Not totally thrilled with this chapter. I was hoping to have this chapter combining Episodes 11 and 12. But alas, this is only Episode 11. This is kind of a depressing chapter but so was the episode I suppose. As always, every comment and PM are amazing & I can't thank you all for the continued support. It soo makes me want to write more! Thank you again!

CHAPTER 8

Fifty Seven

I have been sober for 4,420 days

I take my ten year chip out of my billfold and palm the medal in my hand. I look down at Vince's ring. The one I've worn since his mama gave it to me after the funeral. I've never taken it off. And for a moment I let my anger go at that damn article.

And that was a mistake. 'cause the need to punch the wall is replaced by a want to just sit down and cry.

4, 420 days.

I'm proud of that number. But I also hate that number. Add two and half years to get how long how Vince has been dead. Subtract about eight months from the number to get the last time I kissed Rayna. Add almost a year to the total to get the last time Ray and I made love.

My eyes wander to the bullshit magazine lying on the floor. The floor she and I sat on for years when we were writing songs. The floor we made love on. The floor she walked when I was doing what I later couldn't remember. And then I make my way to the bedroom.

And because I'm a masochist and a glutton for punishment I head to my dresser. Third drawer. And reach around until I feel the velvet box. I haven't looked at it in years. The top of the box is missing some of the velvet; it's where I rubbed it off years ago with my her wedding day alone, I must have rubbed the box thousands of times while I held it in my hand.

But I learned a long time ago, that box makes me wish for a life I don't have. I can deal with the memories. Hell, I live for the memories. But imagining what might have been and what could have been. Like….what would happen if I proposed to her all those years ago or how I would have proposed to her? Or what if I'd sobered up before my 5th time in rehab. Or what if I'd stopping her from leaving when she reached for the handle in my truck after we sang at the Bluebird? That thought leads me to crave a drink.

I put the box back in the drawer without ever opening it. I whisper to myself "one day at a time." 4, 420 one days at a time later and I'm still rubbing the damn box.

Fifty Eight

I keep hearing what Calista said over and over again in my head.

"I know how hard leaving is…but it doesn't make staying right." She was talking about me leaving Edgehill for Countless. But I keep hearing her words over and over again in my head. It sounds like something Deacon would say. Actually, it sounds more like a lyric Deacon would write. I haven't heard his voice in weeks. And then I feel a pit in my stomach again, thinking about the article I read on the plane.

I know it's not true. I'd know if was drinking again. Every cop and bartender in Nashville would know. So would Coleman. Deacon would be over at picking fights and breaking everything in sight. But even without a public arrest or a call from Coleman, I'd know.

Like the night of the wreck. I knew something was wrong before the phone rang. And when Deacon nearly died a few months later from alcohol poisoning…I knew he was in trouble before the house phone pinged. The time Deacon ran to the grocery store to get toothpaste and was gone for thirty five minutes…I knew he'd fallen off the wagon then too.

I told Tandy a long time ago that when Deacon died, I'd know before anybody told me. I'd know before the hospital called or the police showed up. And just thinking about that leads me to search the kitchen for my car keys.

And I hear Caslista's words again in my head, letting them slosh around in my head as I close the door.

Fifty Nine

I literally cannot move.

My legs are shaking and I'm pretty sure if I take a step in any direction, I'll topple over. So I just keep looking at the left side of his house, willing him to come back. Waiting for him to come back.

I remind myself he hasn't been drinking. He smelled only of his cologne. He didn't stumble when he walked. He didn't rip up the sign and he didn't kick the side of the house. He is still sober.

That is something. No. That is everything. I can take whatever he dishes as long as long as he isn't drinking.

And I look towards the front door, hopeful that maybe he's let himself in the backdoor and walked around. But he still isn't coming.

And my legs are on more solid ground now. But I still can't move. Now I'm afraid of throwing up if I so much as lift one of my arms. He's never verbalized that I'm unhappy with Teddy before. We don't talk about that. He doesn't talk about that. But he just did. And he did with that smile. The smile that wasn't a real smile. It's one I haven't seen in so long that I'd forgotten what it looked like. Thinking of that smile sends shivers down my back. That smile, was the smile he had when he was drunk. It was the one he gave when he was ready to toil out some sage piece of what he, in his drunken condition, considered a truth.

Then I turn my head to see the for sale sign and my head starts spinning. He's selling our house. It haven't referred to it as mine house or our house in years. Neither has he. He bought me out a few years after he got sober. It was something I didn't want to do but I couldn't think of a single reason to say no. He's probably has had countless women in our bedroom since then. He's probably created a million memories that aren't of me or us. And the truth is, I don't care. I still consider it my house. I feel warm and I'm pretty sure I see black dots out of the corner of my eyes. And I look back up at the front door and around the side of the house. And he's still not coming back.

Deacon practically spat out the last words he said to me. He'd only used that tone a few times with me. And every one of them, I'd excused because he reeked of alcohol. But not this time. No this time he was sober and selling our house.

He told me I'd lost faith in him and he did that knowing "hmm" thing he use to do. His eyes were sparkling in anticipation of seeing me hurt. A look that even at his worst, he rarely gave me. That look was the one he gave Daddy, or Buck, or Coleman, or his sister, or some police officer, or stranger at a bar. But not me.

