Page 100 of The Ballad of Us
“Let’s call it a thank-you concert for the community. I’ll propose to Rhea during it.”
“Perfect. I'll spread the word starting today. Make it sound like it was the band's idea to give back to the community.” Emma pauses. “What do you need from me specifically?”
Here’s where I need Emma’s help on the big day. “Keep Rhea busy on Saturday afternoon so she doesn't have time to overthink her outfit or get suspicious about why everyone seems excited about a random community concert.”
“Done. I'll schedule an inventory day and encourage her to reorganize the storage room. By the time we're finished, she'll be too tired to question anything.” The delight in Emma’s voice is infectious.
Now, for Mrs. Chen. Her excitement is genuine. She’s been completely invested in our story since the beginning.
“Oh, this is wonderful!” she exclaims when I stop by the bookstore later that morning. “I've been waiting for this moment ever since you two found your way back to each other.”
“I was hoping you might help with decorations.” I pull out a notebook where I've been sketching ideas. “Nothing too elaborate, just something that makes the square feel special without screaming 'marriage proposal happening here.'“
“Leave it to me.” Mrs. Chen is already moving toward the back of her store where she keeps her party-planning supplies. “I've been saving some beautiful string lights and fabric bunting for just such an occasion.”
“How did you know there would be an occasion?” I ask, genuinely curious why she has these items readily available.
“Sweetheart, I've been reading romance novels for over fifty years. I know how these stories end.” She pats my arm with grandmotherly affection. “The question isn't whether the heroine gets her happy ending. It's how spectacular the hero wants to make it.”
“No pressure there,” I mutter, but I'm smiling.
“Oh, there's pressure.” Mrs. Chen smiles cheerfully. “But the good kind. The kind that makes you rise to the occasion.”
The most crucial conversation is with Leslie, whom I find on his front porch that afternoon, conducting what he calls his “daily aesthetic assessment” of the village's visual harmony.
“Gray, Suga Bear! Perfect timing. I was just thinking about how the light hits the fountain at sunset and whether we need additional ambient lighting for outdoor events,” Leslie says as he checks items off on his trusty clipboard.
“How do you always know exactly what I'm going to ask you?”
“It's a gift.” Leslie gestures for me to sit in the wicker chair beside him. “Also, I may have overheard your conversation with Emma this morning. These mountain breezes carry sound in interesting ways.”
“So, you know about the proposal concert.”
“I know about the proposal concert, and I have thoughts.” Leslie pulls out his ever-present notebook and flips to a page covered in detailed sketches and color-coded notes. “First, staging. We'll need a proper platform for the band, not just the portable stage the village uses for festivals, but a structure with actual presence and visual impact.”
“Where exactly are we going to get a proper stage on four days' notice?” I’m already trying not to freak out.
“Oh, Suga Bear, you underestimate the power of small-town resources and one determined interior designer with excellent connections.” Leslie makes a note in his book. “I have a friend in Asheville who owes me a favor involving a disastrous color scheme and a society wedding. He'll deliver exactly what we need.”
“What about seating? Lighting? Sound equipment?”
“Already in the works.” He’s on top of my proposal.
Leslie’s confidence settles my racing heart and frayed nerves. In four days, I’ll perform “The Ballad of Us” for Rhea and propose in front of everyone who matters most and have become like family to us in our chosen hometown.
“There's just one more thing. I need to make sure the song is perfect. We've been playing it in rehearsals, but this is the most important four minutes of my life,” I say.
“Then you'd better get practicing. And Gray? Stop trying to make it perfect. Make it real. Rhea doesn't need perfect. She needs authenticity. She needs you, exactly as you are, singing your truth.”
I pause, letting Leslie's words reach me. The drive for perfection has always covered a deeper fear of not being enough, the fear of losing all I've crawled back from the depths of hell to achieve. I recognize now that my desire for flawlessness comes from anxiety, not ego or pride. I remember my embarrassment in rehab when I forgot lyrics, and how others joined in instead of judging me. That moment of shared vulnerability showed me that being authentic, messy or not, creates connection and a sense of just being human.
The band is at the Belvedere Street Studios for our most important rehearsal, not for a deadline, but because Saturday night, I'm going to bare my soul in song and ask the woman I love to spend her life with me.
“How many times are we going to run through this?” Parker asks after our fifth consecutive performance of “The Ballad of Us.”
“Until it feels right,” I reply automatically.
“Gray,” Andrew stops watching from the couch and looks at me. “It's already great. You wrote a heartfelt song, and y’all are playing it beautifully. Rhea is going to love it. Running it twenty more times won't change that.”
