Page 106 of The Ballad of Us
This is the ballad of us
Written in scars and second chances
This is the ballad of us
Love that survives when the music dies
You saved me by letting me save myself
You loved me by learning to let go
This is the ballad of us
The only song I’ll ever need to know
This is the ballad of us
Forever and always, the ballad of us”
The song is a map of our history. Each part is a stop on our journey — the beauty and the pain, the leaving, the returning, the breaking, and the healing. As I sing, I'm transported back to an autumn evening when we sat on the porch, wrapped in blankets, sharing dreams and fears under a canopy of stars. By the bridge, half the audience is crying, and my own voice is thick with emotion.
Mid-chorus, I stop playing. The band falters for a beat, leaving me standing in sudden silence with hundreds of eyes on me. At that moment, I realize the perfect moment isn't about perfect timing. Looking at Rhea with tears streaming down her face and love radiating from every part of her being, I know what I have to do.
“Rhea,” I say into the microphone, and my voice cracks on her name. “Can you come up here, please?”
She looks confused but rises immediately, making her way through the crowd while people part like they're in on the secret, which half of them are. When she reaches the stage, I take her hand and help her up, feeling the familiar electricity that's existed between us since day one.
“I had a whole speech planned,” I tell her, close enough to the microphone that everyone can hear but intimate enough that it feels like we're alone. “Something about recovery and second chances and how you saved my life. But standing here right now, all I can think about is that you didn't save my life—you gave me a reason to save it myself.”
I drop to one knee, and the gasp from the crowd is audible. Rhea's hands fly to her face, and she's shaking her head like she can't believe this is happening, but she's also laughing through her tears, which I take as a good sign.
The ring box comes out of my pocket smooth as silk, meaning all that checking paid off. When I open it, the diamond catches the light from hundreds of lanterns and throws tiny rainbows across the stage.
“Rhea,” I say, looking up at the woman who loved me at my worst and celebrated me at my best, “you're the music in my morning coffee, the harmony in my chaos, and the only song I want to wake up to for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?”
The square is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even the wind is holding its breath.
“Yes,” she whispers, then louder, “Yes! Of course, yes!”
The crowd erupts as I slip the ring onto her finger with hands that are finally steady, finally sure. When I stand, she launches herself into my arms, and our kiss tastes like tears and laughter and forever.
The band starts playing the final chorus of “The Ballad of Us” without me, and the entire village is on its feet, cheering and crying, celebrating the love that has survived everything that should have killed it. As the music swells, a few villagers near the front raise their lanterns in unison, creating a wave of light that sweeps through the crowd. It is as if the whole village is part of this love story, their collective hope lifting the night sky like a chorus echoing through the mountains, binding us all together in this moment of communal triumph.
“I love you,” Rhea says against my lips, her arms around my neck and her heart beating against mine.
“I love you too,” I reply, then turn to the crowd with her hand in mine. “She said yes!”
The celebration that follows is pure mountain magic. Leslie appears with the mocktails that aren’t supposed to be served until later. Mrs. Patterson is openly sobbing while Duke tries to comfort her with dignified concern. Emma and Mrs. Chen are hugging Rhea and examining her ring with the focus of a jeweler. The band is playing celebratory music while random villagers keep coming up to congratulate us.
“Did everyone know?” Rhea asks, looking around at the obviously well-coordinated event.
“Everyone who could keep a secret,” I admit. “So basically, everyone except Jake Morrison, who would have immediately painted a mural about it and ruined the surprise.”
“It was perfect,” she says, and the word doesn't sting the way it might have months ago. Because she's right. It was perfect, not because every detail went according to plan, but because it was perfect for us - real, honest, and witnessed by the community that helped us heal.
As the celebration continues, I reflect on my first day in rehab, when I couldn't envision a future beyond the next day. The mountain air feels sharp and clear, something I only learned to appreciate after getting sober. It grounds me in the present. I recall a day, about three months into my recovery, when the fog finally started to lift. After a group therapy session, sunlight came through the leaves and made hope feel real for the first time in ages. Someone offers me a mocktail, but I turn it down, happy just to be here with a clear mind and steady hands. Now, 287 days sober, I'm surrounded by people I love and engaged to the woman who let me find my own way home. I know there will be challenges ahead with balancing our dreams, dealing with career changes, and facing old habits, but I'm ready to face them with Rhea and our community by my side.
The band starts playing again — dance music this time — and suddenly the village square has become an impromptu dance floor. I pull Rhea close, swaying to music that sounds like redemption and second chances and all the beautiful possibilities that come from choosing love over fear.
