Nashville Co-Dependent

Not really sure what this is, but wrote rough draft after 2 x 12 and all those wonderful Ray/Deacon scenes! Hope you enjoy!

**Co-Dependent**

I walk into the kitchen, not bothering to close the door or take off my jacket. Its dark inside the house but I can't bring myself to turn on the lights. Right now, I prefer the dark. I need the dark. Scarlett's voice still echoes in my head.

"_You might have weird co-dependent relationships with your ex-boyfriends, but I do not."_

She used that word: co-dependent. I loathe that word. I hate that word. It sounds dark and ugly and dangerous. People who use that word are talking about dirty needles and black eyes. They are talking about relationships that bring out the worst in each person. That has never been what Deacon and I are to each other. Yet, people have used that word to describe us for almost two decades.

During the bad times, I heard that word a lot. That was back when the rehabs and the jail stints and the hospitals visits all blurred into each other. Back then, every time some doctor or so-called friend used it, I would roll my eyes or mumble under my breath.

God, I hate that word; but I keep hearing rolling around in my head.

_Co-dependent. _

People think they can define the most important relationship in my life with four syllables. I had AA sponsors and therapist use that word. I had presidents of companies and producers have the audacity to say that word to me. Teddy referred to Deacon and I as co-dependent when I was pregnant with Maddie. He only made that mistake once. Hell, Tandy called us that when she found out I'd met Deacon at the scene of the crash. And tonight Scarlett called us that.

I get myself a glass of water and recline onto one of the bar stools.

A twenty-four year old girl had called my relationship with Deacon co-dependent. The fact that I held this little girl in my arms twenty-something years ago makes it worse. Logically, I know Scarlett is exhausted and frustrated. I know that her relationship with Gunnar ended badly and tonight she had to attend a party thrown in his honor. It couldn't have fun for her. I know that Scarlett was dealing with her own issues and didn't mean to hurt me. But she still said it.

_Co-dependent. _

The judgment in her voice was like all the others. She said it like Deacon and I are sick, like there is something wrong with us. And tonight, because of that word, I pulled away from Deacon. My stomach feels queasy and my soul starts to ache.

People don't understand my relationship with Deacon. They never have.

Everyone forgets how young sixteen and how hard you fall in love. Women my age think of their high school sweethearts as a faded memory. They remember that one night in the back of his daddy's truck or some clumsy kiss on their mama's porch. They have a yellowed prom picture tucked away in a picture album and a notebook with his name written inside a dozen different hearts. But, that is literally all they have. They only see each other at high school reunions or a friend's funeral. They aren't friends or lovers. They don't spent months on end in cramped studios or large buses.

Then those same girls move on. They meet some nice guy at a frat party. They go on dates to pizza parlors and University cafeterias. They go to football games and try to figure out who they are as people. They share trips to away for the weekend and go to each other's hometowns to meet the parents. There are pregnancy scares and cramped apartments with plumbing that doesn't work. Then eventually there is a grad school acceptance letter or job that sends one of them in a different direction.

Then as an adult these people meet the person they are meant to be with. The find their best friend and the person they want to grow old with. They co-sign on their first mortgage, encourage each others careers, and pick out names for kids they hope to have.

Then, these so called happily married women my age meet ~that other guy~. For some it is the man at work; for others, it is the sexy guy at the gym. You know, the guy who flirts with them at the copier. The one who excites them in a way they hadn't felt in years.

But for me, Deacon was all of those things.

He was the boy I feel in love with at sixteen, the guy that was my first real adult relationship, the man who would be the father of my children and my soul-mate. He's also the guy that I dreamed about while Teddy's ring was on my finger. His memory hadn't been reduced to a humorous story. We didn't share an awkward conversation at a college homecoming football game. We had mortgage payments and shared checking accounts. We co-wrote songs and danced on stages. He grinned so wide when I won an award. I clapped like a crazy person when he got his 6 month chip. We liked 'Jake' for a boy but never could decide on a girl's name. He was the guy I saw in my day dreams, the one I gazed at too long during rehearsals. We shared pints of rocky road ice cream and gallons of tears. He complained when I would make him buy tampons. I would roll my eyes when insisted wrestling was real.

We weren't dark or ugly. We weren't some vicious cycle of anger and disease. He was my rock, my best friend, and my biggest supporter. I was his home, his muse, his family. I kept him focused. He calmed me down. His talent excited me. My ambition made him aim higher.

