Page 93 of The Ballad of Us
It’s worth choosing love over safety, and adventure over certainty.
Thirty
GRAY
I wake early, ready to start the day much sooner than the day is ready to begin. Lounging around while Rhea showers and readies for her weekly Al-Anon meeting over in Dahlonega, I try not to think about the band meeting too much, not until it’s time to actually start worrying. I watch Rhea with fascination instead--the way she brushes her hair, braids it on either side with ease, and applies light makeup to a face that doesn’t need the first drop of it. She’s pretty as a peach when she rolls out of bed.
Once she’s done with her morning routine, I walk my girl to her car and press a kiss to Rhea’s soft lips. I close her car door and walk the few blocks to Belvedere Street Studios. The emergency band meeting starts at eight on the dot. The air already smells like old coffee.
Everyone is already aware of Marcus's ultimatum. Andrew looks sleep-deprived, Parker drums on his cup, and Zep distracts himself with his cell phone, but it’s not hard to read the room and notice the tension.
“So, are we really going to turn down the biggest tour opportunity of our careers?” Wyatt says as soon as we're all seated.
“That's what we're here to decide,” I reply, feeling the weight of the moment. I know I'll choose the path that means more time at home over the tour. The challenge now is convincing the others to agree, but my decision is set. However, their choice hangs in the balance.
“Let's look at the numbers.” Andrew spreads printouts across the coffee table. “The tour would gross somewhere between one hundred twenty-five and one hundred and fifty million dollars. Our cut would be enough to set us all up for life, pay off every debt, buy houses, and secure future profitable tours.”
“And all it would cost is eight months away from everything that matters,” I add quietly.
“Gray.” Parker leans forward, his expression serious. “I know you're happy here. We all are, but opportunities like this don't come around twice. What if we say no and ‘Solid Ground’ peaks on release? What if this is our one shot at fucking legendary status?”
His fear strikes a familiar chord in my chest, a reminder of how fragile everything we’ve achieved together is. We’ve watched bands vanish after one mistake, and there are situations when it barely takes a whisper to shatter everything you love.
“What do you think, Rhea?” Cody asks.
“I told Gray to follow his heart,” Rhea replies.
“So, what's your heart telling you?” Zep implores.
I stand and look out at the village that's become home. Mrs. Patterson walks her old retriever past the studio. Leslie is watering flowers with care, and Emma is doing what she does best, serving up coffee at Mountain Mornings.
“My heart is telling me I’ve made this choice before. I’ve chosen my career over my relationship, and success over stability. Now, clarity points me toward what matters right now.”
“This is different. You're sober now. Stable. You can handle the pressure with our support,” Andrew argues.
“Can I?” My chest tightens, uncertainty filling the quiet. I see my doubt echoing in their faces, an ache forming in my gut. “Only two hundred thirty-seven days ago, I thought nothing could break me. Yet I woke cold and alone in an Atlanta alley, and it nearly erased me.” The memory stings.
The room goes quiet. We seldom mention Atlanta and how it almost ended me.
“Recovery isn't only about not drinking. It's about making different choices. I’ve decided that spending eight months away from my support system, Rhea, and what keeps me healthy isn't right for me. I need a cleaner path, even if it means turning down the tour.”
“So, what are you proposing?” Zep asks.
I've been working on this idea since talking to Leslie yesterday. It's been coming together, like lyrics finding their melody. “We could focus on regional tours, shorter three-week runs, followed by at least two weeks at home. We'd cut our schedule from 60 to 30 shows. Yes, it would mean less money, but the tour would be more sustainable. For me, it’s about setting boundaries and maintaining a steady pace. Planning and marketing would be key. If the label’s on board, they can help with logistics. What do you think? Can this work?”
The room is quiet as everyone considers their options.
“The label won't go for it,” Parker says immediately.
“Then maybe the label isn't right for us anymore,” I suggest, putting another way of thinking about this in front of them.
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
Andrew is the first to speak. “Gray, we've been with this label for eight years. They discovered Case in Point, believed in us when no one else would.”
“And they've made millions off us while I nearly drank myself to death,” I reply, more sharply than I intend. “I'm grateful for what they've given us, but that doesn't mean I owe them my sobriety.”
Before anyone can respond, my phone rings. Marcus Webb, as if summoned by our conversation about him.
