Page 17 of The Ballad of Us
"Pretty fucked up. But understandable. Doesn’t make it right, but it makes it human." At least, he thinks it’s human and not my full character.
We head back toward the main buildings. My ribs throb with every step. The ache in my body is nothing next to the raw misery squeezing my chest, but it’s a reminder of how far I’ve crashed. Two weeks ago, I was Gray Garrison, frontman of Case in Point. Now I’m just another broken soul in rehab.
Part of our walk back is silent, as I sift through the wreckage of what I ruined.
“Can I ask you a question?” I don’t know why I ask permission, but maybe it’s because I don’t want to take advantage of the kindness he’s showing me by offering his wisdom.
“Sure, you can always ask.” Randy’s calm and easygoing.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
Randy turns to face me. His eyes are kind but honest, and I brace myself for an answer I might not want to hear. “I don’t know. But I know that if you get clean and stay clean, do the work and become the man she deserved all along, then you’ll have given her the best gift you possibly can.”
It’s not the reassurance I was hoping for, but it’s a thread of possibility.
“Even if she doesn’t take me back, she should know that loving me mattered because it changed me?” It feels like a profound epiphany.
“Now you’re getting it.” He smiles.
As I step into the dining hall, my reflection stares back at me from the entrance door’s glass.
Hollow-eyed.
Unshaven.
Wrecked in ways no bruise can show.
I try my best to remember when I began to look so fucking old. A memory--one I’m not proud of--resurfaces.
The hotel bar in Austin glows amber in the dim lighting, all polished wood and leather that costs more per square foot than most people make in a month. I shouldn't be here. I know I shouldn't be here. But my feet carried me down from our room anyway, drawn by something I don't want to name.
One hundred eighty-three days sober.
Six months and two days since I met Rhea in that bathroom at Requiem Records. Six months of waking up clear-headed, of actually remembering every conversation, every kiss, every whispered promise in the dark. Six months of being the man she deserves instead of the disaster I'd been for so long.
But tonight, something cracked.
The show was perfect—a sold out crowd and our best performance of the tour. The kind of night that used to end with me drowning in celebration, using alcohol to somehow make the high last longer. Except it never made anything last. It only made me forget.
I should be upstairs with Rhea right now. She's probably asleep in our bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek the way she always does. She looked so proud of me tonight, standing side stage with that smile that makes my chest ache with how much I love her.
That's the problem, isn't it? Loving her this much terrifies me.
"What can I get you?" The bartender materializes in front of me, a professional smile in place. He doesn't recognize me—or if he does, he's good at hiding it. The late shift at a hotel bar probably means he's seen everything.
I should say "club soda." I should order coffee. I should walk away.
"Whiskey," I hear myself say instead. "Jack Daniel's. Neat."
The words taste wrong in my mouth, like a betrayal of every promise I've made. To my therapist from my last stint in rehab. To Andrew, who's sacrificed so much to keep me alive. To the band, who've watched me nearly destroy everything we built together.
To Rhea, who looks at me like I hung the moon and personally arranged the stars.
The bartender pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler and slides it across the bar. It sits there between us, catching the low light, looking deceptively harmless for something that's ruined so many parts of my life.
I tell myself I'm just going to look at it. Maybe hold the glass, feel the weight of it in my hand, remind myself why I stopped.
But my fingers are already wrapping around the cool crystal.
