AS SOON AS Reagan entered the repair shop, formally known as Wilson's Auto Repair to the good people of Olympia, she heard the sound of Daryl Hall and John Oates singing 'Rich Girl' over the shop's overhead speakers. She made a face, hurriedly switching through radio stations until Robert Plant's voice was serenading her and the rest of her coworkers. Even the guys out in the garage, clad in their work suits, noticed the change in music and peered in through the glass windows.

Naturally it would be Reagan standing there, acting as if nothing had happened. She hadn't yet transitioned them to the likes of Mudhoney or Dinosaur Jr, but at least they could all live contentedly with Led Zeppelin while they worked.

Reagan approached the counter which she stood behind all day, freezing in motion as she took notice of the bouquet of store-bought flowers sitting in her work space. They were the mixed kind, consisting of everything from daffodils to sunflowers.

She walked towards them slowly, treating them more so like a bomb rather than just a nice gesture. She touched the petal of one of the sunflowers and tried not to groan aloud. If he was trying to be discreet, he had definitely failed.

Reagan tucked her hands in the back pockets of her blue jeans and strutted out into the garage, flinging open the glass door that separated her from the real gritty work that took place outside. She was met with a chorus of hellos and good mornings, although she was technically not supposed to be in the area.

She walked up to a bright red 1988 Toyota Corolla that sat propped up on car jacks and had a pair of legs sticking out from underneath it. With the toe of her boot, she kicked the roller seat that the legs hovered over knowing she needed no other means of introduction.

Tommy Wilson slid out from beneath the Corolla, looking affronted to have been disturbed. A smear of grease was on his cheek, but not even the physical flaw could deter away from his good looks. When he saw Reagan standing over him, her arms cocked at her hips with her hands still in her back pockets, he broke into a smile.

"And good morning to you as well," he jested, sitting up and tugging on Reagan's pant leg.

"Don't get grease on me. And hey, thanks for the flowers."

Despite Tommy's face being darkened with a sheen layer of muck after having laid beneath the filthy underpart of a car, the blush that bled into his cheeks was very obvious. Reagan smiled and then turned on her heels, walking back towards the interior of the shop. Tommy leapt up to his feet, scrambling after her.

"Who said they were from me?" he protested, grabbing the swinging glass door before it could create a barrier between them.

"Who else would get me flowers?" Reagan laughed, rolling her eyes.

"I'm sure there's a guy here with a crush on you, Reags. Trust me."

Reagan looked earnestly into Tommy's eyes, pleading with him to confront the truth. It wasn't any other Wilson's employee that harbored a crush on Reagan. It was all Tommy.

"So . . . you?"

Tommy scoffed and looked away, pretending that her allegation was ridiculous even though it really was not. Besides, he had so blatantly given himself away. His face was still flushed.

"Tommy, I think the flowers are sweet," Reagan insisted. She hopped up on the counter, a pastime that was only allowed when the boss was not around. She glanced at the bouquet next to her and smiled.

Tommy hesitated, scratching the back of his neck with the hand that wasn't holding a wrench. He looked bashfully at Reagan, finally willing to meet her eyes.

"You think so?"

"Of course I do."

She really did think the flowers were sweet. Reagan never lied, not unless she absolutely had to, and she would have had no problem telling Tommy that the flowers were ridiculous if she'd honestly thought they were. But Reagan had an enduring soft spot for Tommy.

They'd known each other in high school, which had in turn been the primary reason Reagan had gotten the job working at Wilson's. Tommy was the son of John Wilson, the owner of the shop. It helped that Tommy had admired Reagan from afar during their time in school together, though they'd been mere acquaintances rather than friends.

When she'd started working at Wilson's, they grew close. Reagan found it easy to be around Tommy, despite that they were truly nothing alike. But he was a man of compromise and she liked the fact that he listened to her music although he was more of a Poison fan and didn't mind when she bitched about how awful men were.

Eventually, they'd started hooking up. Looking back on it, Reagan thought it might have been a bad idea to entertain such a level of intimacy with Tommy when she didn't have romantic feelings for him. But he was attractive, with his head of wavy brown hair and tanned, olive skin. He never wanted to hurt her and she trusted him, and that's what had led their sleeping together in the back of his Camaro. Tommy wasn't a stranger. It had always felt good to be with him, even if she never saw herself loving him.

He'd developed feelings, of course. Reagan had immediately called off their frequent hooking up. The last thing she ever wanted to do was hurt Tommy. He'd understood, but she knew it bothered him.

It bothered Reagan too. At times, she wished that she really could love Tommy and test the waters of a possible relationship with him.

But Reagan hated relationships.

In the back of her mind she was sure that she wanted one, but the very thought of relationships made her gag. There was something so cliché about them, or at least that was how Reagan saw it. Relationships were the perfect example of humans setting themselves up for failure. On top of this belief, Reagan had absolutely no desire to bring a guy home to her family. It terrified her to no end to imagine someone she loved having to encounter the default craziness in her life.

"If you like the flowers," Tommy began, "maybe you wouldn't mind dinner then? We could do Italian. I know that's your favorite."

"My favorite is actually Mexican food."

"You told me it was Italian!"

"It changes all the time."

She knew she was being a pain in the ass. But for Reagan, it felt like sometimes, that's all she knew how to be.

"So Mexican food then," Tommy pressed. "This Saturday night? I can pick you up."

Reagan looked Tommy seriously in the eyes, attempting to intensify the severity of her gaze. A smile was playing at her lips, but she internally hated having to turn him down. He might as well have hit her with his car instead. She loved him, but not in the way that he so badly wanted her to.

"Tommy," Reagan hedged. "I can't go to dinner with you."

