Page 33 of The Ballad of Us
More than enough. It's everything.
Twelve
GRAY
Ninety days.
Three months.
Thirteen weeks of learning how to be human again, and now I'm supposed to just walk out into the world and trust that all this healing will stick when faced with real-life stress and temptation.
My duffel bag sits packed by the door of my room, everything I own fitting into one black canvas bag, just as it did when I arrived here, broken and barely breathing. But the man leaving this place is nothing like the man who stumbled through those doors three months ago. At least, I hope to God he's not.
The anxiety sits in my chest. But it’s not the desperate, clawing panic of early recovery, but the nervous energy of a man about to take the biggest test of his life. Bruce says it's normal, this fear of leaving the protected bubble of treatment. He says fear means I'm taking recovery seriously, and that I understand the stakes.
What he doesn't know is that my fear goes beyond just staying sober. It's about whether the man I've become inside these walls can survive in a world that's going to expect me to be the Gray Garrison I used to be. They want the rock star, the performer, and the guy who could drink everyone under the table and still deliver a show that brought crowds to their feet.
I don't want to be that guy anymore. I'm not sure I even remember how to be that guy anymore.
I head to the phones and call Rhea, just needing to hear her voice to calm my nerves. Over the past two weeks, since her visit, we've been talking more. It’s not just the nightly calls anymore, but afternoon conversations when she gets off her shift at Mountain Mornings. They’re just little quick check-ins that have become the highlight of my days.
“Hey, beautiful,” I greet with a smile in my voice and settle into the chair outside the small phone booth for what might be the last time.
“How are you feeling? Big day today.” Her voice carries that warm concern that makes my chest tight with affection.
“Terrified. Excited. Grateful. Ready to see what's next, but also wondering if I'm completely insane for thinking I can really do this.” I’m transparent because honesty has become as natural as breathing between us.
Her laugh bubbles through the phone, and I close my eyes to soak it in. God, I'd forgotten how much I love that sound. For years, I barely heard her laugh at all. She was too worried, stressed, and busy managing the chaos I created to find a lot of joy. But now she laughs easily, freely, the way she did in the beginning.
“You can do this, Gray. I've seen how far you've come. You're not the same person who walked into that place three months ago.” She reassures me, and I need to hear it more than she knows.
“Tell me about your morning. What kind of coffee emergencies did you have to handle today?” I change the subject because talking about her life grounds me in ways nothing else can.
“Oh my God, you're going to love this. Remember Mrs. Patterson, the one who orders the same black coffee and blueberry muffin every single day?” The excitement in her voice makes me grin.
“The one who adopts all the baristas? Yeah.”
“She came in today and asked for a 'fancy drink with lots of foam art' because her granddaughter is visiting and she wanted to impress her. So, I spent twenty minutes trying to make a swan in her latte foam, and it ended up looking like a deformed duck with one wing.”
I'm already laughing, picturing Rhea's determined concentration as she tries to create art in coffee foam. “Please tell me Mrs. Patterson loved it anyway.”
“She took a picture and said it was the most beautiful duck she'd ever seen. Then she tipped me ten dollars and told her granddaughter I was 'an artist with milk.’”
The image is so perfect, so quintessentially Rhea, that I can't help but smile. This is what I've missed most about her, not just the physical attraction or even the deep emotional connection, but this. The way she finds joy in small moments, the way she makes ordinary interactions feel special.
“I wrote a song about her yesterday—about Mrs. Patterson and her daily routine. Want to hear it?” I haven’t sung her a silly song in a few weeks, so it’s high time.
“Always.” The excitement in her voice lights me on fire in the best, happiest way possible.
I clear my throat and sing softly into the phone.“Seven-fifteen on the morning dot, Black coffee and a muffin hot, Mrs. Patterson takes her usual chair, Talks about the weather and her silver hair. She's got stories from 1963, about dancing and love and being twenty-three, and the girl behind the counter with the knowing smile, makes her coffee worth the extra mile.”
Rhea's laughter when I finish is worth more than any applause I've ever received on stage. “That's terrible and wonderful at the same time. Poor Mrs. Patterson, immortalized in a coffee shop song.”
“Hey, that's not just any coffee shop song. That's a Grade A, premium quality silly coffee shop song, written by a Grammy winner.”
“Oh, excuse me, I forgot about your fancy credentials.” The humor lacing her playful tone nearly undoes me in the middle of the phone booth.
We talk for another ten minutes about nothing and everything, and I find myself memorizing the sound of her voice, storing up these moments like a battery I can draw from when things get difficult.
