Page 23 of The Ballad of Us
“I don’t know how to heal from this.” I’m ill-equipped to deal with my own bullshit.
“The same way you’re doing it now—one day at a time, one honest conversation at a time, and one choice to feel the pain instead of running from it. Tell me, when did you start drinking?” Bruce picks up his notepad again.
“Fourteen. I found a bottle of whiskey in our adoptive dad’s liquor cabinet and drank half of it. I felt like I could breathe for the first time since my mom died.” I’ve never told another soul how relieving my first drink was at the precocious age of fourteen.
“And how did it make you feel about the night your mom died?” He digs deeper.
“Like it didn’t matter anymore. Like I could forget it ever happened. Obviously, that didn’t work out long-term because I’m here in a rehab facility, talking to you. I’ve never told another soul what happened that night, even when the cops asked us a million questions. Andrew fielded them all, saving me from being further traumatized at such a young age.”
“Trauma doesn’t go away just because we ignore it. It burrows deeper, influencing our choices and shaping our relationships. Do you see the connection between your fear of losing Rhea and your tendency to push away people who love you?” he asks.
The pieces click together with clarity. “I was so afraid of losing her the way I lost Mom that I pushed her away before she could leave. Or die.”
“Self-sabotage as self-protection. It’s incredibly common in trauma survivors. But what I want you to understand is that Rhea left because of your choices, not because you’re fundamentally unlovable or destined to lose everyone you care about. You have control over your choices, Gray. You always have.” He writes more details on his pad of paper.
“What if it’s too late to get her back?” My mind goes straight to the worst possible scenario to prepare for the blow before the blade drops, anticipating the hurt before it can settle like a lead weight in my belly.
He closes the brown leather folio. “If you can get sober and stay sober, if you can heal from this trauma and become the man you’re capable of being, then you’ll have honored both your mother’s sacrifice and Rhea’s love. Even if they can’t be with you anymore.”
Returning to the present in the dining hall, I finish telling my roommates about the session. They listen without judgment, offering the kind of support that can only come from people who’ve done their own excavation of buried pain.
“Are you going to be okay?” Denny asks as we clear our trays.
“I think so. Better than okay, maybe. For the first time in my life, I feel like I understand why I am the way I am. Doesn’t excuse it, but…”
“But it makes it all make sense,” Randy finishes.
Later in the evening, after the last group session ends, the nightly wind-down routine I’ve come to expect marks the end of another day of recovery. I lie in my bed and think about my mother, not the way she died, but the way she lived. I can still hear her laugh, taste her cooking, and feel the same warm safety I did back then, but especially when she used to sing me to sleep with old country songs. She loved me enough to die protecting me. The least I can do is live in a way that honors that love.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Rhea again and leave another message that she probably won’t listen to. But tonight, for the first time since I was seven years old, I feel like the man my mother raised me to be might actually be worth saving.
Seven
RHEA
“Oh, my goodness, you’re reading The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo! Isn’t it divine? I stayed up until three in the morning to finish it.” Mrs. Chen exclaims when she spots the book sitting on top of my purse as I lean down to sign the lease agreement.
Her enthusiasm is infectious. The lease paper is crisp under my fingertips, its edges slightly rough against my skin. A faint scent of lavender, likely Mrs. Chen's perfume, lingers in the air as I sign. Even as I do, nerves still hum beneath my smile. I’m renting an apartment in a town where I know exactly three people, starting over with nothing but a suitcase and a broken heart.
I did a quick walk-through with Mrs. Chen earlier, but I was so anxious to swipe this rental off the market. The entire tour is a blur, but all I saw were book cases galore, a window overlooking Main Street, and more than enough room for me.
“I couldn’t put it down either. The author has this way of making you fall in love with flawed characters. I’ve been devouring romance novels lately. They’re emotional comfort food for me.” I set the book on her antique desk, which is covered in neat stacks of paperwork and photos of who I assume are her grandchildren.
“Exactly!” She claps her hands together, her eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses. “People think they’re frivolous, but really, they’re about hope and believing that everyone deserves a happy ending, no matter how broken they start out.”
The words hit deeper than she probably intends. Mrs. Chen is in her seventies, with her silver hair pulled into a neat bun and the kind of gentle confidence that comes from decades of running a successful business. But when she talks about romance novels, she sounds like a teenager fangirling over her favorite band.
“Do you have a favorite author?” I’m genuinely curious.
“Oh, so many! But I have a weakness for indie romance authors. Their ability to work so hard for their books without any help from a publisher resonates deeply with me. What about you?” She hands me the keys to my new apartment.
How do two small brass keys feel impossibly heavy in my palm?
“I’m working my way through everything right now. Trying to figure out what kind of happy endings I believe in these days.” I admit out loud, before I realize I’ve said it aloud.
She studies my face with a perceptive gaze that makes me wonder if she can see straight through to my bruised heart. “Well, you’ll have plenty of room for reading material upstairs. As you saw, the previous tenant left all the bookshelves, and they’re beautiful. The built-in mahogany cases are to die for, aren’t they? It truly is a book lover’s dream.”
After signing the lease, I stand in the middle of my new home, surrounded by the most gorgeous bookshelves I’ve ever seen. They line every wall, tucked into alcoves, and wrap around corners, as if someone had designed this space specifically for a bibliophile. The wood is rich and dark, scarred in places but in the way that speaks of character rather than damage.
