Page 82 of The Ballad of Us
“The record label seems to think it's all or nothing.”
“Suga, record labels think a lot of things. Most of them are designed to make the label money, not to make the artist happy.” Leslie leans forward conspiratorially. “Have you considered that you might have more power in this negotiation than you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“You're sober, stable, and have created the best music of your career. You're not desperate anymore, which means you're not negotiating from a position of weakness. Instead of asking if you should accept their offer, you should be asking what offer you want to make to them. Just think about it. The album-titled single ‘Solid Ground’ is going to reach the top of the charts, and it's bringing in substantial revenue. This isn't just a personal victory but a professional leverage point.”
The suggestion hits like lightning. For years, I viewed myself as powerless, always asking for a seat at the table. Now, for the first time, it dawns on me—I have agency. The fear that defined me softens into the first embers of self-respect. I realize sobriety gave me something new—the confidence to walk away from what threatens my well-being.
I stand up, pacing the length of Leslie’s porch as it all comes together in my mind. “What if we offered a limited tour instead? Three long-weekend mini-tours or residencies in just a couple of cities, focusing on shorter, regional dates that fit my recovery needs. When I pitch this to the label, I can highlight the benefits. The fans get more excited about fewer shows, the band avoids burnout, and I stay connected to my support system. I could explain that limiting the tour makes each show feel special and keeps us healthy, which in turn leads to better performances. This way, I prioritize my well-being while still building on the success of 'Solid Ground' and showing the label an innovative approach to doing things.”
“What if indeed? Worst case, they say no. If so, other labels exist. Success creates options.”
“But what if I'm throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?” What if I’m being selfish to the rest of the band?
Leslie sets down his coffee cup and looks at me with the kind of direct compassion that cuts through all the noise. “Gray, sweetie, you've already had your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You almost died from addiction, and you chose something healthier instead. That was your true moment of clarity. Everything else is just details.”
“You really believe that?”
“True success isn't about how high you climb, it's about how sustainable the climb is. And I believe that a man who's learned to put his health and relationships first is already more successful than most people ever dream of being.” He purses his lips as if to say, “And that’s that.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, watching the village go about its morning routine. Mrs. Patterson is walking her ancient golden retriever past the coffee shop. Jake Morrison is setting up his easel by the fountain to capture the morning light. Emma is already serving the early commuters who stop by Mountain Mornings before heading to jobs in the next town over.
This is my life now, not just with Rhea at its center, but a whole community that has embraced us. The thought of leaving it for eight months of hotel rooms and concert venues brings tightness to my chest.
“I think I know what I want to do.” A small epiphany pops into my mind.
“What's that?”
“I want to make a counteroffer. We can come to an agreement that honors the music and the opportunity without sacrificing everything I've worked so hard for. I’m not falling off the wagon to make a label happy,” I confess my biggest fear.
“Now you're thinking like someone who understands their own worth.” Leslie stands and smooths down his shirt with satisfaction. “And if your record label doesn't appreciate that kind of wisdom, then they don't deserve you anyway.”
Walking back, I feel a confidence I haven't had in years. Recovery isn’t just about sobriety, it’s about making decisions from strength. Simple routines, such as meditation, exercise, and journaling, keep me steady and clear-headed, even when faced with challenges.
I find Rhea in the studio, going over scheduling details with Andrew while Duke supervises from his new favorite spot on the couch. She looks up when I enter, and I can see the question in her eyes.
“I'm going to call Marcus back, but not to give him the answer he wants,” I announce to the room.
“What are you going to tell him?” she asks, and I can see the panic in her eyes that she thinks she’s hiding from me.
“That we'll tour, but we’ll do it on our terms with shorter runs, regional focuses, all helping rather than hindering recovery and relationships. If that's not enough for them, then maybe they're not the right label for us.” All of it rushes out of me so quickly. I stop myself from climbing on top of my soapbox and leading a revolution against the assholes in corporate America like Marcus, who control art and lessen its worth in the name of fucking dollar signs.
Rhea's smile is radiant with pride and a sense of relief. “I love you.”
“I love you too. And I love what we've made here too much to risk it for anyone else's definition of success.”
Later that afternoon, when I make the call to Marcus, his reaction is predictably explosive. But this time, instead of shrinking, I feel calm gathering inside me. Marcus’s raised voice, which lists risks, streams, momentum, and such registers, but doesn’t shake my new resolve. For the first time in my career, I’m not apologizing for my boundaries. Each objection he throws, I meet with a steady breath and relaxed shoulders. I recognize this emotional shift as relief and quiet pride displacing my former anxiety.
After the call, I take a moment to reflect on the pushback. Instead of folding under pressure and wanting to self-medicate, I feel strong and more resolved. Over the following days, the label's management team reaches out with varying degrees of urgency and compromise. They propose scaled-back versions of the tour, illustrating just how keen they are to capitalize on my redemption journey. My peers, hearing of the negotiation, express a mix of admiration and curiosity. It's uncharted territory for many of us musicians, used to toeing the line for the sake of careers. This shows me that setting boundaries doesn't just protect my well-being, but it also empowers others to see that there are options beyond the standard fucking playbook.
Recovery has taught me that the most important word in my vocabulary isn't yes. It's enough. Sitting in the studio, I let reality sink in—peace and contentment now fill the space where anxiety once lived. The meaning of enough wraps around me, warm and solid. What Rhea and I have created together isn’t just enough—it’s every-fucking-thing. The relief is pure, deep, and finally mine.
Rhea is quiet for the next few hours as she works tirelessly to bring our dream to fruition. Keeping my gaze on her, I do my best to get a read on her, but she doesn’t look up from her work often enough to examine the expressions on her face.
After we have dinner with the band at Mae’s Diner, I decide I need to get to the bottom of her sudden silence. Rhea and I walk home from Mae’s, hand in hand, and a peaceful type of happiness lingers, leftover from seeing the look on my girl’s face when I made the best decision for us that I could ever make.
The longer we walk through the village, the more her quiet mood begins to weigh on me. Gazing over at her, I finally ask, “You okay, baby?”
