A/N: I wanted to thank everyone who posted a review for "That Quiet, Intimate Thing".
Rayna leans against the payphone and looks at the dark road one more time. No headlights in sight. It's barely been five minutes since she called Deacon, he said he would be there as soon as he could but he can't work miracles either. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth.
The minute she stormed through the door, she regretted her impulsiveness. She could have grabbed her boots and jacket on her way out but anger clouded every bit of good judgement she may have had at the time. Once outside, her pride wouldn't let her turn around. Her dad had been clear anyway: you cross that door, you're not coming back. She walked miles in socks, hoping all the way that no one from their upper-class – and always prone to call the police – neighborhood would drive by and notice her.
Socks. Underwear. A sweatshirt. A pair of jeans.
In theory, this is everything she owns now. This and half the coins she found in her pocket earlier, the other half having already been spent on the payphone.
She's strangely calm. She assumes the emotions she should be going through at the moment are more in the range of worry to panic but for now, she feels surprisingly serene. She feels surprisingly relieved. These last months have been nothing but constant conflict with her dad about music, about Deacon, about her life.
When Watty called this morning to tell her about the paying gig he got her for next Friday, it took everything she had to keep her calm. It's happening. Five minutes later, she was on the phone with Deacon, talking rehearsals and setlists, already devising plans for the kind of future this gig could lead them into.
"This is the first of many, Ray."
She didn't stop smiling for the next hour.
In her ideal scenario, she would have been eager to announce it to her dad. He would have rejoiced at the news, he would have understood what it meant for her. What she did instead was spend most of her Saturday afternoon trying to decide if she was going to risk telling him at all. When he got home tonight, she gathered her courage. The very moment she pronounced Watty White's name, the tiny hope she still held that he would take the news well vanished into thin air. She's not sure why she even held hope in the first place. They've been strangers living under the same roof since Tandy left for college last year. After their mother died, her sister had always been the one to act as a mediator, the one who tried to keep the three of them into something resembling a family.
A car pulls over on the side of the road. She's about to walk towards it when she realizes that with the headlights blinding her, she can't be entirely sure it's Deacon's. He gets out in a rush and heads into her direction before her hesitation can turn into alarm.
"You're alright?"
She slides her arms around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder. He pulls her closer into his warmth.
"Yes."
When she moves back, he looks down at her feet.
"Ray..."
"It's fine, just take me home."
Home. His apartment is not her home. It is, however, what has felt the closest to one lately. Deacon doesn't flinch at her use of the word.
"Alright." He removes his jacket and hands it to her before they get into his car.
They drive in silence for a while.
"What happened exactly?"
"He said I was allowed to stay in his house but I had to live by his rules. It wasn't going to happen. I left. End of story."
"He kicked you out like that?"
"I left like that."
She falls silent again. Deacon throws a look sideways to see her absently drawing with her finger on the misted window.
"I need a job," she says, suddenly.
"You have a job. You, me, next Friday, remember?"
"I mean a job that is going to pay for more than the gas to go there."
"Baby, you can stay at my place as long as you want and I'll help you as much as I can but are you sure—"
"Deacon, I'm not your responsability."
"I know. But I'll be happy to help, if you want me to. And I was going to say, are you sure your dad won't change his mind?"
"I won't change my mind."
Deacon Claybourne met Rayna Jaymes less than five months ago but he's already familiar with that look of determination on her face. She'll let nothing stand in her way.
Rayna is still waiting for reality to sink in and for panic to ensue but Deacon's bed, on a Sunday morning, with the sound of guitar coming from the kitchen, is not the place where it's going to happen.
She stirs, tempted to close her eyes again. Why did Deacon feel the need to get up already. She's about to call him back to bed when she notices the piece of paper laid down for her on his pillow. It's a note in his handwriting with lyrics she knows by heart.
I grew up fast and wild and I never felt right
In a garden so different from me
I just never belonged, I just longed to be gone
So the garden, one day, set me free.
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow.
He's sitting on one of the kitchen's chairs, strumming softly on his guitar, when she appears from the bedroom. She leans to kiss him. As she pulls away, he tugs at the hem of the blue t-shirt he lent her last night.
"Where are you going?"
"To steal your orange juice."
His tone gets more serious, "How are you doing?"
"Good, really. Don't worry."
"Do we need to expect your sister here at some point today, barging in, insulting me and trying to knock some sense into you?"
"Probably."
"Good to know."
She heads towards the cupboard in search of a glass. Without turning to look at him, she starts to sing quietly.
I uprooted myself from home ground and left
Took my dreams and I took to the road.
Deacon smiles.
"Breakfast?"