A/N: It's by far the oddest thing I've ever written. So... I hope you'll like it.
Rayna spends three weeks cooped up in her room.
She sleeps. She reads. She writes. She breaks down crying too many times to count.
Tandy, Bucky and Watty call every day until she requests they don't anymore. She loves them all to bits, but they keep asking if she's alright, and she's not anywhere close to alright. They keep begging her to come home, too, and she's not anywhere close to ready for that either.
The owner of the guest house she's staying in is a discreet middle-aged woman named Beth who brings her meals up to her room everyday without asking any question. Rayna knows by now she can trust her. If it weren't the case, the guest house's front lawn would be teeming with reporters.
It's the word of mouth that brings people to this middle-of-nowhere town. Fresh air, pristine nature, peaceful surroundings is what awaits them. Rayna heard about it from her drummer who had once spent a whole month hiking in the area.
She needed somewhere to disappear, and it sounded like the perfect place to.
—
On a whim, one day, Rayna asks Beth if there's a hair salon around. She has decided she needs a change. A radical change. And if this means she'll be less recognized, too, this can only be a good thing.
The closest one is Lily's salon in a town called Bellefleur, a two-hour drive away, so she calls for an appointment under an assumed name and makes the trip there in her rental car. She's early, and Lily is still busy with her previous client. She sits in one of the chairs while she waits. There's a bunch of magazines on the shelf in front of her, and she grabs the one at the top of the pile. Her face is on it. Exclusive! Where is Rayna hiding? the headline screams in bold yellow letters.
She puts the magazine back on the pile, leaves the salon and never comes back.
After that, it's another week until she gets out of her room again.
—
When she opens the door that morning, she finds a little candle in the muffin on her breakfast tray, a bouquet of wildflowers and a card. Happy birthday, Ms. Jaymes! it reads in a curly handwriting. She remembers she'd filled her birthdate on the check-in form, and she smiles.
As she carries the tray inside and places it on the table, she notices there's a lighter next to the vase. Beth really thought of everything. Rayna makes a mental note to thank her later, and not only for this. She's been a real angel since day one.
Rayna sits at the table before she lights the candle. This is not how she'd envisioned she would spend her twenty-fifth birthday. For the first time since she arrived, she feels lonely. She knows everyone will probably call today, even if she asked them not to, and the thought is comforting.
She closes her eyes and makes a wish, the same she makes every year since she turned thirteen, the one she knows will never happen. She wishes her mom could be there.
She blows out the candle.
—
Deacon Claybourne. The name sounds familiar, but she can't, for the love of God, remember when or where she's heard it before. Thursday nights at The Landslide, the poster in the lobby says. There's a drawing of a guitar, but no picture, so nothing to help her jog her memory. She has spotted another one of these posters already on her way back from her walk yesterday. When Rayna asks, Beth explains The Landslide is a bar, the only one in town.
Rayna is torn. On one hand, she is curious. On the other, she doesn't want to risk being recognized. The guest house is on the outskirts, so she's never had to go in town yet. She only ventures out for walks near the river or a little further into the woods sometimes. Bars tend to be dark, though. Maybe if she sits in the back, only listens to a couple of songs, people won't notice her.
Because she misses live music. She misses being on stage, of course, but she misses the mere fact of being in a music venue. It's starting to get to the point where she needs it. Almost like a drunk needs a drink, except music has always been good to her. Well, always until... she rather not think about that.
—
On the next Thursday, she showers, gets dressed and puts makeup on. She's wearing her favorites boots, and when she checks herself in the mirror on her way out, she's more determined than ever.
She makes it to the guest house's front door before she turns around.
Back in her room, she kicks her boots off but doesn't bother to undress before she crawls into bed, pulls the covers over her head and sleeps until the next morning.
—
It doesn't sound like her to fold up like a tent when things get bad.
She's afraid people will recognize her, but to be honest, she doesn't recognize herself these days, and that's a scarier thought. Watty has taught her steel is forged in fire, and it's been her life motto since she was sixteen. She fights to get what she wants. She doesn't give up.
So, on the second Thursday, she doesn't turn around.
She leaves a bit late in the hope the set will have begun when she'll arrive. It has, and she can discreetly slip in the back of the bar. All eyes are turned to the stage, and nobody pays attention to her when she sits at one of the two remaining tables.
The room is strangely quiet for a bar. Deacon Claybourne is sitting alone on a stool, an acoustic guitar in his lap, and he's talking about the next song he's going to perform. Now that she's seen him, she knows she's never met him before. Because she would have remembered. Oh, she would have. And when he starts to play... she forgets to breathe for a good thirty seconds.
She's frozen, not aware anymore she's in a room full of people. All that matters is this guy and his voice and his guitar singing about fireflies dancing in the yard under a blanket of stars. It's only when the song ends and the applause begins that her brain switches back to the here and now. She doesn't realize right away there's a waiter standing next to her table asking what she wants. She orders a whiskey. She doesn't really drink whiskey, but she just wants the waiter to go away, so she can listen to Deacon talk about his next song.
The rest of the evening goes in a blur. Twelve songs and two encores later, she wishes it wouldn't be over already.
She wants to go talk to him. More than anything. She hesitates for the longest time, but then she spots a woman at a nearby table pointing a finger in her direction and whispering in her friend's ear, and all of a sudden, reality bounces back at her.
She gets up, leaves money on the table for her last drink and walks out of the bar into the night.
—
For the next three days, all she can think about is Deacon Claybourne. It's getting more than a little embarrassing. On the fourth day, she caves and calls Watty.
"Hey, my little songbird. I was about to get worried."
"I'm fine, Watty." She wants to avoid having to talk about herself. She calls for a reason, she's a woman on a mission. "It's just... I went to a bar last night to listen to music."
"You did?" he asks, and while he'd aimed for neutral, it comes out as hopeful.
"There was this guy playing, Deacon Claybourne. I was wondering if the name rang any bells?"
"It does, but I haven't heard it in quite some time. When I was first helping you look for a guitar player, I had invited him to one of your open mics at the Bluebird. I wanted you two to meet."
"I don't remember that. What happened?"
"Well, he never came. He never called me back either. You found Adria then, and it worked out, so I didn't try to contact him anymore."
"Do you know what happened to him?"
"I know he got himself an opening spot on Merle's tour at some point, but he quit a few months into the tour. After that... I'm not sure. It's a shame, though, the guy had more talent than most."
"Well, his talent's still there. And not only on guitar, as a songwriter, too. He only played originals, and it was... you should have been there, Watty." There's a silence, and she swears she can hear Watty smile on the other end of the line. "What?" she asks.
"Nothing. It sounds like the guy made quite an impression on you."
"It's just that it was... unexpected."
"You've talked to him?"
"No, I left after his set."
"Why?"
"I didn't want to stay too long and have people in the bar recognize me."
"Ray—"
"Watty, I didn't call to talk about that," she cuts him off.
"You won't be able to hide forever, Ray."
"Well, you don't know that. We'll talk later, okay?" She hangs up before he gets a chance to answer.
She's sitting on the bed, and she looks on the nightstand at the flyer she brought back from the bar four days ago. She's got even more questions than before she called Watty.
If she wants answers, she'll have to go to the source.
—
TBC