy smart and that you love her so much. And that Robbie is trying to get into your kind of music. Or what about the twins and how they're attached to your hip?"

Dave recalled Reagan's stories about her siblings with ease, causing a sudden swell of love for him to bubble inside her chest. She hadn't realized how closely he'd been listening when she'd told him all those things.

"Those are my brothers and sisters," she reasoned. "My parents . . . they're a different story."

"That sounds bad," Dave said. Concern flashed across his face and he moved closer to Reagan's curled up figure, cramming the last bits of his sandwich into his mouth.

"It's not necessarily bad. They're just pains. Well, not my dad. My dad is fine. It's my mom who pisses me off."

She had never felt the need to describe to Dave the discord between her and Kimberly, but it felt appropriate after what he had just made her feel. He cared about her, enough to remember details about her life that seemed like they would be extraneous to anyone else who listened. She owed him her honesty and frankly, she was willing to give it. He was a good listener.

"Is she the one who makes you work so much?" Dave asked quietly.

Reagan bristled on instinct. "Yeah. I guess you could say she is."

Even as she said it, Reagan knew it was wrong to pin blame on her mother for her circumstances. Richard was the one who was jobless, not Kimberly. But at least Richard felt bad for the role that Reagan had been shoved into.

"I bet it's nothing I can't handle," Dave whispered. He'd already trailed his hand upwards into Reagan's hair, losing his fingers in the twists of her auburn locks. "Maybe she'll even give you a break if she meets me."

"You're not that charming," Reagan muttered. But Dave was already pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her tenderly and making her forget their conversation just as rapidly as it had begun.

She was just beginning to slide into his lap when the front door opened, a cascade of faint daylight drenching the living room as it was pushed aside. Someone's silhouette stood in the door frame.

"Hey," Kurt said, announcing his entrance casually. He stepped inside, holding a guitar case in hand that was covered in marker graffiti and random stickers. Reagan had never seen him carry such a case around before.

"Hey man," Dave replied easily, as if he'd not just been making out with his girlfriend on the couch seconds prior. "What's up?"

"We've got to rehearse. Krist is outside in the van with the rest of our setup. Can you go help him unload?"

"Sure," Dave agreed, leaping up from the couch. He bent down and planted a swift kiss atop Reagan's head before sprinting out the door and jumping over the porch steps. Reagan heard him shout a playful insult at Krist.

"Am I allowed to stay?" she asked Kurt, crossing her legs and looking over to where he stood.

He set down the guitar case, unclasping the gold buckles on the side and flipping the lid open. He'd recently cut his hair, making it shorter than Reagan was used to seeing. Tufts of blonde stuck out behind his ears, making him look like a schoolboy. One thing that remained the same was his startling blue eyes.

"Sure. Maybe if you jam on the drums for a little, we'll kick Dave out and you'll have a new job."

Reagan laughed. "I think it's a little too late for that now."

She watched as he lifted a black Stratocaster from its snug velvet home, inspecting the strings as he propped its end side against the floor. He didn't say much, and though it was usual for Kurt to be mute, she'd never found him to be silent around her. He'd always been comfortable when they were together, chattering about things like music and Buddhism and the appeal of a life lived in seclusion.

Reagan fidgeted in her seat, tucking her legs beneath her as she watched Kurt empty the case of loose picks and spare dollar bills. She typically never found herself caring about such trivial things, but Kurt's silence was bothering her.

"Why are you being so quiet?" she finally asked. From outside, she heard Dave and Krist lugging something out of the van and placing it on the concrete. They were laughing.

Kurt looked up at her curiously before smiling. It was a wry smile, something Reagan would have called a Cobain Classic to his face if she was sure that it wouldn't irritate him.

"Haven't you heard that silence is a virtue?"

"No, haven't heard that unfortunately. I've heard about the one about patience, but never silence."

Kurt got to his feet and much to Reagan's surprise, joined her on the couch. He fell backwards in one big heap, sitting close enough to her that their legs touched. He grabbed her hand and put it in his lap, holding it between both of his. She was too shocked to say anything.

"My throat hurts," he said simply. He toyed with her fingers, bending them with his own.

Reagan glanced down to where he was holding her hand. For a brief moment, she felt a sudden spiral of fear. If Kurt actually liked her, which she still believed he didn't, then she would have just plunged herself into the most awkward situation of her life. The very thought of Kurt having feelings for her made her mentally grimace.

"You don't . . . I mean, you don't . . . you know . . . for me," Reagan stammered, tangling her words together as she tried to pick Kurt's brain.

Kurt rolled his eyes, his blue irises disappearing before fixating back on her. He released her hand and slung his arm around her shoulders.

"Reagan," Kurt said. "You remind me of my sister, Kim. You're like my sister. Sometimes, it's like you really are."

Reagan breathed a small, discreet sigh of relief. Her intuition had been right all along. The mere thought of poisoning her and Kurt's friendship with feelings that were beyond them both had been foreign to her, totally incomprehensible. She was glad to hear the truth.

"I only ever tried to protect you like I'd protect my own sister," Kurt continued. "Know what I mean?"

She remembered an encounter with Dave months before, one in which he'd claimed that Kurt had expressed jealousy over him being with her. She realized that it wasn't jealousy that Kurt had been exhibiting to Dave that day, but rather it had been a warning. Scrawny little Kurt had really tried to defend her honor.

"You're my backup drummer, remember? I don't want to lose you just because some guy might end up pushing you away," Kurt said.

She smiled. "I'll always be your backup drummer, Kurt."

He patted her knee before getting up, walking towards the door where he headed to help Krist and Dave with their equipment. As expected, he didn't say anything else. Kurt went outside to assist his bandmates and left Reagan alone on the couch, contemplating what he'd said.

She guessed that Kurt labeling her as a sister was a form of relief in more ways than one. It was nice to hear him tell her that, especially after what they'd been through. Not only had she found a friend in Kurt, but apparently, she'd gotten a new brother out of their friendship as well.

Dave came fumbling through the doorway, his cheeks puffed out as he held a bass drum in his arms. He was winded as he dropped the drum to the floor, breathing hard and looking over at Reagan as she sat with a content smile on her face.

"What are you smiling at?" he grumbled.

"You," she answered, continuing to smile pleasantly as Dave hunched over and put his hands on his knees.

"Why? Do you enjoy watching me work myself to death?"

"No. I just love you. I love you a lot."

[ there is a special reference to the song "the pretender" in this chapter, the first person to find it is the winner ]