Page 20 of The Ballad of Us
Peaceful.
The kind of existence where the biggest drama is whether the coffee shop runs out of blueberry muffins.
I spend the morning wandering the Dogwood Hollow village. My phone remains silent in my pocket. The voicemails on it must weigh a ton. I peek into the bookstore where I picked up a book earlier last week, and discover rows and rows of books again, a comfortable reading nook by the window, and the same gray-haired woman who smiles at me like I’m an old friend rather than a stranger running from her problems.
By lunch, I’ve had more genuine conversations with strangers than I’ve had in years. The hardware store owner, Mr. Finnegan, tells me about the hiking trails. The librarian recommends a local book club. The woman at the farmers market insisted I take home a jar of her homemade jam because I “look like I need some sweetening up.”
For a few hours, I almost forgot about the voicemails waiting for me. For half a day, I almost forgot about the life I left behind and the man I’m still completely in love with. I was able to forget about the future that crumbled the night I finally found the courage to walk away.
As the sun starts to dip behind the mountains, I drive back to the cabin with bags of fresh produce and that jar of jam. Reality comes crashing back as I near my short-term rental. Those voicemails aren’t going anywhere. Gray’s voice is sitting in my phone, waiting to either destroy my fragile peace or provide some kind of closure I might still need.
Once I’m back at the cabin, I sit on the porch swing with my phone in my hands, watching the last light fade from behind the mountains, which are painted in shades of purple and gold, so beautiful that it makes my chest ache. This is what I want. I want beauty without chaos and peace without the constant fear of another Gray crisis, waiting around the corner.
Taking a deep breath, I open my voicemail.
His voice surprises me, even though I was expecting it. “My sweet Rhea.”
Three words are all he has to utter, and I’m transported back to every morning he whispered them against my hair and every night he murmured them into my skin. But there’s something different about his voice now. There’s a clarity I haven’t heard in months, maybe even years.
“I miss you, baby. I’m sorry. I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, and you deserved better than what I gave you. I’ll be eternally apologetic for that. I just need to hear your voice, baby. Please answer when I call tomorrow.”
The desperation in his voice is crushing. Underneath it, something makes my heart stop. He sounds sober. Not just sober from alcohol, but clear-minded and awake in a way he hasn’t been since those first few months we were together.
I remember the Gray I met in that bathroom at Requiem Records three years ago. He was ninety-eight days sober, scared, hopeful, and so beautiful it took my breath away. The way he looked at me like I might be his salvation, the gentleness in his touch when he stopped me from leaving, and the honesty that made me want to take a chance on someone completely outside my comfort zone.
Gray’s presence had always reached deeper than fame. When he listens, I feel seen. When he’s sober, he finds meaning in ordinary moments like brewing coffee, reading together, and simply feeling safe as we fall asleep beside each other.
The attraction between us had been immediate and overwhelming. It wasn’t just physical, though God knows the chemistry was electric from that first conversation. But it was his mind that captivated me, and the way he thought about music, life, and love. His vulnerability revealed what he hid from everyone else. He made me feel brave, beautiful, and necessary in ways I’d never experienced before.
I fell in love with his laugh, his terrible jokes, and the way he’d write songs about mundane things just to make me smile. His hands were always moving and creating something beautiful, and it’s one more thing I love about him. But I knew I’d fallen the first time he’d held me on the tour bus, when the nightmares came. He climbed into my bunk and held me while I came down from the hellish dreams that plague me. It was like he could keep all the darkness at bay through sheer force of will.
But addiction is a patient thief. It stole him from me slowly, so gradually that I kept making excuses and believing each relapse was the last one. The man I fell in love with faded away one drink at a time until I was living with a ghost who wore his face but couldn’t remember why he once wrote me love songs.
The second voicemail plays automatically, and this time his voice is completely different. Stronger. More himself.
“Hey, baby. I know you’re probably not ready to hear from me, but I wanted to tell you about my day. I’m in a nice rehab in Georgia. I had my first group therapy session this morning, followed by individual therapy this afternoon. It’s good, Rhea. Hard as hell, but good.”
He pauses, and I can hear voices in the background, the sound of life happening around him. “Andrew brought my guitar today. Funny how different it feels to write when you’re sober. I started working on a new song. For once, it’s not about the pain, but about hope. About wanting to be better than the worst things I’ve done.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I keep thinking about that first day we met, in the bathroom at Requiem. Do you remember? You were so nervous about the tour, and I was so fucking scared about staying sober. But sitting there with you, I felt like I might be able to do it. Maybe I could be the man you saw when you looked at me.”
His voice breaks slightly, and I press my hand to my mouth to keep from sobbing out loud.
“I know I can’t undo the damage I’ve done. I know I hurt you in ways I’m probably not even aware of yet. But I’m going to do the work, Rhea. Real work this time. Not for you, not for the band, but because you made me believe I was worth saving, and I owe it to that belief to try.”
The message ends, and suddenly I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe. Grief and relief tumble together until I’m left trembling in their wake.
He’s alive. He’s safe. He’s getting help.
For three years, I feared every call would bring news that Gray was dead. Anxiety clawed at me whenever he stayed up drinking, arrived late, or didn’t answer his phone. Every time he passed out, it felt like it might be his last time.
The weight of that fear was crushing. Loving someone who was slowly killing himself colored every moment of joy, laughter, and each tender touch. How do you love someone completely while always preparing to lose them?
But tonight, for the first time in longer than I can remember, relief replaces that old, crushing weight. I can finally breathe. Gray is in rehab. He sounds like himself again. It’s like listening to the man I fell in love with in a bathroom three years ago, when we were both searching for a connection we didn’t know we needed.
It doesn’t change anything between us. I still can’t return to the cycle of hope and disappointment that loving an addict requires. But knowing he’s safe and fighting for himself, instead of making empty promises, is a gift that will help me rest a bit easier tonight.
Once I clear my face and my voice no longer betrays my emotions, I call Emma at Mountain Mornings to ask about the apartment above the bookstore.
