Page 70 of The Ballad of Us
"Because," Zep says slowly, "we were hoping you might want to help us design it. Make it feel like home instead of just another studio."
"You want me to decorate your recording studio?"
"We want you to make it ours," Gray corrects softly. "All of ours. This isn't just going to be a place where we work, it's also a place where we live. It's going to be our creative home base, and we can't imagine doing that without you."
The weight of his words sinks in. This isn’t just about picking out furniture or colors. It’s about being part of their future, building something that matters. My heart pounds, and for a second, I wonder if I’m really up for this. I take a slow breath and remember how far I’ve come—the risks I’ve taken, the courage it took to leave a job that didn’t make me happy, and the leap I made to follow my passion. I learned that bravery means moving forward even when you’re scared. That’s what brought me here.
"I would love that," I tell them, and the collective sigh of relief from all five of them makes me laugh. "But I should probably warn you that I have very strong opinions about lighting and comfortable seating."
"We're counting on it," Andrew grins, picking up a manila folder and placing it in my hands. “Can we use you as a reference on the rental agreement we picked up earlier today?”
I giggle and circle my arms around Grays’.
The decision made, the next two weeks become a whirlwind of planning, shopping, and coordinating contractors.
Emma immediately volunteers her services, claiming she's been dying for a project that doesn't involve coffee beans and pastry displays. Mrs. Chen contributes her expertise in finding vintage furniture and unique decorative pieces. Even Mrs. Patterson gets involved, showing up one afternoon with fabric samples and strong opinions about window treatments.
"You can't have a proper creative space without proper curtains," she declares, spreading swatches across the floor of what will become the main recording room. "Musicians need to control their environment, and that includes managing natural light."
I watch these women who've become my chosen family rally around this project with the same enthusiasm they bring to everything else, and I'm overwhelmed by the sense of community we've found here.
Amidst our planning, Gray throws himself into physical work with an intensity that would worry me if I didn't recognize it as his way of channeling nervous energy into something productive. He and Andrew spend hours measuring and planning the optimal placement for sound baffles and equipment. Zep and Wyatt tackle the electrical work needed for proper studio lighting. Parker and Cody handle endless trips to hardware stores and supply warehouses.
But it's the evenings I treasure most when we all gather in the space to assess the day's progress and plan tomorrow's tasks. We order pizza and sit on sawhorses or overturned buckets, and I watch Gray in his element - creative, focused, and completely present in a way that still takes my breath away. Though this newfound harmony is often challenged by minor hiccups, tonight, a stubborn screw refuses to hold one of the acoustic panels, leading to a playful argument between Andrew and Zep about who forgot to buy the right length screws. The moment is light, but the undercurrent of tension reminds us of all the stakes involved in bringing this dream to life.
"The isolation booth should go here," he says one evening, gesturing toward a corner where the natural light is softest. "And we can run the wiring for the control room along this wall."
"What about backup power?" Andrew asks, ever the practical one.
"Already handled," Wyatt assures him. "The electrician will install the generator connection next week."
I'm only half-listening to the technical details; I'm more focused on watching Gray navigate this project with the confidence of someone who's finally found their footing. Recovery has given him back his ability to plan for the future, to invest in something long-term without the constant anxiety that he'll somehow sabotage it. It all came into focus just last week we were installing some of the final panels when Gray suddenly stopped, looked at the progress we'd made, and said, 'I can't believe we're doing this. For so long, I doubted I'd ever be able to commit to something like this again.' In that instant, he grasped the full extent of his transformation, recognizing that what once felt insurmountable now felt manageable. It was a milestone, not just in the physical realm of our studio, but also in the intangible journey of his own growth.
Time passes quickly, and before I know it, it's been three weeks since Gray started attending AA meetings in Dahlonega, driving thirty minutes each way three times a week to maintain his anonymity while still getting the support he needs. He found a sponsor—a retired music teacher named Xavier, who has been sober for fifteen years and understands the unique pressures of creative professions.
"Xavier says the hardest part about recovery in the music industry is learning to create without chemical inspiration," Gray told me after one of their coffee meetings. "But the best part is discovering that sober creativity is actually more authentic, more connected to who you really are."
He's also found a therapist who specializes in recovery from addiction and can conduct sessions via video call, if Gray needs to skip an in-office session, allowing him to continue the work he started with Bruce while maintaining the privacy he needs as a public figure.
"Dr. Hannah gets it," he explained after his first session. "She understands that being in the public eye adds extra layers of complexity to recovery, but she doesn't let me use it as an excuse to avoid the hard work."
Watching him build this foundation of support while simultaneously creating a physical space for the band's future feels like witnessing someone constructing a life that's made to last. And the fact that he wants me to be part of that construction, both literally and figuratively, makes my heart swell with pride and love.
"Rhea," Gray says one evening as we're cleaning up after another productive day at the studio. The others have already left, and we're alone in the space that's slowly transforming from an empty warehouse to a creative sanctuary.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For all of this." He gestures around the room, which now has proper lighting, comfortable seating areas, and the beginnings of what will become a beautiful, functional recording space. "But more than that, thank you for believing this was worth investing in. Worth the effort."
"Gray," I set down the broom I've been using to sweep up sawdust and cross to where he's standing near the windows. "This isn't just your dream. It's become mine too. Watching you all create music, being part of something that brings joy to people, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He pulls me into his arms, and I breathe in the familiar scent of him mixed with sawdust and the lingering aroma of the Chinese takeout we had for dinner.
"I love you," he says simply. "I love the life we're creating together. I love that you see potential in empty spaces and broken people and make them beautiful."
"You were never broken," I tell him fiercely. "Hurt, maybe. Lost for a while. But never broken."
"I was broken when you left," he says quietly. "But you were right to leave. And somehow, that brokenness led me to the kind of healing that made this possible." He gestures around the space that's becoming our shared dream. "All of this. Us, the studio, the future we're planning for it. None of it would exist if I hadn't hit bottom hard enough to finally climb back up."
