And so begin the years of recording and touring together – again.
That first go around, you're in the studio for about six months overall, but fairly intermittently, which may be why Teddy seems to tolerate it without too great a fuss. Alas, though, as the time to get out on the road draws nearer, you find yourself up against a little more resistance than you'd bargained for on the home front.
There's an army of people on these big tours, you keep saying, and a million things to do and people to meet all day long. It's not like it will be just you and Deacon anymore, singing love songs and then cosying up on the bunk beds. Except for on the stage, you'll probably barely even see each other. And, really, since the day and hour you married him, have you ever given your husband a reason not to trust you? What does it say for your relationship if he doesn't?
When Teddy finally relents, you don't know if it's the strength of your arguments that does it, or if perhaps he can just sense that this is not a battle he will win. In any case, much of what you told him happens to be true. There are a lot more people involved this time around, and some of the old songs have been quietly dropped from the set list. Free time doesn't (often) mean card games and Southern Comfort these days – what little of it you have is more likely to be spent on the phone with your daughters or on a red eye back to Nashville.
Still, though, the fact remains that in a lot of ways, being out on tour (being out on tour with Deacon) turns out to feel more or less exactly the way it always did.
It turns out to feel pretty damn good.
The first date is in San Antonio, and waiting in the wings that night, you are seized by the silent, sickly kind of nerves you haven't felt since you were sixteen years old. But then you hear the opening strains of that familiar guitar riff, and it feels as though something that has been dormant in you begins to ignite just a little. When you look over towards Deacon on the far side of the stage, his eyes are already on you, calm and perceptive, a brief nod seeming to tell you that, yes, you can do this. Give 'em hell, darlin', that's what he used to say. And as you step out to face the crowd, you are reminded of what you had known instinctively from your first contemplation of a return to the spotlight: you could not do this without him.
Or, maybe that's not quite true. Maybe you just don't want to. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.
Either way, on stage that night, he is everything. Even in front of huge audiences, making music is a peculiarly intimate experience, and you feel safe with him. You also, as a side benefit, happen to find him damn entertaining. You had actually almost forgotten Deacon Claybourne's capacity to energise you and surprise you, how he made you want to impress him up there. You perform with and for each other, and it feels as though every tiny, tentative step over these last months of recording and rehearsing has been meant to lead you here – back to this sacred space, where there is simply no-one who knows either one of you better than the other.
Walking off after the encore, Deacon slings an arm across your shoulders just like he always used to, and somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that this is completely legit now. You're allowed to just enjoy it. And as you reach up to latch on to his fingers, smiling and waving out to the crowd with your free hand, it's honestly pretty hard not to enjoy it.
The moment you're out of public view, you turn in his arms, breathless and buzzing with excitement. You are sticky-sweaty but it doesn't even occur to you to care as you hug him tightly
"Feels good, huh?" he says, squeezing you back, sounding as close to giddy as you ever thought you'd hear him.
"The best," you reply, with an exhale that is equal parts elation and contentment. "The best."
You are pulled apart after that, swept away by other people clapping you both on the back, hollering and offering congratulations. Later, there's an impromptu party in the hotel with the entire band and crew, plus a sizeable contingent of record label execs and various others you don't even recognize. With everyone on a high from such an amazing opening night, drinks and laughter flow, the entire suite abuzz with music and conversation. It's frankly a far cry from your usual evenings, pacing the hallway in sweatpants with a teething Daphne, or staying up late to make a homemade lasagne which Maddie will inevitably reject unceremoniously the next day.
Of course, if you had to choose, you can say without a shadow of a doubt that you'd still take their sticky fingers and sweet smiles every time. But it's undeniably wonderful to realize that perhaps you don't have to choose. Because the truth is, you like this too. You like wearing high heels and talking to other adults – ones who all love the very same thing you love, at that. You like drinking champagne and being complimented. Even if it feels a little wrong to admit it, you like being the center of attention again.
Deacon doesn't do parties much these days, but even he has made an appearance on this occasion and you've been peripherally aware of him all night. You don't know if he's been keeping an eye on you too, but he manages to catch you at a quiet moment, swooping in after a group of the wardrobe assistants decide to call it a night and leave you alone.
"Good show, Miss Jaymes," he says loftily, approaching with his flute of sparkling water tilted towards you.
"Why, thank you," you answer faux demurely, clinking your glass against his. "You can call me Rayna."
"…And hey," you add as laughs, "back atcha."
You don't tell him then that those two hours on stage were the most fun you can remember having in quite some time. Deacon doesn't admit that he really, genuinely isn't sure how he managed to go without that for so long. But as you stand there, just smiling at each other like two fools, it doesn't matter. The truth is clear to both of you: what was broken between you has finally, fully been restored. You are a team again.