Page 47 of The Ballad of Us
“The trick is getting the caramel hot enough to coat but not so hot it slides right off.” Rhea stirs a pot of melted caramel on the stove.
“How do you know all this domestic goddess stuff?” Andrew wrestles with a particularly stubborn apple stick.
“YouTube University and a lot of trial and error. Plus, my mom was really into holiday traditions. She taught me that making memories is more important than making things perfectly. There was this one Christmas when she accidentally swapped the salt and the sugar in the cookie dough. The cookies were inedible, but we laughed for days and ended up making a gingerbread house instead. That memory stays with me, reminding me that it's the effort and laughter that count the most.” There's a tone in her voice when she mentions her mom. It’s filled with warmth mixed with old sadness — a reminder of how little I know about Rhea's childhood before we met. She mentions her mom a lot, in passing, but never shares many fond memories, nor does she provide the kind of detail or specificity that invites questions.
“She sounds like a good woman,” I say quietly.
“She was. She just had her demons at times.” Rhea tests the caramel's consistency with a wooden spoon. “Okay, assembly line time. Gray, you're on apple dipping. Everyone else, find your stations.”
By the time we're done, the kitchen looks like a candy factory exploded, but we have a dozen perfectly caramel-coated apples cooling on wax paper and seven carved pumpkins that range from artistic to abstract to Cody's attempt at recreating his own face, which looks more like a demented potato than anything human.
“Best day ever,” Parker declares, surveying our handiwork while licking caramel off his fingers.
“Better than the Grammy after-party?” Wyatt teases.
“Way better. No pretentious small talk, no photographers, and significantly better snacks.” Parker is right on the money.
As the sun sets behind the mountains, the sky turns orange and pink. The colors look great with our pumpkin display. Laughter fills the air, mixing with the sound of leaves and crickets. I realize that even though we just carved pumpkins and made caramel apples, Parker’s right. This has been one of the best days I’ve ever had.
But that's exactly what makes it perfect. It's normal. It's simple. It's the kind of day I never knew I wanted until I had it.
Rhea starts gathering her things as the evening light fades, and I feel that familiar reluctance to let her go. These moments together feel so precious and fragile that I want to hold onto them as long as possible.
“I should head home. Early morning tomorrow,” she says, though she doesn't sound any more eager to leave than I am to see her go.
“Of course.” I walk her to her car with my hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Thank you for today. For all of this.”
“Thank you for letting me come play Martha Stewart with you guys.”
When we reach her car, she turns to face me. The porch lights make her look even more beautiful and at peace, and I feel a strong ache in my chest. Before she says anything, her fingers brush my jacket sleeve and linger there, saying more than words could. Her touch is gentle, but it means a lot, and I hold my breath for a moment.
“Gray.” Her voice is so soft that I step closer.
“Yeah?” It’s barely a whisper.
Instead of words, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me in one of those hugs that feel like Christmas morning. I hold her carefully, breathing in the scent of her floral shampoo mixed with cinnamon and caramel from our afternoon projects.
“I had the best time today,” she murmurs against my chest.
“Me too. Best day I've had in years.”
When we pull apart, I can't help myself. I press a gentle kiss on her forehead, letting my lips linger for just a moment longer than is strictly friendly.
“Text me when you get home?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
“Always do.”
I watch her drive away, her taillights fading around the bend. For the first time since rehab, I’m not scared of what’s next. Still, as her car disappears, I recall the need to return to the studio, and there aren’t any in Dogwood Hollow. Each day feels like I’m getting closer to leaving this peaceful life behind, and that thought makes me uneasy. I hope Rhea gets some rest after today. Today was perfect. Tomorrow will be whatever it is.
Seventeen
RHEA
Working with Case in Point again has settled into an easy rhythm, both familiar and new. Fifteen hours a week of scheduling, handling correspondence, and coordinating other things for them gives me just enough involvement without upending my new life here in Dogwood Hollow. But I'd be lying if I said the work was the only draw.
I see them every day now, and I've missed this more than I thought I would. It’s not just Gray, though my heart still flutters when he walks into Mountain Mornings, but all of them. I've missed Parker's terrible jokes, Zep's gentle teasing, Andrew's protective, big-brother energy, Wyatt's quiet wisdom, and Cody's infectious enthusiasm. But the music Gray sends me has become the highlight of my days. They’re random songs, from old blues to modern indie rock.
One afternoon, while restocking coffee beans, Gray sends a ballad, which brings tears to my eyes. As the lyrics wash over me, I feel a lump in my throat and pause my work. At first, I just listen and send quick reactions, a few heart emojis, or a couple of words. Lately, I've started reading the lyrics to decode the emotions in Gray's song choices. The songs feel like a private language, each melody opening a new window into his heart.
