Little regrets were completely ok – if anything, they were surely only to be expected. As an added benefit in your particular case, they could even be dredged up later on talk shows to make you seem more amusing and "relatable."
Shouldn't have eaten the whole pint of ice cream, wish I'd never gotten that dye job in the eighties…
Even medium-sized ones were fine. Bound to be character-building.
That record probably could have been a little bit better, I never really wanted to move into that house…
Big regrets, though.
As in, big.
Did anybody ever really admit to those? Did other people even have them?
Your father, never one to miss an opportunity for a post-dinner lecture, has you well-warned about the myriad of dangers associated with alcohol consumption. You could end up with a DUI that would stay on your record forever, essentially precluding admittance to a decent college and therefore putting the immediate kibosh on any future career success and a productive adult life. You could get date raped and not even know it. You could contract alcohol poisoning and choke on your own vomit and die alone in a ditch.
What he fails to mention during these chats, however, is that as it turns out, drinking can actually also be really, really fun - especially when undertaken with the right person. It is kind of like sex in that respect – coincidentally, another area in which your father always tended towards the hyperbolic and authoritarian.
Objectively speaking, it perhaps isn't difficult to see why, for more reasons than one, he doesn't greet Deacon Claybourne's arrival in Nashville generally, and in your life specifically, with any great degree of enthusiasm.
In the early years, Deacon rents a house downtown with a few other guys, all of whom are trying to make it in one branch or other of the music industry. The refrigerator isn't the cleanest you've ever seen, and showers are frequently either freezing or scalding, but you love the place. Somebody builds a fire pit in the backyard, and after dinner hours are spent crowded around it, all the guys and various friends and girlfriends, every second person cradling a guitar or a banjo. These, you can say without a second's hesitation, are glorious, happy memories - of warm evenings and sloppy kisses, the songs getting, by turns, increasingly giddy or increasingly honest as crate after crate of beer disappears.
In later years, as things start to pick up with your music (and you both turn 21), the two of you start to go out a little more. Deacon graduates to a Jamison's and you to a Southern Comfort, and most weekends you go to gigs and are to be seen stumbling home hand-in-hand from Nashville's finest drinking establishments. There are definitely mornings when he's feeling a little delicate - but more often than not, you're the one left gingerly swallowing toast and begging for a swift death as he mocks you good-naturedly.
Anyway, the point is, for a long time, you, Deacon and booze are actually all pretty happy bedfellows. It isn't something you worry about, or really think about much at all. Drinking isn't a crutch and it isn't a hindrance, for either of you – it's just about laughing and dancing, maybe celebrating yet another career milestone that you never really thought you'd reach.
It's hard to say for sure when things start to change. Undoubtedly after Vince dies, though probably a little bit before that as well. All you really know is that suddenly, it can't be denied that Deacon is downing those whiskeys with a little bit more fervor and frequency - but it doesn't seem like he's having much fun doing it anymore.
People start to talk, and you know that there are those who think he has let the success and the money go to his head – that actually, he's just being an irresponsible asshole, buying into the hype and enjoying himself a little too much. Sometimes, when you're so frightened you're furious, similar thoughts cross your own mind. But then, in the quiet moments, where it's just the two of you on the bathroom floor and he's coming out of the haze, it is so searingly obvious to you that he hates this now. He hates the booze and the pills and the whole cycle and himself, but he can't stop.
He can't.
At a certain point, of course it becomes apparent that, logically speaking, cutting all ties is your best bet. But it's hard - because of work, and because you love him so much. For his part, in his more lucid moments he tries to let you go a few times too, saying that you deserve better, that he doesn't want you to see him like this anymore. When it comes right down to it, though, the fact of the matter is that neither of you seem to be very good at staying away.
Nonetheless, during those last few years, you and Deacon Claybourne have more make-ups and break-ups than you can even remember. Certainly, you'd imagine, more than he could remember. It's funny how you become almost accustomed to that rhythm of on again, off again, on again, off again. It's funny how little the formal status of your relationship ends up mattering. Either way, he is pretty much all you can think about, all the time – and often not in a good way.
Oh, undoubtedly, there are some good days along the way, sometimes good weeks or months, even - where the session guitarist you now have on a constant retainer 'just in case' is sent home, where Deacon is on an even keel and the two of you get to perform and write and kiss just like you used to. You live for these moments; you wait for them and store them away greedily in your memory, grabbing all of him that you can get before he goes away again.
Because of course, you also get a front row seat for the utterly fucking terrifying moments, when they roll around – rushing him to hospital, unconscious, as a cluster of strangers frantically hook him up to machines, inserting various tubes to keep his airways open and pump his stomach. The empty, heartbreaking moments, too, become a familiar scene; you argue with him and cry with him and clean up his vomit. You sit at his bedside as he is given fluids through an IV, encouraging him to take small sips of water through a straw, trying anything to make him smile.
That in the midst of all this, you are somehow maintaining a highly demanding, highly public career which requires you to attend ass-kissy events and answer questions about your outfit, seems almost laughable at times.
You hold your breath hopefully through a succession of ultimately unsuccessful treatment programmes, and feel some indefinable part of yourself harden and die as your father tells you again what a fool you are.
