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The wheels beneath him clicked a steady rhythm against the rails, each rotation taking him further from Atlanta, further from her. Rhett Butler had booked the night train for a reason—coward that he was, he couldn't bear to watch the city fade in daylight. Better to let darkness swallow it whole, let the shadows hide what he was running from.
You booked the night train for a reason / So you could sit there in this hurt
He'd chosen this. The late departure, the empty compartment, the excuse to sit alone with thoughts that cut deeper than any blade Scarlett had ever wielded with that razor tongue of hers. Through the window, he watched the sleeping Georgia countryside roll past, punctuated by the occasional cluster of lights—families gathered around dinner tables, lovers walking hand in hand, all the simple happiness that had somehow eluded him.
Bustling crowds or silent sleepers / You're not sure which is worse
The car held both tonight. A few rows ahead, a group of traveling salesmen played cards and shared a bottle, their laughter too loud and too forced. Behind him, an elderly woman dozed against her husband's shoulder, fifty years of marriage written in the comfortable way she trusted him to hold her steady. Rhett couldn't decide which sight was more unbearable—the hollow merriment of strangers or the quiet devotion he'd never managed to earn.
His hand drifted to the breast pocket of his coat, fingers finding the familiar weight of his mother's ring. Such a small thing to carry such enormous hope. He'd bought it back from the pawnshop three years ago, the day he'd finally admitted to himself what everyone else had seen from the beginning—that he loved Scarlett O'Hara with the desperate, foolish love of a man who should have known better.
Because I dropped your hand while dancing / Left you out there standing / Crestfallen on the landing
The first memory came like a punch to the chest: Twelve Oaks, all those years ago, when the world was still whole and war was just a word politicians threw around. He could see her still—seventeen and radiant in her white dress, green eyes flashing with indignation when Ashley Wilkes had crushed her dreams with his engagement announcement. She'd been standing on that landing, and he'd watched from the shadows as her heart broke for the first time. Not the last time he'd see her crestfallen, not the last time he'd fail to catch her when she fell.
He should have known then. Should have seen that a girl who could love Ashley Wilkes—gentle, honorable, utterly wrong Ashley—would never learn to love a scoundrel like him. But God help him, he'd tried anyway.
Your mom's ring in your pocket / My picture in your wallet / Your heart was glass, I dropped it
In his wallet, behind the bills and calling cards, Scarlett's photograph smiled up at him. Not a formal portrait but a candid shot taken at a picnic last summer—she was laughing at something Bonnie had said, her face unguarded and beautiful in a way she rarely let anyone see. His heart had been glass, and she'd held it carelessly, the way she held everything that came too easily.
The train lurched as it rounded a curve, and Rhett's whiskey sloshed in its glass. Bonnie. Christ, Bonnie. His baby girl with her mother's eyes and her father's stubborn streak, the one perfect thing to come from their broken union. The memory of her laugh could still stop him cold, the way she'd demand he tell her stories about pirates and princes, never knowing her father had been a little of both and not enough of either.
The train was slowing, pulling into some small station whose name he didn't catch. A young man helped his pregnant wife aboard, their whispered conversations full of excitement about the baby coming soon. The woman's hand curved protectively over her belly, and her husband's eyes never left her face.
Bonnie would have been seven this year. Would she have been beautiful like her mother? Would she have been kind like—no. He couldn't go down that path. Some wounds were too fresh, even after all this time.
You told your family for a reason / You couldn't keep it in
He'd written to his sister Rosemary about Scarlett, years ago when hope still lived in his chest like a caged bird. "I've met someone," he'd written, as if love were something that happened to a man instead of something he chose, again and again, despite all evidence that it would destroy him. Rosemary had written back with congratulations and questions, and he'd answered them all like a man preparing for a different life than the one he'd actually lived.
Your sister splashed out on the bottle / Now no one's celebrating
The wedding reception. Jesus, what a farce that had been. Scarlett in her green velvet dress—always green, his Scarlett, like she was part of the very earth itself—smiling and accepting congratulations for a marriage they both knew was built on sand. He'd given a speech that night, something about new beginnings and second chances, while she stood beside him looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Dom Pérignon, you brought it / No crowd of friends applauded
The champagne had been French, expensive, chosen to mark an occasion that felt more like a funeral than a celebration. Atlanta society had come because one simply did, but their smiles had been thin and their applause polite. Everyone knew what this marriage really was—a transaction, a convenience, anything but love.
You had a speech, you're speechless / Love slipped beyond your reaches
He'd had so many speeches prepared over the years. Words to make her understand, arguments to convince her, pleas to make her stay. But when it mattered most, when she was walking out that door with her chin high and her back straight, he'd had nothing. Love had slipped through his fingers like water, and all his clever words had dried up in his throat.
Your Midas touch on the Chevy door / November flush and your flannel cure
There had been sweet moments, though. Times when her guard came down and she let him see the woman beneath all that armor. Last November, when she'd caught fever and he'd spent three days nursing her back to health. She'd been delirious, talking nonsense about Tara and her father, and he'd sat beside her bed in his old flannel robe, cooling her forehead with damp cloths and telling her stories to keep the fever dreams at bay.
