I've seen my name in lights, I've seen my face in papers
but my civilian life, I spent ten good years waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting,
waiting for you
You charmed the snake,
You picked the card,
You bent the spoon;
A curved plane, the shapes change,
Euclid's made to play to fool, but
I don't know what that stuff does to you
and I don't know if it's real, but
I spent a decade in love with you
and I can't tell if you're here
The fame had come like a freight train: fast, hard, and loud. It swooped her up, and just kept careening down the tracks, she couldn't get off even if she wanted to. She didn't want to, but she might have hit the brakes a bit, cruised into it, instead of barreling. People knew who she was now, they'd stop her in the market and ask for an autograph, they'd whisper and wave as she walked by, they'd talk to her like they knew her.
They didn't, though. Know her.
All those pictures of her in the newspaper, her face smiling back at them, led people to think she was accessible, that they knew her like they knew the girl next door. It's why she was playing tonight at a big venue in Nashville, her name spelled out in bright white bulbs, beckoning people to see her sing.
"We're sold out." Bucky said, she was sitting in her dressing room before sound check, taking stock of the various floral arrangement people had sent her.
She grinned, and felt the tears come, "Really?"
Bucky nodded, then wrapped her into a quick hug. "Congratulations." He smiled, his dimples prominent, as he headed out the door. "Sound check in five." He said, closing the door behind him.
Rayna found herself smiling into the mirror after he'd left—it was her first sold out show. Looking at her face, she ran her fingers over the surface of it, assuring herself that this was real, that she was here, that this was a thing that was actually happening. She was 23, but somedays she felt like she was at least two decades older, she felt like her heart was putting in miles her body hadn't. And somedays she felt like she was still 16, wobbling on stage at her first open mic, hoping someone—anyone—would want to listen to her sing.
Tonight, 20,000 people did.
Staring at herself, she watched as her smile fell, watched as something settled over her face that she could never quite place, but which felt like a mixture of sadness and longing. She'd felt it since that night two years ago, when she sat in front of a mirror with a black eye. She shook her head, trying to stop her mind from wandering. She didn't have time to go down that particular road today, especially since she suspected if she let herself travel too far down it, she would never come back.
Standing up, she smoothed her hand over her dress, and walked out of the dressing room, down the hall, and out on stage.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him, his guitar slung across his body. When she first met him, she used to wonder if he would always steal her breath like that—but she'd known him long enough now to know that he would.
"Hey!" Deacon smiled when he saw her.
"Hey, yourself." She said, smiling back.
"Your first sold out show!" He reached out and ran his hand down her arm.
She bit her lip and nodded. "I can't believe it!"
Deacon laughed, "I can." He winked at her.
She blushed, and her stomach tightened. She took her place at the front of the stage, and glanced back at him before the band started up.
It was so hard to see him like this—to see him every day, but not in the way she wanted. Not in the way she thought he wanted. When he'd gotten out of rehab a year and a half ago, they'd tried to be together again. But it didn't work, not because they didn't want it to—but because Deacon wasn't ready for the 13th step. When things started to go south for him, when he started missing meetings and dodging Coleman, she'd had an honest and frank talk with him.
She knew that she would never get the words he'd said to her out of his head. I can't be with you, Ray. I can't look at you, at your beautiful face, without thinking about what I did to it. She'd started to cry, then, but she'd nodded anyway. He'd sighed, and reached for her face before thinking better of it and stuffing his hand in his pocket. I hate myself for it, and even though I made amends to you, I can't forgive myself for it, not yet. And it's all I see.
She'd told him she understood—and she did.
And so, they were friends. Friends. But she knew the truth: she'd tied a string through the hole in her heart that being only friends with Deacon had left, and given it to him where she assumed he'd done the same on his end. So, they were friends.
The show went well, the energy of the crowd was palpable, and backstage after it was over, Rayna thought she would never get enough of the crowd chanting her name.
At the afterparty, people kept coming up to her congratulating her, telling her what a great job she'd done. Reporters interviewed her, and the crowd swirled around her, buzzing with energy. A man had come up to her, some radio promoter, tall with sandy hair and brown eyes, and asked her out. He was friendly, and funny, and she found herself hearing Bucky's voice in her head, his constant refrain—you can't be alone forever. She surprised herself when she said yes.
They'd gone on a date the next night, and she found herself laughing, having a good time, and after it was over and he'd asked for a second date and she'd accepted, she congratulated herself for only feeling guilty most of the date, not all.
The next date was two days later, and when he walked her to her door, he kissed her and she cried. Nevertheless, she agreed to a third date.
And then the pictures hit the paper. Rayna Jaymes and Her Secret Lover. It was so crude, so bombastic, such a distortion of the truth. But, it spread, and by the time rehearsal came around, her band was jostling her good-naturedly. Everyone except, of course, Deacon. Deacon, instead, showed up thirty minutes late, and refused to look her in the eye, stare at him though she might.
She was worried he'd been drinking, but the truth was he'd been stuck in a conversation with Coleman. Deacon had placed a desperate phone call to Coleman, "I'm going to drink." He'd said, his voice hard on the line.
Coleman had come over to find Deacon in his living room, the day's paper placed strategically next to a bottle of whiskey.
"You've just been staring at the picture?" Coleman said, stepping into the room.
Deacon nodded, "For three fucking hours." It was a grainy image of Rayna being led by some man, their fingers interlocked, their faces bright and smiling.