When Deacon goes into rehab for his fourth stint – four months in Pennsylvania - you are not his girlfriend. The programme doesn't permit contact with friends or family, and you both agree sadly that this enforced separation is probably no bad thing. Neither of you will give (or take) the space that is so desperately needed otherwise, but a break – a real one - for both of you to get your shit together and figure out what the hell you want, has started to seem like a good idea. It's probably the only thing you haven't really tried yet.
He has been gone for about six weeks when your sister starts dropping hints about some corporate guy who's just moved to town from Philadelphia. You waste no time in telling her that you can honestly think of nothing worse. Tandy is a master manipulator though, and isn't used to taking no for an answer and – the real kicker – also genuinely wants you to be happy. It is thanks to this unique combination that a few weekends later, you unwittingly find yourself sitting across a table from one Teddy Conrad.
He is nothing at all like Deacon. But it turns out that's just fine.
In the interests of Moving On, over the course of the next two months you go to some nice dinners with him or - on rare days off from a truly insane work schedule - maybe to the movies or the park. You like him, he's undeniably a likeable guy. He is easy company and good-looking and when you're not with him, you don't have to spend one single second wondering whether or not he is still alive.
One Wednesday evening, you step off the plane from an L.A recording session with tentative plans to meet Teddy for a drink, and it takes all of about twenty minutes for word to reach you that Deacon is back. You are rushing over to his house before you can even really think about it, just needing to see him with your own eyes. He's sitting on the porch when you pull up, but he recognizes your car and jumps to his feet, striding purposefully down to meet you. You launch yourself into his arms with a force that nearly knocks him backwards and he clings on to you as if for dear life.
You breathe in the scent of him deeply and when you finally speak, the words come out muffled against his chest. "You ok?"
"Yeah," he says seriously. "I'm…good, I think. All the better for seeing you." He puts both his hands on your cheeks, tilting your face up so he can look at you. "Man, I missed you, Ray."
You can only nod furiously, wordlessly, clenching your jaw to keep from crying.
The urge to kiss him, to be kissed by him, is suddenly overwhelming. Still, you force yourself to step out of his grasp, and back away slowly. Three prior trips down this particular road would be enough to make anyone a little gun shy, and you have already decided that if this time is going to be different, maybe you have to be different.
"I gotta go," you say, and he nods as you turn and walk away.
You are just about to get in your car when, on impulse, you swing back around to look at him. He's still there, standing in the exact same spot, just watching you.
"I'm supposed to be doing this charity thing this weekend," you say. "It's at the Douglas Corner Café. Rehearsal's Friday morning. You in?"
He smiles. "I'm in."
And that's how you first learn to fully appreciate the fact that whatever is happening with Deacon, whatever is happening with you and Deacon, he's still a damn good guitar player; that Saturday night, every single person in your band is better just because he's there – including you. Maybe especially you. Almost without you really noticing, that kid finger-picking Willie Nelson songs in the backyard, laughing as you tried to sing octaves below your range, has gone and become one of the best in the business.
Teddy, to his credit, voices no objection over the next few months when you continue to play various local gigs and showcases with your ex-boyfriend, or when you cross the room to go talk to him at events. For his part, Deacon doesn't ask many questions (or offer any opinion) on this stranger who now shows up at the end of rehearsals sometimes, bringing you coffee and putting his hand on the small of your back. You saw that look on his face though, when Teddy ran up to kiss you unexpectedly after the Douglas Corner show. He looked like he had been punched in this stomach – and you felt kind of like you had too.
Indeed, is an odd and slightly infuriating fact that, despite making no attempts to undermine or interfere with your fledgling relationship in any way, Deacon's mere presence in town seems to do the trick. You can tell that Teddy is getting anxious to move things forward – and really, he's such a good guy, and you like him more and more. There's no reason why you shouldn't want to go to Cape Cod for a long weekend and meet his parents. That is, after all, what people do. They make plans and memories and become more invested in each other with the passage of time.
And yet.
And yet.
The uncomfortable truth is that with each day that passes – with each day that Deacon stays on the straight and narrow – you feel yourself becoming just that little bit less interested in going to Cape Cod or anywhere else with Teddy.
It's a matter of time, and deep down you know that. When it finally happens, it's backstage at the Ryman Auditorium after three nights of stellar shows, road testing some new material along with the old favorites. You're due to fly to L.A on an overnight flight just a few hours after curtain down, but Deacon stops by your dressing room to say a quick goodnight. As you thank each other for a great show, and chat a little back and forth about the buzz of such an amazing audience, you notice how clear his eyes are, how his whole face is open and expressive. He has been out of rehab, clean and sober for over three months now – a record, by quite some distance.
It hits you like a lightening bolt; this is it.
He has come back to you, really and truly, like you always knew he would. You can just feel it.
Perhaps Deacon says something then, some silly, familiar thing in that low whisper he always saved just for you. Or maybe you look at him for just a second too long, going for platonic friendship but missing the mark by a hair's breadth - you really couldn't say. What you can remember is the way the air around you both seems to change, and how the monumental effort that it has taken to keep your distance all this time suddenly feels like such an utterly stupid waste of energy.
