Rayna looked down at the yellow legal pad on her lap and scanned the jumble of words. Most had been crossed out or rewritten. Intersecting lines snaked across several pages, linking disparate trains of thought. She flipped to a clean sheet, then went back through her notes and copied out three full lines, humming under her breath as she wrote:

Sunrise hurts as much as you/You both come up when I don't want you to

Oh I can still hear you say/That you and I would both be better off that way

I act like I don't know/Where this road will go

She looked at the objects scattered around her on the closet floor: A bracelet made of lavender glass beads, won at a county fair somewhere in the Midwest; several dozen greeting cards - some funny, some sappy, some sweet. Assorted concert programs, ticket stubs, posters, advertisements torn from magazines - most bearing her likeness, or his, or both.

A stack of yellow Kodak envelopes containing photographs of two impossibly young, impossibly beautiful people, smiling in front of one landmark or other; always holding hands or kissing, their arms wrapped around each other.

And off to the side, a manila folder labeled "rehab" - the one thing she hadn't been able to open this afternoon.

Rayna sighed and stacked everything neatly back into the worn, black leather bag lying open in front of her. She picked up a folded, red-and-black plaid shirt and brought it to her face, inhaling deeply. Was there still a faint reminder of him, lingering in the fabric? She thought there was.

She laid it carefully into place. How many times had she tried to discard this suitcase, this collection of memories? She'd lost count.

It was only now that she realized how glad she was that she had failed.

She picked up a jeweler's box and flipped it open, fingering a fine gold chain running through two small, intertwined hearts. She had taken it off for good on her wedding day.

She reached for her pen and added another couplet to her page, this one coming out right on the first try:

These things that I run to/What I put my heart through

Rayna shut the box and slipped it into a pocket in the bag, then looked around, surprised to see that it was growing dark. She still wasn't sure what to do about the surprise party Juliette was throwing tonight for Deacon, down at the Bluebird Cafe. Part of her wanted to hunker down at home and hide from any more drama. Another part latched on fiercely to Lamar's unexpected encouragement earlier that afternoon: To hell with all of them.

There was one thing she was sure about, now. This song she was writing, this trip through memory lane, made her see clearly that the recent mess in her life was not all her fault. She had tried – really tried – to make things work with Teddy. And she would still be trying, if he hadn't given up first.

It was just that Deacon had defined her life for so long that his mark on it was indelible. Even if she had tossed away these mementos, she knew, the memories would always beckon her back. Maybe that's what it meant, having a soul mate.

She started to close the bag when the torn lining caught her eye. She smiled to herself and slipped her hand inside, fishing for the envelope she knew would be there. She pulled it out and opened it, extracting several scraps of paper and unfolding them. The words, scrawled in his handwriting, could still make her blush.

What year was it? And where had they been?

Texas. Or Oklahoma, maybe. It was their first tour: A long, hot slog through what felt like every redneck bar and honky-tonk joint across the South, long before they'd met Bucky, when they were just beginning to find their way - with each other and the music business.

The notes had started as a way to be creative during the long hours on the road. They'd write separately and then exchange pages, collaborating on the guitar at the end of the day.

Then one especially dull afternoon, his lyrics had taken a decidedly explicit turn. And she had responded with some lurid thoughts of her own. It became something of a habit after that, both of them aware that their chemistry enhanced their creative process, as well as their shows, turning what might have been sleepy love songs into displays of honest passion that left their audiences raw.

Rayna could still picture the godforsaken gas station, squatting in a wide spot on a long country road. The tour bus had over-heated in the summer swelter and their driver was haggling with the local mechanic. She and the crew had retreated to the dingy diner next door and ordered lunch.

Deacon had disappeared as soon as the bus had stopped. Rayna suspected he'd already found an open bar. Then he'd walked up to the table and taken her hand.

"Hey everybody, I need to borrow Rayna for a little bit," he'd announced, yanking her to her feet.

"Hey! I just got my BLT. What's your hurry?!" she'd asked, looking at him in surprise.

"Have 'em wrap it up, you can eat it on the road."

"What? Why?"

"Darlin', it's urgent. I'm sorry fellas, see ya back on the bus. We won't be long."

He'd hustled her out the back door as if the building was on fire. Outside, she had stopped and stared at him, mystified.

"What in the world's gotten into you?"

"I gotta show you somethin'," he'd said. "C'mere."

He walked her to the back parking lot and pointed.

Rayna's mouth fell open and she looked over at him, laughing in astonishment. He looked back at her with a wicked grin.

"Oh no, you can't be serious, Deacon. Are you drunk?"

About 50 yards off the road was a cluster of stucco resort cottages that had clearly seen better days. A garish sign above them advertised: "Air-Conditioned Comfort Cabins"; and below it, in saucy italics: "Pay By The Hour."

"I never been more sober in my life, darlin'," he said, pulling her close to him in the middle of the parking lot and kissing her full on the mouth. "I want you somethin' fierce, Ray."

She looked around, embarrassed, and wriggled away from him.

"Deacon, you just had me last night," she said, her voice low. But he led her around behind a fence and pressed her up against the wooden slats, silencing her with another kiss. This one succeeded in making her knees weak.

"Last night was a long time ago, Ray. That doesn't count. I want you right now."

"God, Deacon Claybourne, I swear you're insatiable."

"Rayna, don't even talk. You're as bad as I am, and you know it. Worse, probably."

She started to deny it but he was kissing her again. And besides, they both knew it was true.

When they first met, she was inexperienced. But he was a patient teacher and endlessly creative. She trusted him completely; he delighted in finding new ways to give her pleasure.

On tour, the sexual tension between them would build all day and spill over on stage at night, after which they would retreat to their room to work it out, sometimes fast and furious and other times slowly, lingering over long hours.

