Page 31 of The Ballad of Us
The drive over to Pine Falls takes exactly thirty-two minutes from my apartment above the bookstore. Yet it feels like both an eternity and no time at all. My hands shake slightly on the steering wheel as I follow the winding mountain roads. With each twist and turn, the car's tires crunch over loose gravel and send vibrations up through my arms. I catch the fresh scent of pine through the open window, mixed with my anxious breaths. Every few miles, I remind myself to breathe.
Three months.
It's been over three months since I last saw Gray in person or was close enough to touch him. I haven't read the expressions that cross his face faster than words can capture them. Three months have passed since I walked out of our life together and into this strange new existence where I'm learning to be happy on my own.
The facility appears around a bend like something from a magazine covering luxury retreats. Log buildings nestled among the tall pines, manicured gardens, and a serenity that speaks of healing come into view as I approach my destination. I can see why Andrew chose this place for his brother.
I park in the visitor lot and sit for a moment, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I've lost weight since leaving Nashville, but it's due to walking everywhere and eating when I'm hungry, rather than stress-eating or skipping meals altogether. My hair is longer now, sun-streaked from afternoons reading in front of my living room window. My eyes are clearer and less worn out than they were just over three months ago.
Inside, the lobby is adorned with warm wood and comfortable, soft leather furniture, designed to evoke a living room atmosphere rather than an institutional one. As I enter, soft classical music plays from hidden speakers, and the late-afternoon sunlight streams through a skylight in the middle of the lobby, casting everything in a golden light.
And there he is.
Gray sits in a leather chair by the window, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. He's reading a book, completely absorbed, and I have a few seconds to really look at him before he notices me.
He's different. So different that, if I'd passed him on the street, I might have done a double-take to make sure it was him. Gone is the bloated, sallow-skinned man I'd been living with at the end. This Gray is lean and healthy-looking, his skin bronzed from what must be hours spent outdoors. As he turns a page in his book, there's a calm deliberation in his movement. There's a fluidity that wasn't there before. His hair has grown past his shoulders, longer than I've ever seen. It suits him in a way that makes my chest tighten.
But it's his stillness that stops me in my tracks. The Gray I knew was always in motion, always pacing, fidgeting, or drumming his fingers on the nearest surface. This Gray sits with perfect calm, completely present in his reading. He radiates a kind of peace I've never seen in him.
He looks up as if he senses my presence, and our eyes lock across the lobby. His blue eyes, once fogged with pain and self-destruction, now blaze with life in a color I barely recognize. For a stretched heartbeat, we simply stare, two people heavy with history, grappling with the ache and wonder of reunion.
Then he's standing, setting his book carefully on the side table, and walking toward me with that same calm. There’s no rushing or desperate energy, just steady, purposeful movement.
“Hi,” he says when he reaches me, and his voice is the same as it has been on our phone calls. Gray is clear, present, and warm.
“Hi.” My own voice comes out smaller than I intend, the physical reality of him washing over me after months of just hearing his voice.
“You look beautiful.” There's no heat in it, no attempt at seduction. Just an honest observation, the way you might comment on a sunset or a piece of music that moves you.
“You look...” I struggle to find words that can adequately encompass the transformation I'm witnessing. “You look healthy. Really healthy.”
He smiles. It's the smile I remember from our very beginning, before addiction stole the light from his eyes. “I feel healthy. For the first time in years, I feel like myself.”
We stand there for a moment, drinking each other in. I can feel the magnetic pull between us. It's not sexual, though there's an undercurrent of that, too. There's a deeper recognition. It's the draw of two souls who've seen each other at their worst and their best. I understand the risks involved and acknowledge the hope within me. But it’s battling past disappointments. It's a precarious emotion, teetering between the fragile balance of redemption and the fear of relapse.
“Can I hug you?” His question is so careful, so respectful of boundaries that might exist between us, that it nearly undoes me.
Every instinct I have screams at me to launch myself into his arms, to bury my face in his neck, and breathe him in until I'm dizzy with it. But I've learned something about self-control in these months apart, about the difference between what you want and what's wise.
“Yes, I’d really like that.” And I mean it.
His arms come around me slowly, giving me every opportunity to change my mind. Then I'm pressed against his chest, remembering what it felt like to be held by him when he was truly sober. He's solid and warm. He smells like soap, sunshine, and a scent that’s indefinably him. It makes my eyes fill with unshed tears.
We hold each other tightly, not desperately, but with the careful tenderness of two people who've learned how precious and fragile a connection can be. I let myself have this moment. I give myself the gift of touching him, feeling his heartbeat against my cheek, and knowing he's alive, fighting, and healing.
When we finally pull apart, I blink hard to keep the tears at bay. His eyes are suspiciously bright, too, but he's smiling that clear smile, which is both familiar and completely new.
“Rhea?”
I turn to see a man approaching us, tall and distinguished with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His almost completely white hair doesn’t match his much more youthful face. This must be Bruce, the therapist Gray talks about in his nightly calls.
He extends his hand. “I'm Bruce. It's so good to finally meet you. Gray talks about you constantly.”
“Good things, I hope,” I say, accepting his handshake.
Bruce's smile is warm and genuine. “The best things. He's very proud of your new life here in Georgia. Thank you for coming for a session today. Shall we head to my office?”
His office is exactly what you'd expect from a therapist's space in a luxury facility. Comfortable chairs are arranged in a circle for conversation and relaxation. Psychology and philosophy texts line bookshelves. The soft lighting makes you want to tell the truth. I settle into a chair across from Gray. I remain hyperaware of every move he makes and every expression that crosses his face.
