Page 72 of The Ballad of Us
"It's got Leslie Hartman very concerned about our creative energy flow."
Gray kisses me, cutting off my laughter, and I catch our reflection in the window, surrounded by the warm, uneven light of our new space. This is what our life is now—unexpected joy, friends who care enough to give advice, and problems that turn out to be blessings. We’re constructing more than just a studio— it’s a life together, one that’s stronger because of everything we’ve faced, even the small things like odd lighting and surprise design help.
It's worth every risk we've taken to get here.
Twenty-Three
GRAY
The smell of polished wood and the steady tap of drumsticks fill the studio, mixing with the crisp February air. For the first time in years, I’m making music without any chemical boost, and it’s exhilarating. I used to worry that sobriety would dull my creativity, but now every note seems more real. The focus and emotion I have today are nothing like those old, foggy nights. This is a new chapter, and it feels full of freedom and depth I never expected.
I arrive early to find Leslie already holding court in our main recording room, somehow managing to rearrange the furniture while simultaneously conducting what appears to be a therapy session with Jake Morrison, the local artist who has been struggling with his latest painting series.
“Darling, creative blocks are just fear wearing a fancy disguise. You're afraid the painting won't live up to your vision, so you're sabotaging yourself before you can fail. Classic self-protection mechanism.”
"But what if it really is terrible?" Jake asks, looking genuinely distressed.
"Then it's terrible with authenticity, which is infinitely better than perfect but soulless." Leslie steps back to admire his micro-adjustment to our room setup. "Besides, you can't edit a blank canvas, sweetie. Better to create something imperfect than nothing at all."
I watch them, still amazed. In just three weeks, Leslie has become the village’s unofficial therapist, design consultant, and life coach, always offering advice that’s both unexpected and helpful. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of his past, but he keeps most of it to himself.
"Gray, Suga Bear!" Leslie spots me and immediately abandons his furniture feng shui project to air-kiss both my cheeks, a greeting that felt ridiculous the first time but now seems perfectly natural. "Ready for your big day? I brought sustenance." He produces a bag of what smells like Emma's famous blueberry muffins. “Blueberries are excellent brain food. You'll need all your creative faculties firing on full cylinders today."
"Thanks, Leslie. How did you know we were recording?"
"Honey, I know everything that happens in this village. It's my superpower." He settles into what we've started calling “Leslie's chair” - a vintage leather armchair he found at an estate sale and declared perfect for "supervisory creative consultation." "Mrs. Patterson mentioned it yesterday when I was helping her choose between two different throw pillow arrangements, the burgundy was completely wrong for her complexion, by the way—and then Emma confirmed it during my morning coffee constitutional."
Every day, Leslie does his “wellness rounds,” stopping by Main Street’s shops to check on everyone and offer advice. It’s usually unasked for, but it always helps in some way.
"Speaking of wellness," he continues, pulling out a small notebook that he's started carrying everywhere, "how are you feeling about today? Scale of one to ten, with one being 'existential dread' and ten being 'ready to conquer the musical universe.'"
"Probably a seven," I admit. "Nervous excitement mixed with the fear that I might have forgotten how to do this sober."
"That’s perfectly normal. Recovery is like learning to walk again. The steps are the same, but everything feels different without the beer goggles." He jots something in his notebook, which I know is full of everything from feng shui tips to relationship advice and even his 'emotional weather reports' for the villagers. "Have you decided when you’ll share your special song with Rhea?"
"How do you possibly know about that?"
"Darling, you get this particular look on your face every time someone mentions romantic gestures, and yesterday I caught you humming the same melody for three straight hours while you thought no one was listening." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Plus, I may have conducted some strategic reconnaissance with Mrs. Chen about the romance novels you've been consulting for inspiration."
I shouldn’t be surprised that Leslie found out my secret. In just a few weeks, he’s become the heart of village gossip, but somehow, he brings people together instead of just spreading rumors.
"It's not ready yet," I tell him.
"The song or your plan for presenting it?"
"Both. It has to be perfect, Leslie. She's... she's perfect."
Leslie's expression softens, and I see a flash of something that might be genuine emotion beneath his usually flamboyant exterior. "Oh, sweetheart. Perfection is the enemy of meaningful. She doesn't need perfection, she needs honesty."
Before I can respond, the rest of the band starts arriving, followed shortly by Rhea with her thermos of coffee and the kind of smile that makes my heart skip a beat. Leslie immediately switches into what he calls his "professional supportive mode," which involves numerous encouraging hand gestures and observations about the "excellent creative energy" in the room.
"I'll leave you artists to your artistic endeavors," he announces, gathering his notebook and adjusting our furniture one final time. "But remember—authenticity over perfection, vulnerability over polish, and hydration over everything else. I'll check on your progress this afternoon."
After Leslie’s dramatic exit, we focus on the real work. As we start recording, every song feels more intentional than ever. Each note matters, and for the first time, my music comes from real emotion, not from anything artificial.
We recorded three songs, each one showing a part of my recovery. Every track felt like it changed me a little. 'Morning Light' was about living without hangovers. 'Phoenix Rising' was about hope after hitting bottom. 'Sacred Ground' was my way of honoring the peace I’ve found in this small town. My bandmates added their own touches, making each song stronger.
But there’s still one song I haven’t recorded. I keep its pages tucked away in the back of my notebook. As the day goes on, I keep thinking about 'The Ballad of Us.' It’s almost done. I’ve spent months working on it, tweaking every line and chord. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever written—a love letter to Rhea and to the second chance we’ve found. During a break, I start strumming the chords quietly, humming a bit of the melody without even thinking. I’m so caught up in it that I don’t notice Rhea walking over until she’s right there.
