Page 51 of The Ballad of Us
Instead of answering with words, he brings our joined hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine.
“More than okay. Perfect,” he murmurs against my skin.
With our fingers intertwined, we walk down Main Street, easily falling into step. We laugh together, and I sense a shift in our relationship. This moment feels like it was meant to happen. All we needed was the right time.
Maybe, we're finally ready to try again, but differently this time—better this time.
With the foundation of friendship and the hard-won wisdom of two people who learned what love looks like when it's healthy.
It's a beginning, and a real one at that.
Under the string lights, we stand together, both dressed as pirates, surrounded by the festival’s glow. We share a smile, and in that moment, I feel hopeful about what’s ahead for us.
Eighteen
GRAY
November in the Georgia mountains is a revelation. Gold and crimson leaves carpet the ground. Every breath, clean and purposeful, fills my lungs. Yet lately, it’s not the scenery taking my breath away. It’s Rhea’s hand in mine, grounding me in the present, letting me glimpse a future I once doubted.
Since Halloween night, a fundamental shift has occurred between us. There haven’t been grand declarations, no passionate speeches, just quiet, meaningful change. Now, when we walk together, she reaches for my hand. There are times when I catch her looking at me with an expression that makes my chest tight with hope. With each passing day, the space between us shrinks. Touches and conversations gradually drift into new, vulnerable territory we've carefully avoided.
This morning is no different. I'm sitting at my usual table in Mountain Mornings, working on lyrics but mostly just watching Rhea move behind the counter with the efficient grace I've grown to love. The morning rush has died down, and she's restocking the pastry case when Mrs. Patterson approaches me with the conspiratorial air of a CIA agent about to share classified information.
“That girl is smitten with you,” she announces, settling into the chair across from me uninvited.
“Mrs. Patterson. Good morning to you, too.” I close my notebook and smile at the woman.
“Don't you 'good morning' me, young man. I've been watching the two of you for weeks now, and that girl lights up like a Christmas tree every time you walk through that door.”
I glance over at Rhea, who's pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word. Her cheeks are pink, and she's arranging the same three muffins with unnecessary concentration.
“I'm pretty fond of her myself,” I admit, because even a blind man can see that truth.
“Fond.” Mrs. Patterson scoffs. “You look at her like she hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars. When are you going to do something about it?”
“We're taking things slow.” Why am I answering her questions?
“Slow is good. Slow is smart. But there's slow, and there's glacial.” She leans forward. “That girl's been hurt before. She needs to know you're serious about her.”
“I am serious about her.”
“Then show her. Grand gestures are nice, but it's the little things that count. You know, the everyday choices that prove you're not going anywhere.” Mrs. Patterson smiles, stands, and heads off to find her next target, leaving me sitting with her words bouncing around in my head.
Show her.
The little things.
Everyday choices.
I'm still pondering this when Rhea approaches my table with a fresh cup of coffee and a smile that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.
“Surviving Mrs. Patterson's relationship advice?” She slides into the chair the older woman vacated.
“Barely. Does she give unsolicited counsel to all your customers, or am I special?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“You're special. She's decided you're her personal project. She asked me yesterday if you were 'courting' me properly. Used that exact word. Courting.” Rhea's smile turns mischievous.
“And what did you tell her?” I arch a brow in curiosity.