And then somehow or other his mouth is on yours, and your hands are eager and everywhere. He is pulling you flush against him, and you are biting softly at his neck, soothing it with your tongue as he exhales slowly. You are watching his body move in the dim light, your breath catching sharply in your throat, and he is undressing you with that same quiet focus that first taught you how to feel sexy. And it is all just good.
Afterwards, it occurs to you that this probably isn't the first time a couch in a plush headliner dressing room has seen some action. But you'd wager it's not often that love has so much to do with it.
Of course, you have to leave, your plane is waiting – but you'll only be away for two days, you say, almost to yourself as much as to him. Sitting facing him, nestled between his legs with your own limbs still wrapped around him, you are thoroughly disinclined to go anywhere at this point. Deacon hugs you close, dropping his head to nuzzle at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and you sigh reflexively.
You'll have to go and end things with Teddy the evening you land back in Nashville, you continue, a little guiltily. He just nods against your clavicle, but when he raises his head to looks up at you, you can see the relief etched on his face as plainly as day. You put your hands on his neck, your thumbs tracing lazily over his jawline.
"I love you. A lot." you say quietly.
"I love you," he returns, his voice equally intense, and you let your forehead fall to rest against his.
"You're everything," he breathes out, tightening his grip on you.
It's barely audible, but you hear it.
When Coleman calls the next night, it's probably nearly midnight. You're in your hotel room, watching something mindless on TV, and - if the late hour isn't enough of a clue - as soon as he starts to speak you can tell something awful has happened.
"...Found him at his house this afternoon…." he starts explaining, and you immediately feel physically ill.
"… Not in good shape… said something about how he thought he could be normal again, he thought he'd be able to have just one now … something about 'just one to celebrate', I don't know…. passed out cold… hospital…"
On the other end of the line, you're drifting in and out, picking up key phrases but no more. You get the feeling Coleman is probably trying his best to break this news in a sensitive yet comprehensive manner, but the effort is entirely wasted on you.
"Cole," you interrupt, with sudden single-minded clarity, "Just tell me he's not dead."
And as soon as you know that he is not, you sink right back into that strange, distant state. It's like some kind of paralysis; as though your whole body is shutting down, rejecting this information and becoming numb, whilst your heart keeps pumping loudly as a drum in your ears.
Coleman continues to speak, he seems to be talking about some kind of rehab programme now, but you are still absorbing only a few words here and there– words like "experimental" and "expensive" and "immediately."
"If you think it'll work then just do it," you hear yourself say at some point, your voice sounding dazed even to your own ears. "Just do it. I don't care what it costs, it doesn't matter."
"The hospital said they would release him sooner if he was entering an in-patient facility – I could have him there tomorrow morning."
"Great." You swallow, a bit disorientated by the apparent speed of the whole process, feeling entirely incapable of dealing with this right now. "That's … great. Do that, then. That seems like it would be… the best thing. I guess. Doesn't it? I guess it seems like it would."
"I think so," Coleman reassures you gently, starting into some more information about the center that you don't hear. "You know, Rayna," he says eventually, "he's conscious now".
Your ears prick up.
"Keeps saying he wants to speak to you. I'm in the hall right now but I could probably smuggle my cell phone into his room if you want."
You do want.
You're not even sure why, but you do.
"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says when he gets on the phone. He sounds devastated.
"You're sorry," you repeat, and it comes out in some kind of strange spluttering mixture of a gulp and an exhale. "Jesus, Deacon. I know you're sorry. I… I know you are. But…" you pause, entirely at a loss, not knowing what the end of that sentence was ever going to be.
Ray," he says, and there's a slight edge of urgency to his voice now. "Did something happen between us last night? I feel like it did, but then … I got so messed up and I don't know if I just…" he sighs in frustration, his words coming out disjointedly. "I don't know…. did we… did we kiss, or…. anything?"
He doesn't remember. Casting a hand across your face, leaning back weakly against the headboard of your hotel bed, you realize that your cheeks are soaked with tears. You don't know how long you have been crying, you hadn't noticed.
He doesn't remember.
There was some kind of broken hopefulness to his voice as he trailed off, and you can tell that he wants desperately for it to be true – that he wants you. Of all things, you have never, ever doubted this. You know that Deacon Claybourne loves you like you know your own name. But you can see now that this disease won't ever let him go – and it will take every beautiful, precious thing with it until there is nothing left of either of you.
In that moment, it occurs to you that, ok, maybe the highs mightn't ever be quite as high with Teddy Conrad, or with someone like him.
But the lows sure wouldn't be this low.
You swallow thickly, ignoring the taste of bile in your mouth. "No," you say. "I'm with Teddy, you know that. Just…go to Utah, Deacon."
When you hang up the phone, you cry and cry until there is nothing left inside you.
Six weeks later, you discover you are pregnant.
This one took a while, would love to hear your thoughts! May write a second part if i get a chance, exploring Rayna's thoughts throughout Maddie's childhood on the whole paternity thing, so if that seems like something you'd be interested in, let me know!
