Page 24 of The Ballad of Us
The apartment itself is small with a living area that flows into a galley kitchen, one bedroom, and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale. But those bookshelves transform it into a magical place, promising adventures and happily-ever-afters stacked spine to spine.
And the shelves are completely empty.
I set my bags on the hardwood floor and laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, twenty-nine years old, with nothing but the clothes I packed in a grief-fueled rush weeks ago. I have nothing—no furniture, no dishes, and no books to fill these beautiful shelves. I left everything behind when I walked away from Gray, reducing what we shared to whatever I could carry in a few bags.
But instead of feeling defeated, I feel oddly liberated. I realize now that my motive is to reclaim control over my future. This is what a clean slate looks like. It’s what starting over really means, not just leaving behind what hurt you, but having the space to choose what comes next. I take out my phone and make a small but bold decision to order a single piece of furniture. I find a comfy chair where I can sit and read the stories I’ll fill those empty shelves with. These actions, though small, feel like the first steps toward building a life that is entirely my own.
I walk to the largest bookshelf, running my fingers along the empty shelves. Each empty space feels like a reflection of my heart, but with promise. "I’m going to fill every single one of you with the best novels I can find, and with books that remind me why love is worth believing in.” My voice echoes in the empty space. I make a mental note to return here often, allowing each new book to mark a milestone in my journey of healing. This burgeoning library will be my measure of how far I've come and how far I still need to go.
It feels like a vow, like the first real commitment I’ve made to my own happiness in years.
A knock at the door interrupts my moment. I open it to find Emma holding two steaming cups and wearing a grin that could power all of Dogwood Hollow.
“Welcome to the neighborhood! Pumpkin spice latte, made with real pumpkin and way too much love.” She hands me one of the cups, and the aroma that rises from it is autumn magic with cinnamon, nutmeg, and a flavor that tastes like happiness.
I take a sip and moan with pleasure. “Oh my God, Emma. This is incredible.”
“Secret family recipe. My grandmother’s from Vermont, and she believed coffee should be an experience, not just caffeine delivery. Holy shit, those bookshelves! Mrs. Chen didn’t mention they were this gorgeous.” She peers around me into the apartment.
“Right? I think I’m going to need about a thousand books to do them justice.” The mere idea of filling the cases with books I love brings me immense joy.
“Or you could start with one really good job and work your way up to book-buying money. How do you feel about learning to make coffee that makes people weep with joy?” Emma’s grin turns mischievous.
The question catches me off guard. “Are you offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you a chance to learn something new, make decent money, and work with a person who already thinks you’re pretty great. I’ve been running Mountain Mornings Cafe by myself for two years, and honestly, I could use the help. Plus, you have good energy. Customers will love you.” She settles into the windowsill, pausing for a moment to glance out of the window, as if searching for something beyond the view. She takes a breath, smiling, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the way she leans back, like she's giving herself permission to hope for more than just good coffee and steady company.
My first job was at a coffee shop near campus. I loved learning lattes, memorizing regulars’ orders, and making a comfort drink that brought people joy. I loved the routine and honest satisfaction. "I haven’t worked in a coffee shop in years, but I loved it when I did. There's an honesty about it, you know? People need coffee, you make coffee, everyone wins." I remember the first time I pulled an espresso shot, the way the machine hissed gently, mirroring a deep breath.
“Exactly! Plus, the morning rush here is relatively calm. It’s normally just locals who want their usual, tourists who want Instagram-worthy drinks, and the occasional author who camps out all day working on their novel. What do you say? Want to give it a try?” Emma’s enthusiasm is contagious.
The answer comes without hesitation. “When can I start?”
“Tomorrow, if you want. I open at six, but we can start you at seven while you’re learning the ropes. Fair warning, though. Once Mrs. Patterson gets her first sip of your coffee, she’ll adopt you whether you want her to or not. She adopts half the town.”
We spend the next hour planning my training schedule and talking about the town's quirks. Emma tells me about the Smutastic book club that meets at her shop every Thursday, the local artist who pays for her coffee with handmade pottery, and the retired teacher who comes in every morning at exactly seven o'clock for a black coffee and a blueberry muffin. There's also talk about the mysterious painter, Jake, who is preparing for a much-anticipated solo exhibition. Rumors have it that the latest pieces hint at an untold story in the town’s history, a sordid tale that has everyone eagerly speculating.
After Emma leaves, I walk through my empty apartment again, but it doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels full of possibility. Tomorrow, I’ll start learning a new job. This weekend I’ll go furniture shopping and start filling these shelves with stories. I’ll build a life here, piece by piece, choice by choice.
I need to attend to another matter first.
I sit on the floor with my back against the window, watching the sun set over the mountains as I pull out my phone. Seven voicemails from unknown numbers that I now know by heart. Seven messages from Gray that I’ve been saving like love letters from a war.
Taking a deep breath, I start with the oldest one. His voice fills my small space, immediately transporting me, not to the pain of our ending, but to another time entirely. I haven’t heard this clarity in his tone in months. Maybe years.
"Hey, baby. Day three here. I had group therapy this morning, and I participated, instead of just sitting there, counting ceiling tiles. I talked about you, about how I took your love for granted and convinced myself I didn’t deserve it, so I might as well prove myself right."
A pause, and I can almost see him running his hand through his light brown hair the way he does when he’s trying to find the right words.
"I’m starting to understand that self-sabotage isn’t noble, it’s just another form of self-destruction. My therapist asked me what I was so afraid of, and the answer was losing you. But I lost you anyway, didn’t I? By trying so hard to protect myself from the pain of loss that I caused the exact thing I was afraid of."
I close my eyes, remembering the Gray I fell in love with. The one who could articulate his emotions like poetry, who saw connections between things that other people missed. He’s still in there, underneath all the damage, addiction, and self-loathing. This voice talking to my message is him. This is the man I said yes to three years ago.
The second message plays automatically, shorter, with a touch of hope woven through.
"Day four. I woke up without a hangover for the first time in a long time. Months? Years? My head is clear, baby. Really clear. It’s terrifying and amazing, and I keep thinking about all the mornings I wasted being too messed up to appreciate waking up next to you."
His voice breaks slightly, and my chest tightens.