"You can sleep on the bus tomorrow," he would say.

Leaned up against the fence behind the diner, Rayna felt him nuzzling her neck and kissing the hollow at the base of her throat. She felt her resolve crumbling and brought her hands up, running her fingers through his hair. His hands encircled her lower back.

"Oh god …" she breathed.

He grinned, knowing he was winning, and began kissing his way down toward her cleavage, slipping his hand under her short skirt and running it over the cotton panties covering her ass.

"Jesus, Deacon …"

Her eyes were closed and her heart was racing. She glanced over at the cabins again, reconsidering, and winced.

"It's gonna be soooo dirty in there…"

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes burning.

"That's okay, Ray. So are we."

"So are we - what?"

"Gonna be dirty in there. You know it's a whole lot more fun that way."

"Oh god…"

A pang of lust stabbed her in the gut and she put her hands on his face and pulled him toward her, kissing him hotly. After a few minutes, she paused, whispering two words against his mouth.

"Fuck me."

He smiled, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"That's the plan."

This time, she was the one who took his hand and led him across the parking lot. He laughed at the sudden role reversal.

"Who's in a hurry now, Ray?"

"Shut up, Deacon, before I change my mind."

That comment prompted him to break into a sprint. She followed close behind him, laughing and shrieking.

It was perhaps inevitable that their drummer, a good ol' Alabama boy, had emerged from the men's room behind the diner at just that moment. He'd stood there, staring, then returned to the diner still shaking his head.

"I tell you, I saw the both of 'em runnin' – runnin', I swear to God – for that sex motel around back."

For the duration of the tour they couldn't get through a single sound check without someone suggesting they needed to "get a room." It was a line that never seemed to grow old, much to Rayna's embarrassment and Deacon's obvious delight.

Back on the closet floor, Rayna laughed out loud, remembering it all. Then she stopped, wondering when she'd last felt that kind of passion. And it came to her, crystal clear: That kiss, in the elevator in Chicago.

She picked up her pen and scrawled:

I can barely stand up/I can hardly breathe

She put the envelope back into its hiding place and zipped the suitcase shut, stashing it behind several boxes of summer clothes and heaping coats and scarves up on top.

Still humming the tune she'd composed earlier, Rayna walked downstairs, turning on the lights in the house as she went, and headed straight for the music room. She put in another hour at the piano, grateful that Tandy had offered to let the girls spend the night at her house.

At last, Rayna was happy with what she had. But doubt still nagged at her. Should she even do this? Were these the right words? She picked up her phone.

"Hey Ray."

"Hey Watty. Did you leave already for Deacon's party?"

"Not yet."

"Would you do me a huge favor? Would you be willing to come by and … I just wanna play you something."

"Sure. See ya in a bit."

"You're a sweetheart. All right, I'll see ya."

He was at her house 20 minutes later, just as she was revising the final verse.

"Whatcha got, Ray?"

"I'm not sure. Um … I'm calling it `Stronger Than Me.' See what you think."

Watty leaned against the wall and listened, as Rayna opened a vein and bled out all over her beautiful piano. When she finished he was silent for a while.

"That's … pretty intense, Rayna."

"Yeah, I know. That's what I'm worried about. Is it too much? My life's splashed all over the place right now. Should I be putting this out there in the world, too?"

"Y'know, it's funny, Ray. I ran into this kid today, he was buying a real pricey guitar. You might know him, he used to date Deacon's niece, Scarlett. He asked me something about how he should break into the business. You know what I told him?"

"Hmmm ... I bet I can guess. `There's no should in music'?"

"That's right. You learned that a long time ago. Writing music is not about what you should say, or what you oughta say, or what someone else tells you to say. It's about what you need to say. It's about where you live, deep down."

She looked at him and nodded slowly.

"I know. I guess I … just needed to hear you say it again."

"Is this what you want to say to Deacon?"

"Yeah, Watty. It is."

"Well, you always were brave, Rayna, a hell of a lot braver than most of us. Let me back you up on guitar."

"That'd be fantastic, thanks. I'm gonna ask Pam and Kate to sing, too."

They didn't talk much on the ride over to the Bluebird. Rayna was just glad not to be missing another one of Deacon's birthdays. They had a lot of ground to make up for; way too many years spent apart.

She wondered where they would be on Deacon's next birthday.

She had a lot of work to do. Making sure her children got through this mess was her first priority. Then there were bound to be legal and financial conflicts over the divorce. And she needed to work through her own emotions, still so raw over Teddy's betrayal.

And – always - there was Maddie.

But she and Deacon … yeah. It was starting to feel right. In the not-too-distant future, Rayna could see them spending all their birthdays – hell, all their days and their nights - together.

She pulled up in front of the Bluebird and steeled herself as the crush of photographers mobbed her car.

"Wanna get outta here?"

"Hell, no."

She made her way through the crowd, tossing out challenges to some of the locals who ought to know better. She was rewarded as soon as she got inside: He spotted her immediately and smiled, that same warm, wonderful smile that she loved.

"Well. Now this is a surprise party."

"Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

They held each other, needing no words at all. He quickly got pulled away, but she watched him throughout the evening. Every once in a while their eyes would meet and they'd both smile. She was pleased to see how relaxed and happy he looked. He'd never admit it, she knew, but he was actually enjoying himself.

Juliette left the party early, giving Rayna an opening, and she walked to the stage.

From the back corner of the room, Deacon's eyes followed her. She looked at him as she told their friends what they already knew: How she wouldn't be there without him. How a long chain of memories stretched across that very room, connecting them forever. Memories that could never be discarded.

She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his.

"Deacon," she said, "this is for you."

THE END

A/N: Special thanks to my wonderful beta, leave me light, for reading this chapter. Thanks also to Shiny Jewel, whose consistent feedback is always so encouraging.