Last night you came to kiss me in a dream and when I woke
What kind of foolishness is this,
Breathed out a lungful of your smoke.
I've seen you at your brightest,
What a mind, let it burn-
Who am I to pull you down to Earth?
Yeah, who am I to tell you to come down?
-The Man I Knew, Dessa
Rayna awoke with a start, the sheets cold and damp around her, slick from her sweat. The morning light was just peeking in to say hello, just coming in to greet the day. She was breathing heavily, feeling equal parts panicked and aroused. She glanced at the man next to her, saw the covers pulled up around his chin, his face expressionless. He was sleeping peacefully, and she rolled out of bed.
When her feet hit the floor, and she went to stand up, her legs felt wobbly underneath her. She sat back down on the bed, pressing her body deeply into it, grounding herself. Her head was pounding in tune with her heart, her breath rushing fast and hard out of her lungs.
She'd been dreaming of Deacon for weeks now, visceral dreams that always felt like they were real. Sometimes, she dreamt about that night against the alley wall, how he buried himself inside of her and made her forget where they were, who they were. Sometimes she dreamt she found him dead, surrounded by liquor bottles. Sometimes she dreamt they were on vacation, some tropical location where the locals recommended food and landmarks, but they mostly stayed on the beach or in the room, wrapped up in one another. Once, she dreamt they were a family—they had a little cottage by the sea, and two children who looked exactly like their father—she felt happy in that dream, three pairs of expressive eyes telling her how much she was loved.
Last night, for the first time in at least a year, she'd dreamt of the very first time she'd met him: the bright-eyed boy with a pen tucked behind his ear, a guitar case at his feet, and a beautiful song etched into a napkin. A song about her. In her dream, she felt the exact thing she'd felt that night—the incredible feeling that she would never not know this boy.
Now, she hadn't even seen him in two months. But she'd heard the stories. Each one buried itself deep into her heart, where she assumed it would form scar tissue around the images: the bar fights, the random women, the nights in the drunk tank, a DUI.
Shaking her head, Rayna pressed her feet into the carpet, finally standing up. She shrugged on a t-shirt and some jeans, not bothering to wake Teddy to tell him where she was going. Pulling on her boots by the door, she slipped into the morning air.
It was hot already, though the sun wasn't yet fully out; the humidity worked its way into her lungs, had its way with her hair. She thought about walking, thought the hours long walk would clear her mind, but she slid behind the wheel of her new car, instead. She didn't want to wait hours for this, she wasn't sure if she could.
She didn't actually know whether he would be there or not—it was Sunday morning, and even at the end of when they still lived together, whether he would be home or not on Sunday morning was always a mystery. As she drove, she let her mind drift back to when they first moved in together, let herself think about how Sunday mornings used to be between them. They were hot, or lazy, or loving, or some fervent mixture of all three. He'd taught her how to love Sunday mornings—and then he'd taught her how to hate them.
Pulling up to the curb outside of his house, the one he'd bought about 3 months ago, she tried to quiet the nervous voices in her head. Walking up the walkway, she remembered the first conversation she ever had with him on the patch of grass outside this house, right after he'd bought it—I need something that doesn't have you everywhere inside of it, he'd told her.
She'd said she understood, because god, did she ever understand. Half the city reminded Rayna of him, despite the fact that she'd grown up in Nashville, despite the fact that she had thousands of memories of this city without him in it. The problem was, she found, that he was in all of her favorite ones; all the memories she wanted to remember, but had to try so hard to forget.
She knocked on his door, and pressed her ear against it, trying to hear through the wood. She knocked again, louder, and heard rustling on the other side. She stepped back, and waited. Then she knocked again.
When he opened the door, she had to stop herself from reaching out to him—she hadn't seen him looking so haggard in a long, long time, if ever.
"Hey," He croaked, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
"Hey." She said, staring at him—taking in his shirtless chest, his bloodshot eyes.
"What're you doing here?" He asked her, sticking his head halfway out the door.
