Page 110 of The Ballad of Us
We sit surrounded by wedding plans and work on our own plans for something lasting. It's not perfect, but it's real. Rhea meets my eyes. “Sometimes I worry about what's next, but I remember how strong we are together.” She smiles at the memory of a sunset and our dreams. In two weeks, I'll marry the woman who stayed, no matter how big a gamble I am. I love her with all my heart. On our special day, we'll dance to “The Ballad of Us” and become husband and wife.
But tonight, we're just two people in love, planning a wedding and our tomorrow, one day at a time.
And that's everything.
Epilogue two
RHEA
On the morning of my wedding, the air is crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. The mountains feel full of promise and wonder. I move between anticipation and calm reflection, my nerves edging into my joy. As sunlight fills my apartment, the sounds of the village disappear, absorbed by the quiet of nature. I look out at Main Street, decorated like a fairy tale, and as the leaves rustle, a magical feeling settles in my bones. I press my hand against the window just as excitement and reality converge, anticipating what comes next.
As I gaze out the window, I hear voices drifting up from the street below. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” one of them exclaims, noting the white chairs that line both sides of the street, creating an aisle that leads to a flower-covered arch in front of Mountain Mornings.
“Leslie really outdid himself this time,” another voice agrees, noticing how every storefront is draped with white tulle and fairy lights.
“It’s true matrimonial perfection,” a third person adds with a laugh, acknowledging Leslie's meticulous touch.
Turning toward a vanity on the opposite wall, I have a seat on an antique, ivory stool.
Emma begins pinning my hair, but I can’t stop the anxiety running through me. “Stop fidgeting.” “You're going to mess up three hours of work.”
“I'm not fidgeting. I'm... adjusting.”
“You're nervous, which is perfectly normal. I threw up twice before my wedding,” Mrs. Chen says from her perch on the settee, Duke lounging regally at her feet in his bow tie.
“That's not helping, Mrs. Chen,” I grumble.
“It's not supposed to help, dear. It's supposed to make you laugh.” She chuckles at my frown.
And it does. The laughter loosens the tension. This village does that, lifts you up when you need it most, supports you when you're struggling, and celebrates with you when life surprises you.
My dress is a simple piece, but I appreciate its modesty. It’s an ivory silk that falls smoothly with delicate lace sleeves. Leslie called it “absolutely sublime.” We found it in a vintage shop in Asheville, and as soon as I tried it on, I knew it was the one.
“Five hundred and fourteen days,” I murmur, touching the delicate silver bracelet Gray gave me this morning. Each tiny charm represents a milestone in our new beginning. I remember the moment he reached his first 90 days, a point he once thought impossible to achieve. The note that came with the bracelet simply said, “Every day I choose recovery is a day I choose you.”
“Five hundred fourteen days of what?” Emma asks, stepping back to survey her handiwork.
“Of Gray being sober. Of creating this new life. Of everything.”
“Of everything,” she agrees softly.
A knock at the door interrupts our moment, and Leslie enters briskly, adjusting his lavender suit, which costs more than my entire wedding budget. He moves directly to the center of the room, his expression serious. He says, “Ladies, we have a situation.”
My heart stops. “What kind of situation?”
“The kind where your future husband is having what we'll call 'an artistic moment' about the song selection for the processional.” Leslie purses his lips in displeasure.
“He wants to change the music? Now?”
“No, Suga Boo Boo. He wants to sing you down the aisle. Live. Acoustic. Just him and his guitar.” Leslie pauses for dramatic effect. “I told him it was unconventional, possibly catastrophic if he gets emotional, and absolutely perfect.”
My eyes fill with tears.
Emma immediately threatens me. “Don't you dare cry off that mascara.”
“He wants to sing me down the aisle?” My bottom lip trembles.
“Apparently, he wrote a new song about beginnings.” Leslie pulls out his phone to check his meticulously planned timeline. “So, what do we think? Traditional wedding march or Gray Garrison serenading his bride?”
