One

We take walks.

Ever since I married Teddy, we take walks. I don't talk about Teddy. He doesn't talk about his sobriety. But we still find things to talk about it. Sometimes we talk about the music, or the band, or last night's show. We catch each other up about Tandy and Coleman. He makes jokes about Lamar and occasionally slips in some joke about us.

But we mainly walk. The silence is something we've gotten use to. It is comforting in a way. Without words, we don't have to pretend. Well that wasn't true. It was the best way to pretend. We were just together on walks. No guarding what we say or coloring a story to not hurt the other one. He doesn't have to pretend he didn't take home some groupie the night before. I don't have to pretend I am happily married.

Two

Rayna always saves her pineapples.

Always. She hates them. Always has. Even when she was sixteen with three roommates in East Nashville, she wouldn't eat pineapples if they were free. But she always puts them on her plate when offered. She always saves them in her fruit salad or puts them on her plate at a buffet. Hell, the official rider for Rayna's dressing room includes pineapples. She does it 'cause I love 'em. I always have. When we lived together, there was always a pineapple on the kitchen counter. And when we were on the road, there was always cut up pieces in the fridge.

Nobody ever says anything when I steal the fruit off her plate. Buck ignores when she cuts up pieces of pineapples and hands it to me on the late nights of touring.

Three

She still wears the earrings.

The diamond earrings he'd given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. They were large and had been expensive but he'd saved for almost five months for them. He'd surprised her the night before her birthday with them.

When he thought really hard, he could still see the tears in her eyes after she'd opened the box. He could hear her squeal in excitement and remember how she'd jumped into his arms. But he never let himself remember how he'd made some corny joke about her wearing the earrings, and only the earrings, for the rest of the night….or how wonderful that night had been.

She actually still wears them a lot. She didn't wear them on stage of course, those were for those big clunky things that always hurt her ears and got tangled in her hair. She wore his earrings when she gave interviews, when she was at home, when they were writing songs. She always wore them on her birthday.

Hell, her engagement ring matched the earrings. It was something he'd noticed years before. He'd let his mind wonder whether Rayna picked it out because of that or perhaps Teddy noticed how often she wore them and got the ring because of that. Maybe it was just a coincidence?

He knew one thing for damn sure, Teddy had no clue where the earrings came from. He watched as she walked towards him in. Tonight they had a rehearsal for Watty's Grand Ole Opry tribute next week. He caught sight of Teddy standing off to the side of stage.

Deacon smiled as he hit the rift of the first song. The lights hit the side of her face and the bright earrings dazzled in the light. He smirked at Teddy quickly; it was something nobody else would even notice. She was wearing his earrings.

She would always wear his earrings.

Four

I love when Deacon is sick.

Well not exactly. I hate seeing him suffer. I hate when he's miserable. But he never goes to the doctor, never takes medicine. He just tries to ignore his cough or his fever and thinks eventually it will go away. He's always been that way. But when he's sick, really sick, he lets me take care of him.

It has only happened a hand full of times. The one I think about the most was when Daphne was a toddler. The night before, Deacon had looked about ready to pass out during the show. The guitar player, Gary, had helped Deacon back to his room. I was so worried, I'd gone to him. He'd opened the door wearing only his boxers, his hair in disarray. He'd only stood up by propping his body against the door frame. His skin was clammy and his color was pale. He looked like a twelve year old boy who lost his dog.

I still didn't know why I followed him or why'd I sat on the bed beside him. But I can still remember the way my fingertips burned when they danced across his forehead and how I traced the muscle of his arm up and down once he'd fallen back asleep. I didn't even try to justify why I was touching him.

I allowed myself to stay with him that night. That night and the other two nights in our thirteen years apart that he'd been legimately sick on the road.

Five

We lie about the inspiration for "Postcard from Mexico."

The lie is simple. We wrote a song inspired by a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. The truth was way too personal for either one of them. It was a thing they'd started doing while on tour. He'd go to a bar, grab a beer, and make small talk with the bartender. Then she'd come in. Sometimes she'd come in wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and sometimes she wear the outfit she'd just performed in. But the night we'd written that song, she'd come into the bar in a dress he'd never seen before.

