Page 39 of The Ballad of Us
But she doesn’t flinch at the word ‘loving.’ Instead, she gives me a small smile. “At least they were nice about it.”
We’re heading to her apartment when an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes comes out of the bookstore below Rhea’s place.
“Oh, Rhea dear! Perfect timing. I was just heading to the bank before they closed.” The woman is excited to see Rhea, and I can tell she’s fond of my girl.
“Mrs. Chen, this is my friend Gray.” Rhea introduces me.
The word ‘friend’ feels like a small electric shock. It stings because it’s a step down from what we were, but it’s also a relief because it means I still matter to her in some way.
Mrs. Chen’s eyes widen slightly in recognition, but she’s gracious about it. “Gray Garrison! My goodness, what a pleasure. I’m Helen Chen. I own the bookstore.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Chen. Rhea’s told me so much about you and your amazing bookstore.” I reach out to shake her hand.
“Has she now? You know, you two would make the most adorable couple. Such a handsome pair.” Mrs. Chen beams, then looks between us with the shrewd gaze of a woman who’s been watching people fall in love for fifty years.
Rhea’s cheeks flush pink. “Mrs. Chen, we’re just…”
“Friends.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Good friends.”
“Well, friendship is the foundation of all the best love stories.” Mrs. Chen winks. “I should know. I’ve read enough of them. Now, I really must run before the bank closes. Rhea, dear, we’ll chat more later. And Gray, you’re welcome anytime. Any friend of Rhea’s is a friend of mine.”
After she leaves, we continue up to Rhea’s apartment in a silence I can’t decipher.
“She’s exactly as wonderful as you described.” I smile as Rhea unlocks her door and glances at me over her shoulder.
“She’s adopted me as one of her own. I think she likes me more than her actual grandchildren.” The fondness in her tone when she speaks about the townspeople really warms my heart for Rhea.
The door opens, and I step into Rhea’s new life.
The apartment is small but perfect and exactly what I would have imagined she’d choose if she were picking a place just for herself. It boasts warm wood floors, big windows that let in plenty of light, and everywhere I look, books. Beautiful, gorgeous bookshelves line every wall, filled with volumes in every color.
But amid the beautifully arranged volumes, my gaze is caught by something unexpected. Tucked between two teal-colored books is an old, dog-eared tour pass from one of her early Case in Point shows. A relic from the past I had forgotten. Seeing it here is a stark reminder of the whirlwind of my mistakes that defined our relationship. It also serves as a pivotal moment. It whispers promises of a future where those mistakes could give way to something better, a chance to rewrite our story and my role within it.
It’s not just the quantity of books that catches my attention. It’s how many of them are special editions. Books with painted edges in gold and silver, and covers that resemble works of art, are neatly placed on the shelves.
“Jesus, Rhea. This is incredible.” I turn around slowly to take in all her books and the new life she’s pieced together here.
She hovers near the kitchen, nervous energy radiating from her. “It’s small, but it’s mine, you know? Everything here is something I chose.”
“It’s perfect.” And I mean it. This space is so quintessentially her. It’s thoughtfully arranged. I can picture her curled up in that armchair by the window, book in hand and completely content. I can imagine her drinking coffee in the morning, humming under her breath, sunshine streaming through those big windows.
And fuck, but I can picture myself here, too. I want to sit on her brown leather couch with my guitar and work out melodies while she reads beside me and tucks her feet under my leg for warmth. The image is so perfect that it takes my breath away. But there's more than just the warmth of this vision. Beneath it lie complex emotions, such as my fear of repeating past mistakes, hope for a new chance, and deep thankfulness for being welcomed back into her world. Acknowledging this mix of feelings helps me. It reminds me of the journey I've undertaken toward emotional balance and maturity.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel as she hovers near the kitchen counter; I can hear the nerves in her voice.
“Water would be great.”
While she bustles around the small kitchen, I gravitate toward the bookshelves. I’m unable to resist getting a closer look. The painted edges are even more beautiful up close, with many of them featuring intricate designs and others simple color gradients that catch the light.
“What’s the deal with all the fancy painted edges?” I run my finger along a book with edges that shimmer like oil.
Rhea returns with two glasses of water, her expression brightening with enthusiasm. “Oh, those are special editions. It’s this whole thing in the romance book world now. Authors and publishers commission gorgeous editions with painted edges, foil covers, and character art. They’re kind of like collectibles in a way.”
“And you collect them?”
She lifts her shoulder into a shrug. “I like pretty books. I know it’s silly, but there’s something satisfying about having beautiful things around me. After years of our house being dominated by black leather and chrome, and feeling very masculine, I wanted to introduce softness and color. The beauty serves no purpose except to make me happy.”
The comment about our home hits me in the gut, but she’s right. The place we shared was decorated to my taste, all dark colors and clean lines. I never thought about whether she liked it or asked what would make her happy. It’s just another way I made our relationship about me instead of us.
