Page 35 of The Ballad of Us
The words hit me like electricity. My head snaps toward Andrew so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “What did you just say?”
“Which part?” He must be playing a bad joke on me.
“Don't toy with my emotions, brother. Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but the possibility he's suggesting is too big and too perfect to be real.
Andrew's grin in the rearview mirror is answer enough, but he says it anyway. “We're on your side, Gray. We want you to be happy. We want you healthy, writing, and creating the best music of your life.”
“And how exactly does renting a cabin near Rhea accomplish that?” Anxiety over their choice of location rises in my chest.
“Case in Point needs their assistant back. She’s the best assistant we've ever had. The one who kept us all organized, sane, and made everything run smoothly.” Wyatt reaches over and squeezes my shoulder from the seat beside me.
“And you need to be near the person who makes you want to stay sober. She’s the same person who inspires you to write songs like the ones you played us two weeks ago,” Parker adds
I stare at them, trying to process what they're saying. “You want to hire Rhea back? After everything that happened?”
“If she's willing. And only if being near her helps your recovery, rather than hurting it. But from what we saw two weeks ago, from the way you talked about your visit with her, it seems like you two have figured out how to be good for each other again.” Andrew is in favor of bringing my girl back.
The SUV falls quiet except for the hum of tires on asphalt and the rapid beating of my heart. They've orchestrated this entire thing, brought me to Rhea's doorstep because they believe in my recovery enough to bet the band's future on it.
“What if she says no?” I ask quietly.
“Then we figure out something else, but we don't think she will.” Cody leans up from the seat behind me and ruffles my hair to ease my worry.
The rest of the drive passes in a blur of anticipation and nerves. I try to imagine seeing Rhea in her natural environment, in her new life. I try to picture what it might be like to be near her regularly without the weight of our romantic history crushing everything good between us.
Thirty minutes after Andrew's revelation, we pull into the small downtown area of the village Rhea now calls home. And there it is, exactly as she's described it, Mountain Mornings, with its hand-painted sign and flower boxes in the windows.
“This is it. Ground zero of your new life, little brother,” Andrew says, pulling into a parking space across the street.
I stare at the coffee shop, knowing Rhea is inside, probably making someone’s day better with her smile and perfectly crafted lattes. In a few minutes, I'll walk through that door and see the expression on her face when she realizes that everything has changed again.
“Are you ready for this?” Parker asks.
I take a deep breath, tasting the mountain air and the possibility of something I never dared to hope for. “Yeah,” I say, and for the first time in my adult life, I mean it. “I'm ready.”
Thirteen
RHEA
The afternoon lull at Mountain Mornings is my favorite time of day. The rush has died down, and the lunch crowd has left. I have a peaceful hour or two to restock, clean the espresso machine, or stand by the window watching this sleepy mountain town. The faint hiss of steam escapes the milk steamer, mingling with the scent of coffee that lingers in the air. Outside, the crisp air carries a whisper of pine, blending with the scent of coffee to create an ambiance that soothes me down to my bones.
I'm bent over the pastry case, rearranging muffins and scones into a more appealing display, when I hear the familiar door chime. Without looking up, I call out my standard greeting.
“Welcome to Mountain Mornings! I'll be right with you.”
“Take your time.”
The voice stops me. It's deep, warm, and so familiar that for a moment I wonder if I'm hallucinating. My first thought is that I don't want the life I've begun here to slip away if this is real. I straighten, heart hammering, bracing myself to face the door, and hoping the world I've made for myself won't vanish.
Gray stands just inside, hands in dark jeans pockets, looking uncertain, hopeful, and so beautiful it hurts to look at him. His light brown hair is in a low ponytail, with a few loose strands. Those clear silvery-blue eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes me forget to breathe.
I blink, making sure he's real and not just a product of longing or daydreams. But he's here, watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Gray?” His name comes out as barely a whisper.
A smile breaks across his face, tentative at first but growing brighter when he sees my reaction. The nervous tension in his shoulders seems to melt away, replaced by what looks like relief.
“You're here,” I say, and before I can stop myself, I leave the safety of the counter to walk toward him. My intention is clear. I need to close the distance and see if this is really happening, even if I risk exposing how much I still care.