Tommy sighed heavily. He knew when to stop arguing with her, even though he neglected to ever actually give up on his aspiration of dating her. He was always patiently waiting for the day that Reagan would change her mind and for once, take the damn flowers.

"It's me, isn't it?" he moped, not really meaning to badger her but always in the mood to mess around.

Reagan laughed. "It's definitely not you and you know that. I don't date. I've told you before."

"You say that you don't date, but you tell me all the time about how you hang out at that guy's place with his band. Sounds to me like you want to be dating one of them."

She tried not to show the rapid annoyance that flared inside her chest as Tommy brought up their conversation from the week prior. Of course he would have clung to that minor detail out of everything else she had said that day.

"Nirvana?" she questioned. "Those guys are just my friends. They invite me to jam sometimes if their drummer can't make it. He lives in Bainbridge. So I go when they ask and we just hang out."

It was the honest truth. None of the guys in Nirvana had expressed attraction to Reagan, and if they had, it had gone right over her head. They had girlfriends too, which was the strongest indicator of their platonic friendships. But mostly, she and the boys had bonded over music and from there on out, it had solidified their camaraderie as just that -- a couple of friends, hanging out and jamming on their instruments.

As a frequent attendee of underground shows, Reagan had stumbled upon Nirvana when they'd performed over at Evergreen College. She had liked their sound and their performance, enthralled by the clear effort they put into their work. After their bassist Krist had smacked her in the face with the neck of his bass during the performance, he had apologized repeatedly after the show and done his best to make amends.

This had led to a conversation being struck up with the rest of the band, in which they discovered that Reagan too was a musician. Nirvana's lead singer, Kurt, appeared to be especially impressed that Reagan enjoyed drumming. He had quickly invited her over to play sometime, and when she'd taken him up on the offer and put on a show for Kurt and Krist in his Kurt's tiny little apartment, they'd both made her one of their closest friends. She'd went beyond their expectations and had proved to be an excellent drummer, better than they'd imagined.

"Reagan," Tommy said sincerely. "Do you really think those guys don't see you the way I see you?"

Reagan narrowed her eyes and hopped off of the counter, pushing back on Tommy's chest in order to shove him out of her personal space. He was starting to piss her off.

"Yes, Tommy, I do. They like me because we listen to the same music and they think I play the drums well. Isn't that enough?"

"I'm not saying you're not a good drummer!" Tommy hastily sputtered, reaching out to grab Reagan's shoulder before she could stalk off.

"I really don't care if you think I'm a good drummer or not," Reagan said back tiredly. She was over the conversation, exhausted by Tommy's sudden demand to know why she hung out with guys whom she merely considered good friends. He had no right to question her in the first place.

"You are," Tommy promised. "Good enough to be in your own band."

It was no surprise that he'd steered the topic of discussion away from the members of Nirvana to Reagan's talent. He knew just how to butter her up once she was irritated with him.

"Not happening," Regan said bluntly.

Tommy, along with the other plethora of people in her life who had heard her play drums, all preached that Reagan should have looked into starting a band. She had always scoffed at the suggestion, finding it offensive that the people around her thought she had time for anything else but work.

"You don't listen to anything I say," Tommy frowned.

"Nope," Reagan agreed, popping her lips around the 'p' of the single-worded answer that she delivered swiftly.

"Maybe you should move out of your house," Tommy said, following Reagan around the counter and over to the storage closet where the broom was. She took it out and began sweeping as Tommy walked in circles around her.

"Maybe you should shut up and go work on that car," Reagan replied.

"I'm serious, Reags. You could move out and have more freedom. And honestly, I think you'd be happier."

"You're pushing it."

"If you just did it, you'd be better off," Tommy continued, plowing forward with his advice as if it were not evident by the look on Reagan's face that it was unwanted.

With the frayed end of the broom bristles, Reagan pushed against Tommy's knees, keeping him away with the length of the broom's handle. She was glaring menacingly.

"Shut up Tommy."

Her face must have been pretty frightening. Tommy's fervent expression vanished and he stepped back, fully understanding of the message that had been made. When Reagan was mad, she was mad. There was no sense in trying to make amends until she was ready.

"I'm going, I'm going," he promised, holding up his hands while still clutching the dirtied wrench in one fist. He disappeared back out into the garage, leaving Reagan alone up at front. She inhaled deeply, glad to have found solace.

It was always hard for her to realize that her distaste for her family read more obviously to people than she truly wanted.

She would never try to keep up a facade of a happy family, but she also did not want the outside world to know just how badly she could be repulsed by her own kin. The tug of war between loving her parents and detesting them was something that confused even Reagan herself. She would never expect anyone else to understand.

And God, the way Tommy had gone on about her visiting Kurt and Krist and the whole drumming thing . . .

Strangely enough, she focused less on Tommy's unattractive jealously and more so on her sudden desire to see them again. It had been awhile since she'd visited Kurt's house and she found herself missing both him and Krist. Kurt had animals too, something Reagan fawned over since she had never been allowed to keep a pet.

They were the few people that she could hang out with and feel herself around. It would have been a missed opportunity to not to enjoy their company whenever she could.

The front door to the shop chimed, indicating a customer and jarring Reagan's thoughts. She rested her broom against the wall and took her position behind the counter, rubbing her hands clean against her pants.

"Morning," she said politely to the man who walked forward. He was middle-aged with graying hair, but still didn't look like the typical adults that Reagan was used to seeing. Even in his nice button-down shirt, she could tell that the man was probably someone who'd laugh at the idea of being called square.

He looked around curiously, glancing at his surroundings before meeting Reagan's gaze as he took out his wallet.

"Iggy Pop? Good choice for music."

"Thanks," Reagan grinned. "I picked it out."