Co-dependent. We weren't that. We aren't that.

I think for a moment, trying to figure out what we are. Or perhaps how I would describe us, if anybody bothered to ask.

We laugh together. We make each other smile. We loved grilled cheese sandwiches and yogurt covered pretzels. We have spent countless afternoons fishing at the pond below the cabin and in a small hut on the pacific coast of Mexico. I love to watch him play the guitar and he claims to like when I ping at the piano. The two of us have seen every episode of Andy Griffith at least a dozen times. We have done the mundane things: painting walls, grocery shopping, folding laundry. And we have done the extraordinary: Grammy performances, Opry Concerts, Arena tours. Even now, I get a tingle in my stomach when his hand brushes mine. He can't look away when I give him that certain look.

I smile despite my bad mood. We have had our dark and awful moments. He has broken my heart and my soul and my spirit. He would probably say the same thing about me. But that isn't what we are, it isn't who we are to each other.

I contemplate the word again. Running it through my head. _Co-dependent._

I remember when Maddie was younger, she used to make bracelets at camp with nearly a dozen strings in various hues and shades. The strings were threaded, braided, and interwoven. Maddie would wear those bracelets all summer. By the end of August, the ends would be frayed and worn. But the only way to actually get the bracelet off was to take scissors and cut it.

That is what our relationship is like. We are worn and weathered and perhaps even frayed at the ends. But we were so intertwined and woven together that it was hard to tell where one of us began and the other ends.

I catch myself whispering the word into the silence of the kitchen. _Co-dependent._

I do need him. I depend on him. The whole reason we wrote a song today was because I needed a hit single for my album. But friends do that for each other. It doesn't make their relationship sick or twisted. Same for Deacon and I.

I let out a sigh. I depend on him. That part is true. I need him as a friend, a co-worker. Now, I've started to depend on him with Maddie. That doesn't make us co-dependent.

My phone dings and I groan out loud. I can't talk to Luke right now. I just can't pretend that everything is okay tonight. I dig into my pocketbook until I feel my cellphone.

The text isn't from Luke. It's from Deacon.

"Talk?"

I smile, despite my current mood. I hold my phone close to my chest, trying to assess if talking to Deacon is a good idea. It isn't. I look around the dark kitchen, searching for answers amongst the crown molding and the back splash. But my fingers are already typing a message before I realize the decision I've come to.

"Girls Teddys. Come over?"

His answer dings a second after I press send. He says he'll be here in 10 minutes. I look up at the ceiling and think about that word.

He was already halfway across town, on his way to see me. The text message Deacon sent was an afterthought. Despite the words we said at the party, we can't stay away from each other. Perhaps this is co-dependent. There were other phrases or words that described them better.

In the early years, Watty had once whispered, "_like a moth to a flame," _when Deacon had come in to the on who you asked, I was either the fire or the moth. Of course by the fourth trip to rehab and the second delay of my album, even Watty had used that word. He called us a, 'co-dependent disaster.' That had stung. But I didn't let him see how much it hurt. Instead, I'd excused myself to the bathroom and cried for a good five minutes.

The door opens slightly and Deacon walks in. His hands are in his back pocket. Deacon does that when he has something on his mind, something big.

"What happened tonight?" Deacon asked, the confusion obvious in his voice.

I shake my head as if I don't a clue what he was referring to. Silence fills the kitchen and I look into his eyes. They silently plead for me to not shut him out. I swallow the lump in my throat and try to find my voice.

"Scarlett…" I manage to get out before my throat closes up. Deacon furrows his eyebrow but stays where he is. Tears fill my eyes and I need to look away from his gaze but I can't do it. It occurs me to we are virtually in the same spot we were when Deacon had confronted me about my vocal chords. My lip tremors and I try to say the words again.

"Scarlett, she um….she called us and our relationship…," I breath out and back in, "co-dependent." A few tears escape down my cheek as I reveal what happened at the party. The look of confusion stays on his face.

Then it hits me that the word, that damned word, is something people have said about my relationship with Deacon to me. Only me. To Deacon, they've called him other names: joke, alcoholic, louse, piece of shit, washed up has-been, pill-head, loser, and dozens more.

I let out a bark of laughter at how much the word clearly affects me and how little of a reaction it gets from Deacon. I wipe the tear that are spills down my face roughly, willing myself not to cry. For a few seconds, I keep myself composed. But then suddenly, everything I've been keeping in boils up.

