Page 54 of The Ballad of Us
A few days later, Thanksgiving morning dawns clear and cold, frost painting intricate patterns on the cabin windows. The days leading up to today have been busy and calm in equal measure, a quiet anticipation building between us. I wake up earlier than usual, a sense of wholeness coursing through me like electricity. Today feels significant, like a turning point in whatever story Rhea and I are writing together.
I arrive at her apartment at noon, carrying bags of groceries for my contribution to our meal. When she answers the door, I step inside and find her kitchen in a state of organized chaos. She's wearing an apron over jeans and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she looks so fucking beautiful it stops me in my tracks.
“You're early,” she says, but she's smiling as she rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. The casual affection makes my heart race.
“I brought reinforcements.” I hold up bags of groceries. “And I promise to follow all kitchen orders without question.”
“Dangerous promise. I might abuse that power.”
“I'm counting on it.”
We spend the afternoon cooking together, and it's everything I never knew I wanted. Rhea moves around her small kitchen with confident efficiency while I try not to get in her way. She tastes everything with the serious consideration of a professional chef, adjusting seasonings with the kind of precision that makes me understand why Emma trusts her to run Mountain Mornings.
“Can you check the sweet potatoes?” she asks, elbow-deep in stuffing preparation.
I open the oven and peer inside. “How do I know if they're done?”
“Poke one with a fork. If it goes in easily, they're ready.”
I follow her instructions, oddly proud when I successfully identify properly cooked sweet potatoes. “Ready for mashing.”
“Perfect timing.”
We work in sync. Our elbows brush as she passes me a spoon. It feels as natural as if we've always shared this rhythm. I hand her ingredients before she asks. She finds the right pan, wordlessly. These everyday moments, quiet proof of what Mrs. Patterson meant, settle between us.
By four o'clock, we've produced a feast that would be impressive even with a full kitchen staff. Turkey, stuffing, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and homemade rolls that smell like heaven.
“I can't believe we pulled this off,” Rhea says, surveying our handiwork with satisfaction.
“You pulled this off. I just followed orders.”
“A good order follower, though. You might have a future in kitchen assistance.”
We eat at her small dining table, which she's set with actual cloth napkins and candles that cast a warm glow over everything. The food is incredible, but it's the conversation that makes the meal perfect. We talk about everything under the sun, from childhood Thanksgivings and funny tour stories to books she's read and songs I'm working on. Easy topics that gradually give way to deeper ones.
“What are you most thankful for this year?” she asks as we're finishing our second helpings of everything.
The question could be loaded, but she asks it with genuine curiosity rather than expectation.
“Recovery,” I reply immediately. The contrast between the sharp, hospital-disinfectant smell of rehab and the warm, turkey aroma from today floods my mind, bringing the reality of my journey into focus. “Getting my life back and getting myself back, but mostly, getting the chance to be here with you, like this.” The layers of past and present sensations intertwine, making my own thankfulness more profound.
She reaches across the table to take my hand. “I'm pleased about your recovery, too, and for the courage to answer your calls, even when I was scared to.”
“What scared you the most?”
“That you hadn't really changed. That I'd fall for the same promises and end up right back where I started.” She pauses, considering. “But also, that you had changed, and I'd have to figure out how to love this new version of you.”
“And? Have you figured it out?” and I hold my breath waiting for her answer.
She looks at me with those eyes that see everything. “I'm working on it, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.”
After dinner, as if drawn by quiet agreement, we both stand and clear our plates from the table. Rhea pours two cups of coffee that she had brewed earlier, and we move to her couch, each carrying our cups to settle in together before the fire.
She curls up against my side, and I wrap my arm around her, marveling at how right this feels. It’s so easy to just exist together without drama or chaos or the constant undercurrent of worry that used to characterize our relationship.
“Gray?”
“Yeah?”
