Page 44 of The Ballad of Us
Gray plays several new pieces, his voice clear and strong in the mountain air, but none of them is the song he mentioned writing about me. Part of me wants to ask, to hear what he’s written about our story, but I hold back. It feels too intimate for this setting, too personal to share with everyone else listening.
“We should talk business—about you possibly coming back to work with us,” Andrew says eventually, setting down his guitar.
The shift in conversation makes my stomach clench again. “What exactly are you thinking?”
“Part-time. Fifteen to twenty hours a week, flexible scheduling. We’re not touring for at least six months, just writing and recording locally,” Parker answers.
“What kind of tasks?” I slip into professional mode.
“The usual chaos management—scheduling, correspondence, keeping track of our scattered brains. Additionally, we would welcome creative input if you’re interested. You always had great instincts about arrangements and song structure.” Wyatt grins as though the thought of my returning to work for them makes him happy.
“And we’d double your old salary. You deserve hazard pay for dealing with us again.” Andrew sweetens the deal.
The offer is generous, more than generous, but I need to be clear about boundaries before I agree to anything.
“If I do this, things have to be different than before. I can’t be the band’s emotional support system. I can’t manage anyone’s personal problems or addiction issues. I’ll do the job, but I won’t be responsible for keeping anyone’s life together.” I’m firm, not unpleasant, but direct.
Gray nods immediately. “Absolutely. That’s not your job, and it never should’ve been.”
“I’ll need clear parameters about what you expect from me, and I reserve the right to say no to anything that feels too personal or crosses professional boundaries.” I tack on, making sure I cover all my bases.
“Done. We want you back because you’re damn good at what you do, not because we need a babysitter,” Andrew adds.
I look around the circle, seeing nothing but genuine enthusiasm and respect in their faces. These men have grown up, too, and learned from the mistakes that nearly destroyed everything.
“Okay. I’m in. But we start with a trial period of sixty days and see how it goes.” I give myself the out in case I need it.
The cheer that goes up around the fire pit makes me laugh, and suddenly I’m being passed from hug to hug again, each of them thanking me for giving them another chance.
As the evening winds down and Gray prepares to drive me home, I realize something has shifted. Not just between Gray and me, but between all of us. We’re not trying to recreate what we had before. Instead, we’re building something new and healthier.
For the first time since I left Nashville, I feel like I might be able to have both versions of my life—the peaceful mountain existence I’ve managed to construct and the creative fulfillment of working with some of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known.
Perhaps I can have it all, just not in the way I originally thought.
Sixteen
GRAY
I’m three weeks into this new routine. I’ve found a rhythm in this small mountain town. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in years. At 8:30 sharp every morning, I walk into Mountain Mornings Cafe and order the same thing—a large black coffee with a splash of cream and whatever pastry Rhea recommends. It’s not that I need caffeine or sugar. I simply need to see her face to start my day right.
That morning conversation with Rhea has become my anchor. Even a quick, five-minute chat over her latest story about Mrs. Patterson’s granddaughter or Mrs. Chen’s newest romance arrival at Ink & Embers Bookstore sets the tone for everything that follows. During slower periods, we text throughout the day. I find myself holding my phone a little too often, waiting for a sign that she’s thinking about me, too.
The evenings have fallen into their own pattern. Every night, I find some excuse to see her. Bringing her dinner when she works late, walking her home when Emma ends her own shift early, or just sitting on the steps outside her building talking until the mountain air gets too chilly to ignore. It's never planned, never official, just an easy companionship that feels as natural as breathing.
But lately, I’ve started to worry that I’m coming on too strong. The anxiety sneaks up on me, making me question the comfort I feel when we’re together. I’m always the one reaching out, always suggesting we hang out. What if I’m overwhelming her? What if she’s just being polite? That fear sits just under the surface, sometimes growing bigger, a shadow from my past that won’t quite go away. I remember how much it hurt to be rejected before, thinking I understood someone, only to realize I was wrong. There are times when that old dread comes back out of nowhere, making me worry I’ll fall into the same patterns. The fear of losing control and pushing her away feels a lot like the fear of slipping back into old habits I’ve worked so hard to break.
This morning is just like always. I order a coffee, an apple-cinnamon scone, and engage in a few minutes of easy conversation while Emma works behind the counter.
“What time does Rhea come on shift?” I ask, hoping to run into her in passing since she didn’t work the early morning shift today.
Emma offers a kind smile. “I sent Rhea a message last night, giving her the day off. She was looking more harried than usual yesterday.”
I immediately worry I’m the reason for her stress, so I go inward, politely thank Emma, and quietly accept my coffee. Back outside, I look across the street at the beautiful windows in Rhea’s living room, but the curtains are still drawn.
Instead of worrying about what I might’ve done wrong, I realize she’s probably just sleeping in on a last-minute day off. The thought of her resting just across the street brings a smile to my face. She works hard, so she deserves it.
Returning to the cabin, I drink my caffeine, eat my scone, and break out my guitar to work on a song I’ve been concerned about finding the right sound for. I do my best to occupy myself all morning, but today, there’s no midday text. My phone stays quiet. I keep checking it, hoping for that familiar buzz, but by noon, the silence in the cabin feels heavy. Without her usual messages, laughter over my romance novel jokes, and her perfectly timed GIFs, everything seems off.
