Page 38 of The Ballad of Us
GRAY
The day crawls by with the speed of geological time. Every minute feels like an hour, and every hour feels like a small eternity. I’ve checked my phone two hundred times to see if it has magically jumped to four o’clock.
The cabin the guys rented boasts spacious rooms, and it’s private. There are enough bedrooms that we’re not stepping on each other constantly. We set up a recording area in the main room. There’s a deck that overlooks the valley where Rhea’s little town sits nestled among the trees, and I’ve spent most of the morning standing there with my coffee, trying to spot Mountain Mornings among the buildings below.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the wood if you keep pacing.” Andrew settles into one of the porch rockers with a coffee mug in his hands.
“I’m not pacing,” I lie.
“You’ve walked the same ten-foot area about fifty times just in the last hour. That’s the definition of pacing.”
I force myself into the chair next to him. The second I sit, my leg starts bouncing restlessly, betraying my nerves. I can’t stop thinking about all that’s at stake. I just want things to go well. I can’t shake the fear that I’ll ruin the fragile peace she’s managed to achieve here in Dogwood Hollow. The worry chews at me. If I screw this up, it’s not just my heart that pays for it. I’m terrified of being another mistake for her.
“You won’t mess it up. You’re not the same person anymore.” He reminds me.
I’m glad others have more faith in me than I do. “How can you be so sure?”
Andrew sets down his coffee and looks at me seriously. “Because yesterday, when we told you we'd rented a place near her, your first concern was whether being here would be good for her, not just for you. The old Gray would have been thinking about how to get her back. This Gray is thinking about how to be worthy of being in her life at all.”
Andrew’s words land harder than he can know. The same pervasive thought has haunted me. It’s been my blueprint every day since I entered rehab, the silent promise behind every choice.
His words settle something in my chest, but the nervous energy remains. At three-thirty, I can’t stand it anymore. I shower, change into clean jeans and a black button-down shirt, and drive ten minutes into town to wait outside Mountain Mornings like a hopeless, lovesick teenager.
Through the window, I see Rhea moving behind the counter, her hands skillfully working with the steam wand. She's in her element here, moving with the efficient grace I remember from watching her work with the band – confident and comfortable. My heart swells with pride and breaks a little at the same time. She has been living this life without me. She didn’t need me to be happy.
Which is exactly how it should be, but damn if it doesn’t sting a little.
At exactly four o’clock, she emerges from the shop, having traded her apron for a light cardigan. Her face lights up when she sees me leaning against my truck, and her smile hits me like a shot to the jaw.
She approaches. “Right on time.” Her tone is warm but tentative as we both try to navigate this new dynamic.
“Military precision. Bruce would be proud.” I push off the car. “How was the rest of your day?”
“Good. The afternoon rush was busy, but Emma handled most of it while I worried about what we were going to talk about.” Rhea shifts her bag to her other shoulder and offers a self-deprecating smile.
“We don’t have to talk about anything heavy if you don’t want to. We could just…” I gesture vaguely, realizing I have no idea what normal people do when they spend time together. “Exist in the same space without drama?”
She laughs, reaching up to tuck an invisible strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and the sound eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “That sounds perfect, actually.”
We’re walking toward her building when a young guy with a college sweatshirt does a double-take as he passes us on the sidewalk.
“Holy shit, are you Gray Garrison?” he asks, eyes widening with excitement.
Rhea stiffens next to me. I can feel it. I can hear her mind working overtime behind her silence. Instantly, I’m dragged into that familiar battle between public adoration and private reality. Fame always costs us. It turns quiet afternoons into performances, stripping us of the intimate moments that should've been just ours. There are days when I wish I could just disappear for her sake to give her the peace she deserves without the constant threat of being recognized. My guilt resurfaces fast and bitter as ever.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I keep my voice friendly, but I'm hoping he’ll move along.
“Dude, I saw you guys in Atlanta last year. Best show ever. Can I get a picture?” The man asks so nicely that it becomes difficult to decline.
Before I can respond, another person notices the commotion, then another. Within minutes, a small crowd gathers. As Rhea’s jaw tightens and I see the hesitation in her eyes, I’m hit with guilt for disrupting her hard-won peace. The excitement of recognition is replaced by a growing sense of unease. The familiar stress returns, reminding us of how quickly privacy can be lost. Each moment standing there, I feel caught between pride in my career and the fear of reawakening old wounds for both of us.
Rhea leans in, lowering her voice as she scans the crowd. “Maybe we should go inside.”
I sign a couple of autographs and take a few quick photos, then politely but firmly extract us from the situation. “Sorry, folks, we’ve got to run.”
As we escape into her building, Rhea shakes her head. “I forgot about that part. The way privacy just disappears when you’re around.”
“One of the many perks of loving a rock star.” I attempt a lighthearted tone, then immediately wince and shift my weight. The realization that we’re not there yet hits, and it might never happen again.
