Page 88 of The Ballad of Us
“We can do a check-in system. We can take turns making sure Gray's okay, set up meetings,” Cody suggests.
Andrew adds, “And maybe some basic rules for the tour that’ll keep us accountable and looking out for each other.”
“Gray's been sober for almost eight months. Maybe he's ready?” Wyatt asks.
“Ready?” Andrew snaps. “Were you not here last year when he was scraped off the concrete in an Atlanta alley. They thought he was going to die.”
“That was different. Gray's different now,” Zep argues.
They talk about me as if I’ve vanished, like my struggle is something abstract, not sitting right here, breathing hard. The walls feel too close, and the air is thick, prickling against my skin. I can’t take the weight of their expectations pressing in. I rise, almost fleeing, desperate for space before I choke on the need to be everything for everyone.
“I need to get out of here,” I say, already heading for the door.
“Gray—” Andrew starts, but I'm gone.
I drive to Xavier’s house without really thinking, muscle memory taking over when my brain can't function. My sponsor lives in a modest ranch house on the outskirts of Dahlonega, with a front porch that's seen hundreds of conversations between broken people trying to put themselves back together.
He takes one look at my face and immediately puts on coffee.
“Talk,” he says simply, settling into his usual chair while I pace his living room like a caged animal.
I tell him everything about the tour offer, the money, the band's division, and the pressure. But mostly I talk about the fear, the bone-deep terror that eight months on the road will unravel everything I've worked so hard for.
“What scares you most?” Xavier asks when I finally run out of words.
“Losing Rhea. Losing myself. Everything will be gone.” Am I clinging to recovery as a shield? Am I truly afraid to fly, terrified of failing if I soar? That uncertainty claws at me.
Xavier is quiet for a long moment, considering. “Fear of success and self-preservation can look similar from the outside. But you're the only one who knows which one this is.”
“That's not helpful, man.”
“It's not meant to be helpful. It's meant to be true.” He leans forward. “Gray, you've been in recovery for 237 days. That's a miracle. But it’s still early in the process. Most people recommend a full year before making major life changes.”
“This isn't a life change, it's a career opportunity,” I sound ridiculous to my own ears, arguing for the very thing I’m terrified of.
“Eight months away from your support system isn't a life change?” He lifts a challenging brow.
The truth lands hard. Eight months on tour isn’t just work. It’s night after night in hotel rooms with temptation one door away. It’s airports and strangers, and the insistent need to perform, to keep smiling, not to fail. It’s a thousand cracks in the armor of my sobriety, each whispering that one drink won’t matter. But I know better. I can't forget where that road goes.
“I could ask Rhea to come with me.” The thought tugs at a knot in my chest. Would she really want to leave the coffee shop she loves, her new roots, just to follow my uncertainty around the country? I can’t assume she’d say yes. The price of dragging her into my world feels steep.
“You could,” Xavier agrees. “But what would that cost her?”
My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Hannah, my therapist, responding to the emergency session request I sent earlier.
Dr. Hannah: Can do a video call in an hour. Hang in there.
Xavier sees me check my phone and nods approvingly. “Good. You're using your tools. That's what they're for.”
“Whichever way I turn, I betray someone. Say yes, take the risk, and ask Rhea to sacrifice everything. Say no, and I cost the band its shot, and its very future. The burden isn’t just mine. We owe each other honesty now. We need to specify how a final decision is made, even if it’s not unanimous. I want Rhea there, too, because none of this happens in a vacuum. Inclusion isn’t optional.”
“Welcome to recovery,” Xavier says with a sad smile. “Where you learn that sometimes there's no perfect choice, just the choice you can live with.”
An hour later, I'm back at the studio, laptop open for my emergency session with Dr. Hannah. Her familiar face fills the screen, professional but warm, the woman who's helped me untangle twenty-five years of trauma and poor coping mechanisms.
“Tell me what's happening,” she says.
I go through it all again, but this time I focus more on the emotional weight than the practical details—the guilt, fear, and anger at having to choose between my dreams and my health.
