Page 52 of The Ballad of Us
“That I didn't know we were living in a Jane Austen novel.”
We sit in comfortable silence, unspoken feelings hanging between us. There's so much I want to say, but I'm scared to move too fast and break whatever trust I’ve managed to reestablish. Rhea glances at the window, as if searching for answers. I almost sense her unraveling her doubts, deciding how much to risk at this moment.
“Gray,” she says softly, and her tone makes me look up from my coffee. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What did you usually do for Thanksgiving before we started dating?” She cocks her head to the side in a cute manner, waiting for me to answer.
The question catches me off guard. “Depends on the year. Sometimes we were on tour, other times we were at home with my adoptive parents or at one of the guy’s family’s homes. Why?”
“I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me this year. Nothing fancy, just... us. If you don't have other plans.” She’s suddenly more nervous than she was just a moment ago.
The invitation jolts something inside me. Thanksgiving dinner, just the two of us. The intimacy in her offer makes my heart thunder as I realize this is exactly what Mrs. Patterson meant—quiet gestures, deeply meaningful, and proof of hope.
“I'd love that. But only if you let me help with the cooking. I'm not letting you wait on me for an entire holiday.” My words rush out before she can rescind the invitation.
“Deal. Though I should warn you, I'm very particular about my stuffing recipe,” Rhea informs me.
“I live in fear of your culinary standards.”
She laughs, and the sound settles the uncertainty stirring in my chest. We're going to spend Thanksgiving together, like a couple of people who are creating something real and something we can hold on to.
The next two weeks blur by. Coffee and woodsmoke fill the cabin. Rhea stays later, and we move easily from work to quiet nights by the fire. Sometimes she dozes at my side as the trust between us grows each evening.
Three nights before Thanksgiving, we're sitting by the fireplace at the cabin, everyone else having gone to bed early. Rhea is curled against my side, reading one of her romance novels, and I'm half-heartedly working on a song that's been giving me trouble for weeks.
“What's that one about?” She glances down at my notebook.
“This song? It's...” I hesitate, then decide honesty is always the better choice with her. “It's about second chances. About getting something back that you thought you'd lost forever.”
She sets her book aside and turns to face me fully. “Can I hear it?”
My stomach flips. I've written dozens of songs since getting out of rehab, but this one feels too personal, too revealing. It's essentially a love letter to her wrapped in melody and metaphor.
“It's not finished yet.” It’s not a lie.
“I don't mind rough drafts.”
She's looking at me with those eyes that see straight through every defense I try to maintain, and I realize I'm not going to be able to say no to her. I never could, really.
“Okay.” I reach for my guitar. “But remember, you asked for this.”
I play the opening chords, letting the melody softly fill the space between us. There's a vulnerability in the music and the tenderness of this moment that gently leads me into the song before I start to sing.
“I thought I'd burned every bridge I'd ever built,
Turned gold to ash with my guilt,
Left nothing but empty bottles and regret,
But some things are stronger than the wreckage
that we get.”
“You were the light I couldn't see,
When I was drowning in my need,
