Page 59 of The Ballad of Us
“It's beautiful, but how will we get it home?” My concern is that there isn’t enough room for one tree, much less two.
“Leave that to me. Do you trust me?”
The question carries weight beyond Christmas trees, and we both know it. The moment stretches between us, filled with unspoken words. I can see the conflict and hope in Gray's eyes, the way his mouth opens and closes as if unsure of what to say next. “I...” he starts, then stops, taking a deep breath.
“Yes.” I meet his gaze. “I trust you.”
He grins, then waves down one of the farm workers. Gray talks with the worker, explaining that we need a tree delivered to my apartment, plus a crew to handle decorating it with lights and ornaments. I watch, slightly overwhelmed, as the worker jots down Gray's instructions on a clipboard and assures us it will all be taken care of.
“Gray, that's too much...”
“It's not too much. It's exactly enough.” He pulls me closer. “I want to give you the Christmas you deserve. The one we never got to have before.”
His mention of our past sits between us, bittersweet but no longer painful. Last Christmas, distance and exhaustion took a toll on us. I remember missing him and hoping for things I was too afraid to ask for. This year, though, the air feels lighter. I finally believe things could be different.
“I want that too,” I admit.
“Good.” He leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “Because I have about a million other ideas for making this the best Christmas ever.”
By the time we rejoin the others, they've finally selected a tree, plus enough garland to decorate it and then some.
“We got a little carried away with garland,” Andrew explains sheepishly.
“A little?” I look at their haul with amusement.
“Because you can never have too much garland,” Cody adds seriously.
“Obviously,” I agree, because arguing with their logic would be pointless, and they're all so cute and pleased with themselves that it's endearing.
The drive home is quieter since everyone is exhausted from the day's adventures. I'm curled against Gray's side in the back seat with his arm around me. Both of us are drowsy from the fresh air and contentment.
“Thank you for today,” I murmur against his shoulder.
“Thank you for saving us from ourselves. We would have come home with nothing but confused expressions and buyer's remorse.” He laughs.
“You would have figured it out.” Or not, now that I think back to all the chaos from previous tours.
“Maybe, but it wouldn't have been nearly as fun.”
As we wind through the mountain roads toward my apartment, I think about how this day felt like a preview of what our future could look like. I’m digging the easy camaraderie, shared experiences, and the simple pleasure of spending time together without drama or complications.
For the first time in years, I’m not afraid to look forward to Christmas morning. Hope is terrifying, but I let it win today. I want to believe this happiness and hard-won connection will last. I don’t know what comes next, but with Gray beside me, I can imagine our future. That feels like the best gift of all.
Nineteen
GRAY
I come out of the nightmare gasping, whole body clammy, heart pounding so hard it hurts. That chemical rush of adrenaline burns bitterly in my mouth. I can't shake the vision of Rhea leaving, her taillights cutting away, or the terrible hollowness that hits when it happens. Even awake, I'm gripped by the certainty that I'm alone again.
It was just a dream. She's not leaving.
She's asleep in her own bed fifteen minutes away, probably curled up with one of her romance novels on the nightstand and her phone charging beside her pillow. She told me she loved me just two days ago. She's not going anywhere.
My mind refuses reassurance, and my logic is drowned beneath a louder voice that screams, “She's leaving, and you can't stop her.”
My head doesn't care what's real. It only cares about fear.
Every time I close my eyes, the dream returns. Rhea packs her things all over again, telling me she can't do this anymore, walking away while I stand frozen, unable to move or speak.