It was white, thing straps and clung to her breast. The dress barely made it past her thighs, flaring a bit at bottom. She sat a few seats down at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. Several men had hit on her. Normally when they played this game, they both got hit on by at least one customer. That night, two guys had bought her a drink while a third flirted. Then I slowly made my way towards her.

I'd smirked as I made my way between her and some poor drunk guy. I introduced himself as Deacon. She'd just smiled and brought his attention to the beaded necklace that dangled at her breast. "So many men. I guess the beads are working."

We flirted, pretending as if we'd never met before. After she finished her third glass of wine and I finished several beers, Rayna began making veiled references to my 'gun'. It led to having sex in the bathroom of the bar. It had been dirty and hot. Afterwards, we made our way back to the cheap hotel, the lyrics poured out.

So they lied.

Six

The first time Lamar met me, I was naked with his daughter.

I swear that's why he hates me. It isn't the booze or the number of times he called in favors to avoid me going to jail for a fight or public drunkenness. It isn't that I encouraged her to go after she wanted or go on the bus tour when she was seventeen.

It is cause he tracked her down to my apartment, tricked my roommate into letting him in and he just barged right in. He'd called me David twice before yelling at Rayna to put her clothes back on and "get the hell out of this rat hole." She'd grabbed his t-shirt threw it on and proceeded to yell at the old windbag for five minutes.

He still sees her as that girl he didn't realize had grown up, in my old green t-shirt yelling at the top of her lungs. For that, he will always hate me. And I can't say I blame him.

Seven

Coleman thinks I'm Deacon's real addiction.

And sometimes I think he's right. He's definitely mine.

The first time he told me that, Deacon was away at rehab for the third time. He called our relationship co-dependent. I can still remember how angry I got at him. But after 14 more months of broken chairs, late night calls from police officers, and two more attempts at rehabs I guess I just let him believe I accepted that.

I didn't. I never have. I need Deacon. Just like he needs me. We are complicated and so interwoven in each other's lives that severing us completely would probably kill us both. It isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to me.

But I honestly don't think I'd survive without him. When he was in rehab, when I couldn't see him or talk to him it nearly killed me. During the days, I'd just stare off into space or find my mind wondering to him.

But I tell myself that addictions aren't a bad thing all the time. Some people are addicted to sunshine. At least that is what I tell myself.

Eight

Daises are her favorite flower.

Back when they lived together, they were all she had in the flowerbed out back. But if you ask her she'll say her favorite flowers are roses or orchids. She use to say daisies are for little girls, inexpensive and easy for anybody to grow. They aren't in the huge bouquets she has in her dressing room every night. In fact she rarely she gets them. As far as he knows, she only gets them twice a year. She gets them on her the anniversary of her mom's death and on her birthday. There is never a card, there is no need for one.

There always tied with a white ribbon, just like the first ones he brought her…after their first real fight.

Nine

Deacon is playing again at the Bluebird.

He has been for months. Every third Thursday, as he keeps reminding me. I know what songs he sings. Songs about us. Songs about me and him.

Months ago, I made it to the parking lot before chickening out. I knew it was a terrible idea for me to go from the start but managed to talk to myself into going anyways. But seeing his SVU in the parking lot gave me butterflies.

There were too many memories and too many feelings in our songs. And The Bluebird was too familiar, too small, and too filled with…us. When we were at places like that together, it always led to longing gazes and looks. It was something the band and Bucky could pretend they didn't see. But it was something the average patron wouldn't be so quick to ignore. And the Bluebird was too public.

And that was dangerous. So she'd left and driven around for nearly an hour before heading home.

Ten

When I was little, before moving to Nashville, I lived in Kansas.

My dad was a farmer and use to tell me you could smell the rain coming. It wasn't until I was well into my thirties that I was able to recognize the smell. It is much fainter in Nashville than in Kansas but you can still smell it coming.

Rayna and Deacon have been playing this same game for years. Nearly a decade and a half and finally I can smell the rain coming.

I've watched them performing from the time Rayna was eighteen, when I first became her manager. He's becoming impatient waiting on her. She's becoming the emotionally cut off woman she's pretended to be for years.

And I can smell the sweet smell of rain coming. But the thing about the rain is…we need it to survive, to flourish, to drink. But rain, lots of it can drown you. And with those two, you never know what kind of rain is coming.