Page 26 of The Ballad of Us
"It's about you, of course. But not in the way you might think. It's not a song about losing you or wanting you back, though God knows I could write a hundred of those. This one's about how you saved me by making me save myself."
The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. "You never tried to fix me, Rhea. You never made excuses for me or pretended my drinking wasn't destroying us both. You loved me enough to let me hit bottom, and that's the bravest thing anyone's ever done for me."
A group of other residents walks past the phone booth. Their laughter carries the easy joy of people learning to live without chemicals. I lower my voice, protective of this daily ritual that keeps me connected to the person I'm fighting to become worthy of.
“The melody is simple. It’s just my guitar and voice, like you always said you liked best. The chorus keeps coming back to, 'You loved me by letting me go.' Because that's what you did. You loved me enough to stop enabling my destruction.” I hear the strum of an open G chord, resonant and warm, then a transition to A minor. Each note echoes the gratitude I feel, with the unspoken ache in the spaces between. A meandering riff weaves through, like memories I can’t reach or leave behind.
I lean back in the chair, phone pressed to my ear like I'm sharing a secret. "I know you can't answer these calls. I know hearing my voice might hurt, and the last thing I want is to cause you more pain. But I need you to know that your love didn't fail, baby. It's the only thing that's ever worked."
The line goes quiet except for the sound of my own breathing. In the early days, this silence felt like rejection. Now, as I listen, it feels different. It feels like grace, and that it’s the necessary space between us that allows us both to heal. "I love you, Rhea. I'll call tonight."
The rest of the day unfolds with the structured rhythm that's become my lifeline. After my morning call, there's group therapy where I talk about forgiveness without minimizing accountability. My individual session with Bruce follows, where we explore how childhood trauma patterns show up in adult relationships. Next comes lunch with my roommates, who've become the extra brothers I never knew I needed.
Afternoon guitar practice in the music room, where I work on that song that won't leave me alone. The melody is haunting and hopeful at the same time, major and minor keys dancing around each other like heartbreak and healing holding hands.
Evening comes with dinner. The chef on staff prepares salmon and roasted vegetables, food that tastes like it was made by people who understand that nourishment is an act of self-love. Afterward, the group focuses on relapse prevention, and I share about the song I'm writing to process my feelings without numbing them. "Music was always my drug before I found alcohol. But now it feels different. Like it's coming from a place of gratitude instead of pain."
Denny nods from across the circle. “That's the difference between creating from your wounds and creating from your healing. Both are valid, but one hurts less."
After the evening group, medication, and the final check-ins that end another day of choosing recovery, I’m back at the phone booth. It’s 8 in the evening – the same time I’ve called Rhea every night for two months. My evening ritual is as established as morning yoga.
I dial her number from memory, expecting the familiar pattern of rings followed by her voicemail. Instead, after the second ring, there's a click.
"Hello?"
Her voice is live, immediate, and so achingly familiar that my breath catches in my throat. For a moment, I'm convinced I'm hallucinating. It only took sixty days of sobriety for my brain to finally snap and conjure the sound I most want to hear.
"Hello?" she says again, and this time I can hear the slight tremor in her voice. She’s uncertain about taking this leap of faith with me.
My heart slams against my chest in a rhythm that feels both foreign and familiar. My palms grow damp, leaving cool moisture on the plastic receiver. Everything I want to say swells inside me. The words roll around in my mind. My brain misfires. I want to tell her how much I've missed her voice and how grateful I am that she answered. I want to explain how sixty days of recovery have taught me the difference between loving a person and needing them.
But all that comes out is a strangled sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, because after two months of one-sided conversations, I have no idea how to talk to the woman I love when she can actually hear me. Nerves and relief flood together, making words impossible just when I need them most.
Nine
RHEA
“Hello?” I say again, my heart pounding as I listen to the strained sound on the phone. For a moment, I think the call has dropped, that I've imagined it all.
Then I hear him breathe all deep and shaky.
“Rhea.” My name comes out like a prayer, like he can't quite believe I'm real. “You answered.”
“I answered.” The words feel strange. After two months of avoiding his calls, we are now fumbling for words like strangers.
“I... fuck. I'm sorry. I had so many things I wanted to say if you ever picked up, and now I can't remember a single one of them.” His laugh is nervous but genuine, and underneath the anxiety, I can hear the Gray I haven't heard in years. He’s giving me his complete, unfiltered presence.
“It's okay.” And surprisingly, it is. Relief mixes with disbelief as the sound of his voice, not the alcohol-blurred version I'd grown accustomed to. My chest settles. I didn't realize it was still wound tight. A subtle comfort replaces the tension for the first time in months. “You sound... good, Gray. Really good.”
“I feel good. Better than I have since we first met.” There's a pause. “How are you? I mean, really, how are you?”
The question is so simple and normal, but it catches me off guard. When was the last time anyone asked how I’m doing and waited for an answer? When was the last time Gray asked how I was without it being a preamble to needing something from me?
I curl up in my chair and watch the mountains turn purple in the evening sky. “It's been hard, but a good hard. Like learning to use old muscles again.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Tell me where you are. I mean, if you want to. If that's not too much?” His voice is warm with understanding.
I consider keeping my location private. However, the man on the phone doesn't sound like someone I need to be wary of. He sounds like the Gray I loved three years ago. He’s curious, present, and truly interested in my well-being, rather than just seeking forgiveness.