For three days, she'd needed him. Just him. Not for his money or his connections or what he could do for her precious plantation. Just for his hands on her burning skin and his voice in the darkness, anchoring her to the world of the living.
And all the times he held her at night during nightmares. Oh.
"This dorm was once a madhouse" / I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me"
He'd always talked too much when he was nervous, filled silences with quips and observations that revealed more than he meant them to. "This marriage is madness," he'd said once, watching her pace their bedroom like a caged cat. "Good thing I've always been a little mad myself." She'd laughed despite herself, and for a moment—just a moment—he'd thought he saw something softer in her eyes.
But he'd told too much, hadn't he? Laid his heart too bare, shown too much of the man beneath the mask. Scarlett didn't want his vulnerability; she wanted his strength. She'd fallen in love with Rhett Butler the rogue, not Rhett Butler the man who woke from nightmares calling her name.
How evergreen, our group of friends / Don't think we'll say that word again
Melanie was gone now. Sweet, loyal Melanie who'd somehow seen good in everyone, even him. She'd been the glue that held their strange little circle together—him and Scarlett, Ashley with his dreams and regrets, India with her sharp tongue and sharper judgments. Without Melly's gentle influence, they'd all scattered like leaves in a storm.
He'd loved Melanie too, in his way. Loved her for her goodness, for the way she'd defended Scarlett even when Scarlett didn't deserve it, for the grace she'd shown him when all of Atlanta whispered about his past. The world was dimmer without her light.
And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls / That we once walked through
Christmas would come to Atlanta whether he was there or not. The same houses they'd visited together would be decorated with holly and garland, the same parties would be thrown by the same people who'd watched their marriage crumble with barely concealed satisfaction. Life would go on, as it always did, indifferent to his heartbreak.
One for the money, two for the show / I never was ready, so I watch you go
He'd never been ready for any of it—not for loving her, not for losing her, not for the way she could cut him down with a single glance or build him up with a rare smile. Even now, sitting in this train car with miles growing between them, he wasn't ready to let her go. But what choice did he have? You couldn't hold water in your bare hands forever.
Sometimes you just don't know the answer / 'Til someone's on their knees and asks you
The memory came unbidden: the night he'd finally broken down and begged. Actually begged, him—Rhett Butler who'd never asked anyone for anything he couldn't pay for. He'd been on his knees in their bedroom, still dressed in his evening clothes from some forgotten party, asking her to love him the way he loved her. Just once. Just enough.
She'd looked at him with something like pity, and he'd known then that it was over. Had always been over, really. He'd just been too proud or too stupid to see it.
"She would've made such a lovely bride / What a shame she's fucked in the head," they said
Oh, they'd said worse than that about his Scarlett. Called her ambitious, ruthless, cold. Said she'd married him for his money and stayed for his reputation. They weren't entirely wrong, but they'd missed the complexity of her, the way she could be tender with a sick child or fierce in defense of those she loved. They'd seen only what they wanted to see—a beautiful woman who didn't play by their rules.
But you'll find the real thing instead / She'll patch up your tapestry that I shred
Someday, maybe, there would be someone else. Someone who wouldn't flinch from his touch, who wouldn't measure every kiss against the ghost of Ashley Wilkes. Someone who could love him without reservation, without looking over his shoulder for something better. The thought should have been comforting, but it felt like betrayal.
And hold your hand while dancing / Never leave you standing / Crestfallen on the landing
She would be kind, this imaginary woman. She wouldn't drop his hand in the middle of a waltz or leave him standing alone while she chased impossible dreams. She would be everything Scarlett wasn't—and everything Scarlett was would be lost to him forever.
Your mom's ring in your pocket / Her picture in your wallet
The ring felt heavier now, weighted with the dreams it would never fulfill. Scarlett's picture looked up at him from his wallet, frozen in that moment of unguarded joy, and he wondered if he'd ever be able to look at it without feeling like he was drowning.
The train was picking up speed again, carrying him toward Charleston, toward a future that stretched empty and endless before him. Behind them, Atlanta slept on, indifferent to his leaving. Somewhere in that sleeping city, Scarlett O'Hara Butler was probably awake, planning her next move, her next scheme to win back the man who'd never deserved her devotion anyway.
And you won't remember all my champagne problems
Tomorrow, she would start forgetting. The small hurts and larger disappointments would fade, replaced by new dreams and fresh heartaches. She would remember their good times, perhaps, with the distant fondness one reserves for old photographs. But his problems—his desperate love, his clumsy attempts at tenderness, his failure to be the man she needed—those would be champagne bubbles, pretty for a moment and then gone.
You won't remember all my champagne problems
The rhythm of the rails seemed to echo the word: Scarlett, Scarlett, Scarlett. And maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was kinder for both of them if she forgot how much he'd loved her, how completely she'd owned him from that first day at Twelve Oaks when she'd been someone else's heartbreak and he'd been just another face in the crowd.
Rhett Butler closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, carrying him away from Atlanta, away from Scarlett, toward a tomorrow that would have to be enough because it was all he had left.
The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the sound of her laugh, bright and careless as champagne bubbles rising in crystal glass, beautiful and gone almost before you could see it.