Coleman sat down next to him. "You've got 11 months, and you're going to throw it away over a picture?" His voice was incredulous.
Deacon pursed his lips. "It ain't just a picture. You know it ain't just a picture."
Coleman nodded his head and reached for the paper. "I do know." He grabbed it, crumpling it in his hands, "I also know that this shit is not healthy, Deacon." Taking a chance, he leaned across Deacon and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, relieved when Deacon didn't move to stop him. He went into the kitchen, opened the bottle, and poured it down the sink. He shoved the newspaper in the garbage disposal, ran the water, and turned it on. Bad for the pipes, but good for the man in the next room.
Coleman ventured back into the living room, "This thing between you and Rayna is too intense, man. It's too deep…it's too caustic." Coleman eyed Deacon, "You need to let it go."
Deacon looked at Coleman then, "I can't."
"You can." Coleman nodded once.
"I can't… she's…" Deacon trailed off, and he nearly swallowed his next words as he spoke, "She's my higher power."
Coleman froze, and fixed Deacon with a hard stare. "What?"
Deacon sighed, "You heard me, Cole."
"Yeah, I did. But I'm going to need you to say that again."
Deacon rolled his eyes, feeling the anger start to seep into his body, "Rayna. She's my damn higher power, okay? It's not god, it's not nature, it's not the fucking stars… It's Rayna." Seeing Coleman's look, Deacon shrugged, "Don't look at me like that. It's worked for 11 months, hasn't it?"
Coleman stuffed his hands in his pockets, "I just came over here and poured a bottle of whiskey down the sink because you saw a photograph in the newspaper. So, no. I don't really think it's worked." Coleman sat down on the couch next to him, "You need to let this go." Deacon narrowed his eyes, "You need to let this go… or you need to figure out a way to convince yourself that you deserve it."
Deacon stood, "I've got to get to rehearsal."
Coleman stood and walked with him to the door, "One or the other, man. It has to be one or the other, because this sure isn't working."
After sound check, Rayna followed Deacon into the hall. Their other band members filtered around them and out the door. She grabbed his hand, and pulled him off to the side.
"Hey." She followed his eyes with hers until he looked at her, "You okay?"
Deacon nodded once. "Fine. How was your date?"
Rayna closed her eyes and sighed, "So, you did see that."
"All of Nashville's seen it, Rayna." At her nod, he continued, "So, how was it?"
"Fine." She shrugged.
He nodded once, "Are you going to see him again?" His eyes bored into her.
"I…" She stammered, "I don't know. Do you want me to see him again?"
A quick shot of anger went through him at her question, "What the hell does that mean? Of course I don't want you to see him again!"
Rayna put her hands on her hips, "Well, I don't know, Deacon! You're the one who said we couldn't be together like that, that it was too intense, and now you're acting jealous? What, you don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me, either?" She raised her eyebrows at him.
He stepped closer to her, "Yes." His arm snaked out and curled around her hip, bringing her to him, "Except I do want you. More than anything else in this world, and that's the problem." His words were slow, measured, "But, to hell with all that."
Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, hard and fast—his hands moved up her sides, skating over the sides of her breasts until they landed in her hair. He pulled her to him, hard, and her hands slid up his back until they were buried in his hair, her fingers smoothing over his head as their lips moved against one another. His tongue sought entrance to her mouth, and Rayna moaned as she felt his tongue push into her mouth, sliding against hers. They kissed deeply, enjoying the feel of one another, until Deacon pulled away. He smoothed his hand down her hair, and then leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her lips.
He looked at her, "I love you, Ray." His breath was hot against her mouth, "And I'm sorry for all that I've done to you. The thing is, I just can't live without you."
She smiled then, and brought her face forward to kiss him.
He grabbed her hand and led her down the hallway, "Come on," he tugged on her arm as they went down the stairs, and squeezed her hand, "Let's go home."
Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna! She could hear the chanting of her name, the sound of 50,000 voices speaking together, the noise in the arena nearly deafening. A few years ago, the idea would have exhilarated her, but now the repetition of her name haunted her, instead; reminded her of the night nearly a year ago, when she'd come home from a press event to find Deacon on the floor, his face flush against the hardwood.
She'd crouched down next to him, ran hand gently down his arm, "Deacon?" She'd whispered.
He'd started having a drink or two before bed, she'd found out before the press event, just to help him sleep. She'd yelled at him then, screamed at him, drowning out the "I'm sorry" that would inevitably fall from his lips.
She'd held her hand up, "I can't do this right now, Deacon. I have to go press the flesh, answer questions about my love life, pretend I haven't spent the last decade waiting on you to figure this shit out."
When she got home, she surveyed the room, and knew he'd had more than just a few tonight.
"Deacon?" She whispered again.
"Rayna?" He said, his words thick as he lifted his head. He sat up, and propped his back against the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest.
"I'm here." Her voice was soft.
She watched him press his back into the couch, watched him lift his arms to circle his knees—he started to cry, then. "Rayna," He said again, and the word was distorted, "Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna," He rocked back and forth on the floor, and she sat helpless, watching him cry. She reached her hand out to him, and placed it gently on his arm. His skin was warm underneath her hand, and she said a silent thank you, because she always worried that one day his body would stop being warm to her touch.
Rayna, Rayna, Rayna, Rayna! As she made her way to the stage,the crowd was chanting her name in adoration, but all she heard was Deacon's voice that night, filled with quiet desperation, her name falling from his lips over and over and over again.