"Can I come in?" She wrung her hands in front of her.
Deacon shifted on his feet, glanced back inside, and then stepped out on to the porch, shutting the door behind him. She hadn't ever been in his house, and she wondered if he was keeping her out now to keep it that way, or if there was something—or someone—inside that he didn't want her to see. The last thought made her stomach feel a little sick, and she chastised herself for being so ridiculous, given where she had been this morning.
The sun was up now, and she could tell it hurt his eyes, so she moved into the shade of the porch swing, sitting down on it. She pushed her feet into the ground, steadying it as it moved. He sat down next to her, and it swayed softly. She smiled, but it was sad. How much fun we could have had on this porch swing.
There was silence between them, and it felt uncomfortable for the first time in the history of them. The thought unnerved her.
"How're you?" She asked, struggling to fill the silence, to keep the panic of how different things were between them from invading every cell of her body.
He looked at her as he let a little laugh out through his nose, "How do I look?" He said it by way of an answer, and it was enough.
Rayna nodded. She stared at him, watching him look at her—she knew he was wondering why she was there. "I had a dream about you last night," She explained.
Deacon didn't respond; he just looked at her, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.
Rayna smiled, "I dreamt about the night we first met. Remember that?" She asked, her voice wistful.
He nodded once, "Every damn day."
She felt his words in her heart; that's how often she thought of it, too.
"You were so…" She trailed off, searching for the word, "Vibrant. A little cocky," She laughed, remembering, "I remember thinking wow for weeks after we met. That's it. Just… wow."
He crossed his arms over his bare chest, watching her carefully.
"The first time I saw you on stage, singing one of your songs… I never wanted to stop watching you, whether you were on a stage or off one. I couldn't stop watching you." She sighed, bringing her hand to her forehead, wiping the light sheen of sweat from her brow, "I still can't. It's just…" She looked at him, "Painful now." She dropped her hand to the back of the porch swing, "Because I remember how you were."
Deacon cleared his throat, "I remember, too." His voice was gravelly.
She nodded, "I know you do." She tapped her fingers on the porch swing, the wood in need of a paint rough beneath her fingers, "You're one of the most talented people I've ever met."
"Rayna…" He sounded tired, so very tired.
Rayna cleared her throat, "I don't know…" She sighed, finding the words, "I don't know who I am to tell you to stop. To tell that boy I first met to please come back. But…" She blinked, trying to evade the tears threatening to fall, "Please come back."
Deacon chewed his lip, his teeth working on his bottom lip so hard Rayna was worried he might draw blood. "You don't know who you are, Rayna?" He asked, his voice a whisper, raspy and harsh.
She furrowed her brow in confusion, and shook her head. "No." She was surprised to find she could speak.
Deacon turned his head to the side, considering her. He brought his hand to her face, ran his thumb across her soft cheek. He laughed a little, "That's just it, Rayna." His thumb stilled on her face, his eyes searching hers, "You're everything."
Rayna felt her eyes watering, "Then please come back." She whispered as he dropped his hand from her face.
She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips and he inhaled sharply at the contact, at the feel of her soft lips against his.
"Please." She whispered against his lips.
He nodded, "Okay." His voice was quiet, but it sounded so much like a promise.
She stood from the swing and walked to the edge of the porch, the sound of her boots clicking on the concrete hard against her ears, his word working its way down into her stomach, planting a seed there. It was then that she felt it—hope rising from her stomach, billowing in her chest for the first time in years, because this felt different somehow. He felt different somehow. Okay.
When she was halfway down the walkway, she turned to look back at him, a light breeze running by—he was staring at her with a soft gaze, his back pressed against the porch swing. And for just a moment she saw the bright-eyed boy she first met so many years ago, she saw the boy who ignited a spark in her she didn't even know she had, she saw the boy who taught her how to love: please come back, she whispered on the wind.
She strained to hear it, but her body ached when she did: Okay.
End.