Page 109 of The Ballad of Us
“Good. Thinking ahead is half the battle. See you at the usual place.”
After I hang up, Andrew looks at me with the kind of brotherly concern that used to feel suffocating but now just feels like love. “You okay?”
“More than okay. That was Xavier, so I’m just maintaining the practices that keep me that way.”
The afternoon blurs with new music and wedding logistics. We're working on Cody's upbeat anthem and video-calling with Koi Hendrix about regional shows. Debates over guitar tones stop only when Leslie brings in sandwiches and insists on a break.
“You're all going to waste away before the wedding,” he declares, distributing food with the authority of a mother hen. “And I refuse to have gaunt musicians in my wedding photos.”
“Your wedding photos?” Andrew asks with amusement.
“I'm the unofficial wedding planner, which makes them partially mine. It's called creative ownership.” He nods once as if to say, “And that’s that.”
Later that day, at four-thirty, I meet Xavier at our usual coffee shop in Dahlonega—not because we need to hide our meetings, but because the drive gives me time to transition from daily life to recovery work. It's a ritual that's become sacred to me, this regular checking in with a person who understands the daily choice of sobriety.
“Five hundred days,” I tell him as we settle into our usual corner booth.
“How does it feel?” He grins, pride lacing his tone.
“Like a miracle and completely normal at the same time.”
“That's exactly how it should feel.” Xavier pulls out his worn notebook, the one where he keeps notes from our conversations. “Let's talk about the wedding. What's your plan for managing the stress?”
We spend an hour on strategies - a quiet retreat space, Andrew as my partner, and plenty of non-alcoholic options. Planning keeps me safe, even when life's good. Still, anxiety lingers under the joy. All eyes on me at the wedding feels daunting without the crutch.
“Remember that your sobriety is the foundation on which everything else is built. Without it, the wedding, the music, and the love don’t exist.”
“I know. That's why I protect it so carefully.”
“Good man. Same time next week?”
“Wouldn't miss it.”
Driving home, I think about tomorrow’s label call. Koi wants a documentary about our journey and my recovery. I resist the exposure but wonder if sharing could help another person find a fresh start. That’s the best reason to say yes.
That evening, I arrive home to find Rhea surrounded by wedding magazines. Duke sprawls across the couch like a furry paperweight.
“Please tell me Leslie didn't try to convince you that we need synchronized bow ties for the groomsmen,” she says without looking up.
“He might have mentioned something about ‘visual cohesion.’”
“I knew it.” She finally looks up, and her smile makes my heart skip the way it has every day since she agreed to marry me. “How was Xavier?”
“Good. We talked through the wedding day plan.”
“And you're feeling okay about everything?”
I slide beside her, careful of the chaos and Duke's peaceful sprawl. I find her hand, squeezing tighter than usual. “I'm grateful for you, for every dawn I wake up clear, and for the chance to be here for all of it, completely. Sometimes I'm still scared, but I'm here.”
“Five hundred days,” she says softly, and I realize Parker isn't the only one who's been counting.
“You keep track?”
“Of course, I keep track. Every single day you choose sobriety is a day we get to continue our story together.” She leans against my shoulder, and I breathe in the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with coffee from her shift at Mountain Mornings. “I'm proud of you, Gray. So proud.”
“I couldn't have done it without you.” My voice is thick with emotion.
“You could have. But I'm glad you didn't have to.”