I bring my hands up to my face and let out a wail. I don't try to even out my breathing, I don't wipe the tears away. Eventually, it hurts to breathe and I gasp for air. But no matter how hard I gasp, my lungs don't seem to be taking in oxygen. I cry harder and gasp louder. Deacon turns his back to me and starts opening cabinets and drawers. I bend over the island in the middle of the kitchen and gasp again. Suddenly a brown paper bag is shoved in my face and I hear Deacon tell me to breathe into it.

I feel absurd but my head is light and I still can't seem to take a breath. I hear Deacon whisper to breathe. It takes a few moment but eventually I find myself inflating and deflating the bag. My tears stop and my lungs fell full with air. Scarlett and that word flutter out of my conscious as I focus on calming down.

Deacon leads me to a chair at the table and he leans down in front of me.

"Wanna tell me what has ya worked up?" he asks as he leans up to brush my hair out of my face. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I find myself staring at him. Slowly I tell him again that Scarlett called the two of us co-dependent. Deacon's eyes search for the rest of the sentence or the rest of the story. Quiet envelopes the both of us as he stays on his knee in front of me and watch his questioning eyes.

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and blush slightly.

"Scarlett called our relationship co-dependent.," I whisper. I cringe as I say the word and Deacon can tell how affected I am.

I bite my lip as he waits for me to continue. I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. We are inches apart and I feel myself lean in to him. It's that magnetic between us and I don't have the energy to fight it. But Deacon suddenly stands up and takes a step back. I hear him clear his throat and for a second I try to find the words.

"That word…..I hate it," I get out before I let my emotions take over.

"What word? Relationship?" Deacon asked genuinely confused as to what had me so upset.

I shake my head no until I spit out the word. "Co-dependent. I….We…..People have used it before." I look up at him and can tell he's trying to understand. He nods slowly and asks if my conversation with Scarlett happened before we agreed to no longer write together.

I nod as another tear runs down my nose and falls off. I turn my head towards the mud room and let a few more tears falls. I try to focus. I don't want to be crying right now, I don't want to be upset in front of him. I don't want to cut open the wound that I could have sworn I was stitching up. It takes a few minutes before I feel my emotions slipping back under the surface. My face feels puffy and hot; my head aches with the beginnings of a migraine.

Deacon excuses himself for a minute, grabbing his cell phone from the counter. I feel my eyes prick with tears again. I'm sure he's calling Megan. I audibly breathe out, trying to keep myself relaxed. It doesn't work and at least I recognize that I'm slipping back into being an emotional mess. I find Deacon in the living room, his back turned towards me.

"You should go," I say forcefully and a little to loud to be convincing.

Deacon turns towards me, the phone still at his ear. "Ray, you need..."

I hike my shoulders back and repeat that he needs to leave. We stand facing each other. Eventually his shoulders slump forward and he walks back towards the kitchen. He collects his keys and walks to the door. I don't move, too afraid I'll say something I shouldn't. I hear the door close and realize that my fist is curled up in a ball. My nails dig into my palm and i just stand there.

Eventually, I hear his vehicle pull out of the driveway. Deacon is heading towards Megan, away from me. Perhaps, we won't be co-dependent much longer. Perhaps, he has finally figured a way to exist without me. I can't help but bury my head in my hands and sob at the thought. I cry for all the years we were together and for all they ears we've been apart. I cry for all the times I hurt him and every time he broke my heart.

A small part of me even cries realizing that maybe I'll never hear that word again. Deacon is learning how not to depend on me. He has found something healthy and fun and light. I swallow back another sob and hear a car door slam. I wipe my eyes and try to get my bearings before the kitchen door swings open. I don't think, I don't speak. Instead I just run to Deacon and throw my arms around his shoulders. A second later, Deacon wraps his arms around me. I cry harder, out of relief, out of desperation, out of a need to release everything I've been keeping in.

He leans his head back, trying to take account of how upset I still am. I shake my head from side to side and grip his collar tighter. He tries again to pull away but I tense and hold on tighter. He whispers into my ear that he "isn't going anywhere." I close my eyes in quiet acceptance, quiet acknowledgment that whatever we are to each other isn't broken. We are still linked together, still threaded together, still chained together.

Maybe they are right. Scarlett, Watty, Teddy, Tandy, and all the rest. Maybe we are that word. But for right now, I don't care. Because right now, he's here with me and it is the only thing that matters.


End file.

Nashville