A+    A-

The plane ride took forever even though it was only three hours, and the entire time you really just wanted to sleep but you couldn’t. Instead you stared out the window and tried to make sense of the tiny lights you could see from thousands of miles above the world, and you tried to make sense as to why you have a black eye and why she put it there and exactly what you’re going to do about this. Your life was now some sort of cliché Soap Opera kind of deal, as if it hadn’t been bad enough that you were married to Courtney Love.

And when you got off the plane you were so tired you wanted to collapse into one of the dirty blue-fabric chairs that were lined up in rows of ten in front of the terminal, but you didn’t. You walked through the masses of people and you got your luggage and you trudged all the way through the building until you were out on the sidewalk staring out at the cabs. Pulling your hood up over your head, you walked through the Seattle rain and into a cab, sliding in after throwing your luggage in the trunk, shutting the door behind you and looking up over the seat at the driver. He looked just as tired as you did, but you felt no pity. He didn’t talk to you, but instead to the rear-view mirror, which you avoided looking at because you didn’t want to see the bruise, or the dark circles under your eyes, or the color of your face.

You gave him the address and then leaned back against the seat, breathing out quietly, relieved that, unlike the plane, you had an entire backseat to yourself. You spent this hour in the car staring out the window, again, your eyes trained on the other cars, the houses and apartment buildings, the water dripping slowly over the glass. You’d think about what you were leaving behind. You wondered how long it would take her to call you up and apologize, but then you remembered she was Courtney, and she wouldn’t. Then you would think about what you were going to… Your sanctuary. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, and as you got closer, and the streets became more and more like home, your stomach churned, and your heartbeat might’ve increased a little, but by the time the cab actually pulled up in front of his house, you were too tired to feel much of anything.

You paid the cab, grabbed your luggage out of the trunk, and stood out on the sidewalk in the rain. It seemed surreal, that you were there when only six hours ago you were at your apartment in L.A., laying in bed with your pregnant wife. Except the laying in bed with your wife hadn’t lasted long because the conversation turned lazy and then you sort of forgot what you were saying because you were drifting off to sleep in her arms …

You shake your head, water dripping over your face and you decide that it’s time to go inside, because now you’re not just tired anymore, now you’re wet and tired. And scared, but you shove that particular emotion far down somewhere to the pit of your stomach, or the back of your brain, and you conveniently let it go.

You only ring the doorbell once and he’s there in a second. You can hear him unlatching the door, and then him turning the handle, and when the door finally swings open and he’s standing in front of you, you want to collapse. His brown eyes are seriously the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen in your life, except maybe the couch you can see over his shoulder.

“Kurt,” his eyes narrow as they travel over your face, lingering on the bruise under your eye, but he makes no sign that he’s seen it, and then over your wet, dripping hair. He just shakes his head and steps back, letting you inside. He leaves you standing awkwardly in the living room as he disappears into another room, his voice carrying through the house as he shouts something back at you, but you don’t even hear it. You’re drinking in everything, your eyes closed so you can just let the smell take over. Everything is so right here, this place is more home than your home is, but you don’t really know how.

He comes back with a blanket and a couple of pillows, propping them up on the end of the couch as he turns to look back up at you, “You’re all wet.”

You nod slowly, just watching him, you’re too tired to speak. He sighs as he walks off again, this time holding a towel in his hand and throwing it at you, his thumb jabbed over his shoulder at the bathroom, “Go get changed, then get some sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in days, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

You towel-dry your hair on the way to the bathroom as he shuts the door to his bedroom, but only after looking you over once more. He looks sad in a way you can’t really explain, and in turn it makes you feel guilty. You haven’t really talked much since the wedding, not the way you used to, and you wish you were here under different circumstances. You want to remember him the way you used to, but right now you’re tired.

You pull on a new t-shirt and rid yourself of your pants, leaving them on the bathroom floor because you’re too tired to find somewhere else for them. Once you’re dry, and you’ve taken a piss, you walk back to the living room as silent as possible and collapse onto the couch, thanking whoever and whatever was responsible for you having Dave Grohl in your life.


He’s already got coffee made when you wake up in the morning, or … afternoon actually. You roll right off the side of the couch, standing up slowly and walking into the kitchen, you can hear him, humming to himself, and moving around. He was always more of a morning person than you were, but then again, it is 1PM. You groan as you walk in, in only your boxers and a t-shirt, but he’s seen you in less. He turns with a mug of coffee in his hands, you take it from him silently and collapse into one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. You wrap one hand around the mug and rest your head on the other as you stare down into the black abyss that is the coffee. He settles himself down in a chair opposite you once he’s poured himself some, and you feel his eyes boring into your bowed head.

“Are you going to talk at all?”

You bring the mug up to your lips and sip at it, wincing at the bitter taste.

“Why’d she do it, Kurt?”

You swallow and snort a little, a bitter laugh coming from your lips. You weren’t sure if he’d ask you about it or not, usually Dave was the kind of person who waited for you to speak up about it first. You sit back in the chair and look across the table at him, a tired, ironic smile tugging at your lips, “Because of you, Dave.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you even closer now, “Me?”

“You,” you nod, taking another long gulp of coffee, licking your lips as you look back into the mug, “I made the mistake of mentioning you.”

“What the…but …so?”

“Courtney hates when I talk about you.”



He laughs his own version of a bitter laugh and it makes you wince, you hate it when he does that, Dave’s not meant to sound bitter.

“Jealousy? For what reason?”

“I don’t know.” You finish up your coffee and then stand, moving towards the half-full pot and pouring yourself another cup. You can practically hear him thinking all of this over behind you.

“That’s fucked up, Kurt.”

You shrug, sitting down again and taking a deep breath, setting the mug down on the table and looking up at him, completely serious, “It was a long time coming, her hitting me, we fight all the time. She gets so angry, Dave.” You shake your head before dropping it down on the table, groaning, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t worry about it. You know you can stay here as long as you want…”

“No. I can’t, she's pregnant.”

“Fuck her.”

You shoot your head up, glaring at him, “I can't leave, not when she's pregnant with my baby, who the fuck do you think I am?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know anymore.”

“What is THAT supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does. I’m going to take a shower.”

He gets up, and stops for a second next to your chair, where you look up at him. Suddenly he looks like the Dave you remember again, “I’m sorry…I missed you.”

You nod, breathing in shakily, “I missed you too.”

He grabs you gently by the arm and pulls you up, pulling you in for a tight hug, and as you drop your head on his shoulder, you feel nothing but guilty, because maybe Courtney has every right to be jealous.

^ back to top ^