And still I'm standing in front yard. And he's not coming back. But my legs still won't move. And my stomach is still rolling. And I can't make my eyes focus completely. So I just stand in the front yard and remind myself to breathe.

Sixty

I had every intention of going to that damn party.

I had every intention of going to the Party. Sure, I've missed a couple of parties thrown by the label. "Black" went gold a few weeks after Vince's death. I was drunk at some bar. "Behind Me" hit the top of the charts when I was in that center in Georgia. But I still have those stupid plaques with the fake records and the dates on them. I've always gotten one at those parties. And although the writing and the size and color changes, it always has both of our names on it.

But tonight for the first time Rayna Jaymes's top hit won't have my name attached to it. I didn't have any part in writing it. I didn't pick a single chord or tweak the bridge. I'll be a guest at the party. I'll be Juliette's guest as some sort of babysitter for Jolene.

But I am still going. I pick out a black shirt and jeans. I put out my newer black boots. I turn on the radio listening to the end of Watty's show when he mentions the Mayor would be presenting the plaque to Ray and Juliette.

It surprises me how fast my fist clinches and how tight my jaw feels. Teddy has no damn business in our world. He can't play chopsticks on the piano. He can't write a decent birthday card, much less a song.

And I've seen the pictures of Teddy and whoever the hell that girl is. I know Rayna had her suspicions about Teddy's infidelity. But he'll be up there tonight smiling with her, kissing her, being a part of her big night. And I'll be off on the sideline. Off the stage, near the back with Jolene. I sit on the bed, trying to calm myself down.

I have done so much to her. I've lied to her. I've disappointed her. I've yelled at her. I've thrown her things. I've broken the kitchen table we picked out together. I've smashed several of those plaques like the kind she'll get tonight. I've busted out the windows of her car. I've made her walk the halls of old county jails to bail me out. I've had her clean up my vomit. I've made her go to places she shouldn't even know existed. Hell, she was held at knife point by some guy on crack when she tried to find me once. That night is what sent me back to rehab the second time.

But I've never cheated on her. I never even thought about kissing another woman when we were together. Sure, I had girls hit on me but I literally could have cared less. And perfect little Teddy has. Or at least I think he has. And right now that is enough.

I don't even know who I am madder at. Me: for not getting my shit together faster; her:for not waiting four more months and for not walking away from Teddy, or Teddy: for existing.

There is a saying about best of intentions and right now, it is so true.

Sixty One

I broke my guitar.

Smashed it against the coffee table in three good hits. I'm outta practice. Back in the dark days, I could smash a guitar made far better than this one, in a single blow.

But the damn thing pissed me off. I was all set to write a song with sharp chords and a jagged chorus. It was suppose to be a 'fuck off' song. That was the song I wanted to write. But that damn guitar wanted to write some ballad…or worse, some 'Baby I'm wrong, come back' songs. And when the lyrics started coming together, I knew the only way to stop it was to break the guitar.

Doesn't matter. It isn't my only guitar. Far from it. I have more expensive guitars. But they are all in the spare bedroom. And I'm done writing for now.

Sixty Two

I'm a member of the Mile High Club.

So is Deacon. Deacon, who I can't look at. Deacon, who is sitting beside Juliette who I can't look at it either.

So I look out into the clouds and close my eyes. My mind is going a million miles an hour. It's replaying the fight Deacon and I had yesterday. It's replaying the conversation Teddy and I just had in the terminal. It's replaying the fight Liam and I just had at the party. And I don't want to think about any of those things. And the clouds are lulling me into remembering another time, in another plane. So i just go with it.

Deacon and I were flying back from the West Coast on a red eye, next to last row in the back of hundred seater-plane or so. The cabin was only about a third full. Most of the passengers were sleeping, but a few had their lights on reading.

I hadn't paid attention when Deacon's hand pushed the arm rest between us up. But when his hand rested on my hip and slid back to grope my ass, I started paying attention. He'd cocked his eyebrow and then shot a look to the back of the cabin. In response, I rolled my eyes dramatically. But he hadn't been dissuaded.

Ten minutes later, I had one of those scratchy blankets over my lap. And the button of my jeans was undone and his hand was practically making me pant. And then, he'd whispered exactly what he wanted to do in bathroom. And once he was sure he'd changed my mind, Deacon excused himself and walked towards the bathroom. He'd shot me a smile over his shoulder when he pushed the door open. And for about thirty seconds I stayed perfectly still, telling myself I wouldn't go.

But like always, I'd given in to Deacon's smile.

And twenty minutes later, we were both back in our seats giggling like school kids. I'd fallen off the sink twice and jabbed my hip against the faucet. Deacon had banged the hell out of his head and despite the dark cabin, I could tell it was turning an ugly shade of blue. But it had been good, so good. Like it always was with us.

Nowadays, we would have both been kicked off the flight, arrested for something, and caused an international scandal. Back then? We'd gotten a smirk from a guy reading a book who had thought of us as two horny kids on a late flight. Yep, that smile could make me do anything.

And if I turn my head back to the right, I have no idea what I'll see. But I'm not looking. I don't know what he's doing on this plane but if I look at Deacon right now he's going to know what I'm thinking about. He'll know I'm thinking of him.

And until I know what he is thinking, I'm not looking.