She was standing at the kitchen sink, wearing one of his flannel shirts. He could tell all she was doing was looking out the window. Her hands were resting on the edge of the sink. He wondered what she was thinking. He was sure it was something about him and that made him sad.

She'd been distant the last two days, when she wasn't either yelling at him or being coldly frank. It had been like that since he'd woken up in the hospital to find out he'd had to have his stomach pumped out due to alcohol poisoning. The memory of what had happened before that was still hazy, but he did remember drinking and not being able to stop. What he couldn't really remember was why.

At first she'd been crying and scared and she hugged him, telling him how worried she'd been, but then, when they got home, she'd turned on him and told him he had to go back to rehab, that she was done. He had told her he wouldn't go and she had threatened to leave, so he'd given in. She'd spent the day calling around until she found a place that had an opening. She made him sleep on the couch the first night, locking the bedroom door. He'd sat on the front porch, with a bottle of whiskey, and eventually passed out on the porch swing.

They had argued when she'd found him there the next morning and then she'd stopped talking to him. He had tried to sweet talk her, but she would pull away. When she did look at him, all he saw was hurt and pain and deep, deep sorrow. Her eyes had dark circles under them and her hair was a mess, but she still looked so beautiful to him. And he promised her he would do it this time. He'd make it work.

The second night, she still made him sleep on the couch, but she didn't lock the bedroom door, and in the middle of the night he had opened the door and crawled in bed with her. She had told him to get out, but then she had reached for him and they had ended up having rough, angry sex until they both fell asleep, exhausted.

When he woke up, she wasn't in bed, and this was where he'd found her. He walked up behind her. He knew she'd heard him, because he heard her sigh and drop her head. He stepped closer and put one arm around her waist and the other across her breasts, his hand on her opposite shoulder. He leaned into her, his face against her neck. "I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered.

She breathed in. She'd been standing there for she had no idea how long, wondering how she was going to do this again. How she was going to send him away for a third time. And yet, she had to. He was spiraling deep into the cycle and she couldn't control him. Her heart ached for him, for his struggle and his demons, even while she had such intense anger that he was so weak in this one area.

As he wrapped her up in his arms, she was reminded of the soreness between her legs that spoke of frantic, desperate sex. When they were feeling that way, the sex was always rough and filled with anger and yet also with intense passion. She didn't mind it, but she hated that it happened when there was so much disappointment.

Feeling his body pressed against hers started that warm tingle deep down inside. He was her love and her lover and her soul and the music. He was in her blood and she knew with a crystal clarity that it would always be so. She felt his breath against her neck. "I know," she said.

What she wanted to say to him was "You're always sorry, Deacon. And yet you repeat this pattern over and over again." But this would be his last day and tonight he would be leaving her and she didn't want to fight. She never like to fight right before he left for rehab. She almost laughed as she thought that. She never would have thought this would become a habit for him, as much a habit as a bottle of whiskey. Then she wanted to cry, for the same reason.

She reached her hand up and put it on his arm and let herself relax and lean back into him. "I love you, Deacon," she said softly.

"I love you, Rayna," he said against her neck, his warm breath tickling that place right behind her ear.

She felt that all the way down to her toes and she caught her breath, arching her back against him. He slid his hand from her waist down between her legs, discovering she had nothing on under the flannel shirt. She closed her eyes. "Please," she whispered.

His hand hovered where it was. "Please yes or please no?" he asked.

She pushed herself against him. "Please yes," she moaned. Her body tingled as he entered her and then began to move inside her. She pushed against the counter and back against him, trying to take in more of him. He took his time, touching her in all the ways she loved, until she was at the top of the cliff. He leaned on her back and touched his lips to the top of her spine and the waves of pleasure crashed over her again and again. She was so caught up in it, she hardly heard his own moans of pleasure.


It was afterwards, as they moved around the house, that they started to talk to each other in lyrics. They would sit at the coffee table and she would write and he would play the guitar and then he would put aside the guitar and take her in his arms and she would kiss him with wild abandon. Sometimes she would straddle him, sometimes they made it to the couch. Once he caught her in the bathroom. And then they'd come back to the work of songwriting. She would cry sometimes, as would he. They sat on the couch for a long time, just holding each other, with no words.

"We live our lives in the dark," she said.

"The night's gonna be here too soon and I'll be gone," he said.

"We rise like the moon."

"There are walls to keep us apart."

"Our love runs deep."

"There are so many rivers to cross."

"I wish I could keep you close."

"I wish I didn't have to leave."

"Time just keeps running out."

"I wish you didn't have to do this."

"I feel empty when you're gone."

"So many secrets."

As the sun crossed over into afternoon, everything seemed more frantic. When darkness fell, he'd be leaving, so they hurried to finish the song, finally finding what they were looking for. He took her to bed one last time, their lovemaking slow and poignant. She cried again and murmured over and over how much she loved him. He begged her to wait, to be there, to not give up. "Help me hold on, baby," he whispered in her ear, as she curled herself up against him as tightly and completely as she could.

She ran her fingers down his chest, then leaned over to kiss him there. "That's the last line," she said.

He was leaving at seven-thirty. They finally got out of bed and took a shower together. They got dressed and she heated up some leftovers. They picked at them, as they held hands and looked into each other's eyes.

They settled on the couch and he picked up a guitar and they sang the song all the way through. They had decided they would sing it together, alternating harmonies, a true expression of the interconnectedness they had.

The rivers between us are deep / And dark as the secrets we keep / We stand on the shores / Time runnin' by at our feet / Oh, the rivers between us are deep

Our love is like the moon / Rising too fast, fading too soon / This night will soon be gone / Help me hold on

There are kingdoms to keep us apart / So we live out our lives in the dark / Love has a way / Of making you pay with your heart / There are kingdoms to keep us apart

Our love is like the moon / Rising too fast, fading too soon / This night will soon be gone / Help me hold on

Help me hold on...

She clung to him beside the car, wishing she didn't have to send him away, hoping this time was the one that took. He clung to her, scared he would disappoint her again, but promising her he would not. She ran her fingers over his face and he did the same. He sought out her lips and kissed her long and hard, their tears mixing together as they tried to stretch out time.

And then he was gone. She stood on the sidewalk long after the car disappeared from view, sobbing as though her heart was broken. Which it was. She closed her eyes and prayed that he could do it this time. Because she wasn't at all sure she could go through this again.

Help me hold on...