Some spoilers have been trickling out and I'm loving all of the potential. Not quite sure it's going to be bliss right off the bat, but none the less, we will get tons of the good kind of angst (which you know I love!). Here's just a little speculative something I've based on some spoilers coming out of the winter hiatus. Probably won't be more than two chapters, maybe three. Enjoy! :)
Her breath crept out in front of her like a hazy fog along the water. It hovered heavily over her head, trying its damnedest to weigh her down.
Rayna didn't notice. She couldn't notice.
She felt free; weightless. She envisioned herself flying through the atmosphere, reminiscent of the feather from the opening and ending sequences of Forrest Gump.
She rolled her eyes.
Seriously, Rayna? Forrest Gump?
She chuckled, ridiculing herself for the mental reference, but at the same time giving thanks that this is the kind of nonsensical drivel she was able to think up right now. She'd needed this—time to herself to just gather her thoughts and desires; time to reflect on what she really wanted for her life and her children's lives without a camera crew hounding her or a devilish cowboy hat on her shoulder telling her what she needed; time to decompress.
She was able to alleviate a lot of her stress with the wind in her face and the best of Dolly Parton blaring through her speakers, but even still… the silence; the sound of the water distantly lapping against the dock is what she craved.
She sighed, sending more of her breath into the biting December atmosphere and watching it fade among the lake in the horizon. She glanced around, wrapping her coat tighter and shoving her gloved hands into her pockets as she took in her surroundings—the white siding was in dire need of a pressure wash, the green porch needed a coat or two of lacquer, and the handcrafted chair she occupied needed to be stained.
This house.
She ruminated.
This fucking house.
It'd been her dream house ever since the first time he'd taken her to the lake on her 17th birthday. She told him that night she wanted a house on the water with tons of windows and a big porch so she could sit outside and watch the fireflies and the ducks and play music like the world was ending tomorrow. Then she'd kissed him.
She told him again when he took her back weeks later, only this time she included him in her grandiose plans for the porch. Afterward, she gave him all of herself in the back of his beat up pick-up and she never looked back.
Dreams of a career took the forefront, but in the back of her head this vision of perfection always danced. She always saw him and her and their family hanging out on the porch, playing music, splashing in the water, and drinking her mama's mint orange sweet tea recipe until the summer faded and the fireflies died out.
She even saw it clear as day the first time he brought her here; surprised her with this gift that he so graciously wanted to give her for putting up with him and every piece of garbage that came with him.
She still saw it the night he asked her to marry him; the night they'd so effortlessly blended together to create such a special life out of thin air.
Time crept by and the dream hardened; drifted into some clouded memory that become more and more difficult for her to revisit.
This place no longer invited her utmost fantasies; it seemed to destroy them. She closed her eyes, making a futile attempt to again see what she had seen for so long; to hear the laughter and the music and everything she knew in heart was supposed to be there.
Nothing.
She sighed and opened her eyes, retreating back to reality: the place was in borderline disrepair, she didn't even have a key to seek shelter from the frigid cold, and she was alone.
When she woke up that morning, she was 28 hours away from walking down the most obscene aisle anyone could comprehend. And now she was here, for what reasons she did not know.
She'd called off the wedding, jumped in her car, and driven anywhere—really, she could have gone anywhere—and she ended up at this place; their place.
Maybe that meant something. Perhaps, she thought, it meant the dream was still salvageable—that he had been right all along.
She wiped her hands on her thighs and let out a breath, hoping against hope that she could be worthy of that dream again.
A creak of the hardwood broke her thoughts and she glanced upward, fearful.
No one's supposed to be here.
Except him.
And at the same time… he wasn't.
Her eyes drifted from the bag of groceries in one hand to the firelogs in the other, then to his eyes.
Deacon's eyes… damn him.
She smiled meekly, lifting her hand in a shy waving motion.
"Hey."
It was barely above a whisper, but it was all she could muster. She hadn't spoken to anyone in five hours.
She'd expected several reactions from him—anger, sadness, happiness, confusion… anything, really, except what she received: nothing. His eyes were dead, brimming with unwelcome tears she wasn't sure were for her.
He shrugged, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.
"What the hell are you doing here, Ray?"