1 – 1992
The first time Rayna sees Deacon break something in a drunken rage scares her so badly that she goes to a hotel for the night. They've been living together for six months and she's seen a whole new side of him, darker and more violent than he's ever let on. Years later, she can't even remember what set him off that night. He's stayed out with the guys in the band after their show, letting her go home alone (another reason she is mad at him) and she is already curled up in bed, half-asleep (she can never fully fall asleep when she knows he's out drinking), when she hears him bang through the front door.
Their one-bedroom apartment is modest, but clean and roomy. Most importantly, it's their first home together - with old concert posters on the dining room walls and a couch with stuffing popping out of the back. She may be becoming a household name, but the designer wardrobe, stylists, and manager the label has "encouraged" her to take on eat away more of her paycheck than she ever thought possible. It's something she and Deacon fight about with increasing frequency.
She pads out to the living room in one of his old shirts, her eyes full of sleep and worry. He's already in the kitchen pulling the bottle of whiskey from its spot on the counter. "Hey babe," she says softly. He just looks at her and gulps his whiskey from a dirty glass he finds by the side of the sink. "Did you drive home?" she asks, concern laced with the anger bubbling up from the pit of her stomach. She hasn't moved from her spot by the bedroom door.
"Leave it, Ray," he warns.
"Babe, you could have called me, you know that," she reminds him, her tone gentle but her eyes fiery. "You should have called me."
"I'm fine, Ray," he scoffs and brings the bottle into living room with him, the glass long forgotten.
"How much have you had to drink?" It's the wrong question to ask because she already knows the answer and she won't admit to herself that she asks it because she wants to rile him up, wants him to see how angry she is, wants him to see how much this hurts her.
"You keeping tabs on me now? You my momma?" he spits, sitting on the couch. She doesn't approach him. "Gotta call my mommy to come pick me up and bring me home to this rat-infested, shithole apartment? Come sleep on my Salvation Army sofa with my fucking Goodwill coffee table?" he is all-out yelling now.
"Deacon, calm down," she pleads. This side of him scares her. "Come to bed," she implores. But he just stands up, wide eyes and grabs the nearest object – the dingy lamp on the end table.
"Why, Ray, you afraid I'm going to damage your precious furniture?" he asks before hurling the lamp toward the front door, sparks flying where the cord is ripped from the socket, shattered glass strafing the carpet. It takes her a second to realize what has happened, to see the depth of his rage. She can't even respond, she just turns back for the bedroom, grabbing her pants off the floor and her overnight bag from the top shelf of the tiny closet, grabbing some underwear and a change of clothes from the dresser and her toothbrush from the vanity. He doesn't follow her, but is oddly quiet.
When she finally returns to the living room – dressed, with her overnight bag at 2:00 am - he doesn't even say anything to her. She grabs her purse and mutters a half-hearted, "I need to get away. I'll come back tomorrow when you're sober," and opens the door. When she looks back at him, there is pity in her eyes. She doesn't even tell him where she is going.
She returns with a bag of bagels the next morning, hat and sunglasses covering her trademark red hair, and finds him curled up on the couch, still fully clothed and passed out cold. The pieces of the lamp form a pile against the wall and she gingerly starts to pick up the larger shards. When she nicks herself on a corner, her "Oh shit" doesn't even garner a response. She sucks the wounded finger into her mouth, tasting the coppery blood and goes to the kitchen to rinse the cut. She looks out on the scene, empty whiskey bottle, broken lamp and shattered man, and realizes this will be the rest of her life. She loves this man, she really does, but she doesn't know if she can live her life this way. The tears that have been pricking the back of her eyes since the previous night finally squeeze out and she knows what she owes to herself.
Fifteen minutes later she is sobbing, packing again – her large suitcase this time. She doesn't know if she is leaving him or just leaving for now, but she knows she can't be here. She hears him stumble into the bedroom behind her – still drunk, but no longer angry.
"Ray, babe," he rasps, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She half winces and half melts into his familiar warmth. "I'm sorry," he whispers into her ear, his voice cracking. She feels his lips on the back of her neck.
"I brought bagels," she tells him matter-of-factly, leaning her head away from his kiss while continuing to fold the clothes in her suitcase.
"I'm so sorry," he repeats, his arms still around her. She can feel his breath catch against her back and realizes he is crying.
"Deacon, you're always sorry," she finally responds, turning in his arms. "I can't do this," she says. He looks broken, and backs away.
"You're leaving me?" he says, realization dawning on him. "Please, no," he begs. "Please." He drops to his knees in front of her, burying his head against her stomach.
"I can't live like this," she explains, her voice oddly steady. It is taking every fiber of strength she has to stay calm and she knows if she lets herself break in front of him, she will never have the willpower to leave.
"Please, Ray," he begs, his sobs muffled against the flannel shirt she is still wearing. "I'll do anything. Just don't leave. Don't leave me here alone."
"You scared me last night," she tells him softly, placing her hands on either side of his temples and forcing him to look her in the eyes before burying her fingers in his hair and stroking his scalp as she finally lets the tears run down her face.
"I'll do anything," he reiterates, "I love you. Meetings or rehab or whatever. Just please stay with me." He lifts the hem of her shirt to press a kiss to the soft skin above the waistline of her jeans. "I love you," he whispers again.
She closes her eyes, daring to let hope rise up the back of her throat as yesterday's stubble rasps against her belly. She wants to believe him, and maybe last night was the breaking point for him, too. Maybe her leaving last night has sent a strong enough message. As he slowly starts to move his kisses up her torso, unbuttoning her shirt as he goes, her love for him overtakes everything else she is feeling. Her answer is out of her mouth before she has a chance to think twice about it.
"Okay. But it can never happen again."
Later she will learn to use words like "codependent" and "enabler," but today all she feels is the relief that washes over her, his promises muffled against her skin.
Two days later she comes home to find him strumming a song she hasn't heard before, a song about quitting the bottle and coming home to the person you love. It's the first time she almost leaves him, but it won't be the last.