Page 60 of The Ballad of Us
By six am, I give up on sleep. I make coffee and try to focus on the song I've been working on for weeks, The Ballad of Us, meant to be a love letter to Rhea. The words have proven more difficult to find than any other song I’ve written in or since rehab. Every line I write sounds hollow, as if I'm trying to convince myself of something I don't believe. I close my eyes, breathe deeply, using Bruce's technique. It doesn't help today. This song was supposed to be my declaration at our next gig—a promise under the bright lights. The anxiety over the song looms, reminding me that it needs to prove the love I often doubt I deserve.
The guys start stirring around eight, and I can feel their eyes on me as they filter into the kitchen for breakfast. I know I look like hell. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and saw hollow eyes, pale skin, and the kind of exhaustion that goes bone deep.
“You okay, brother?” Andrew asks quietly, pouring himself coffee and studying my face with the careful attention of a loved one who's spent years watching for warning signs.
“Fine. Just didn't sleep well,” I lie.
“Nightmares?” Parker asks, because of course, he remembers that nightmares have always been one of my triggers.
“Something like that.”
They exchange glances, and I can see the worry starting to creep in. The protective instincts that kept me alive during my worst days are kicking in, and suddenly I feel suffocated by their concern.
“I'm going to work outside on the porch. Try to finish this song.” I grab my guitar and my notebook.
Outside on the porch, silence presses in, heavy and oppressive. Every chord sounds off, and the music feels trapped. My attempts at The Ballad of Us fall out of sync. The lyrics I once felt proud of now read like amateur poetry.
What if I'm unable to finish it? What if I can't write about love because I don't believe I deserve it? What if the nightmares are my subconscious trying to tell me that Rhea will eventually realize she's making a mistake?
By noon, I'm restless. The hope from the morning, thin as it was, has faded into old, jittery dread. Every nerve ending feels raw, and that familiar energy builds in my chest. It's the sensation that once sent me to the liquor cabinet to find a drink to quiet my mind. I recognize the shift as anxiety edges out willpower.
A drink would help—just one, to take the edge off and silence the voice that keeps whispering that I'm going to lose everything again. I just need a sip to help me catch my breath again.
But I don't do it.
One hundred and thirty-seven days of sobriety aren't worth throwing away for a few hours of reprieve from my inner turmoil. I remind myself that the urge is temporary and repeat Bruce's mantra of “This too shall pass”. I pace the porch, fighting the pull to self-destruct.
The worst part is that I know this is a normal part of the process. Bruce warned me about days like this. The random bad days that hit without warning, when everything feels harder and your brain tries to convince you that drinking is the solution. He taught me coping strategies, breathing exercises, and provided me with phone numbers to call.
But I don't want to call anyone. Admitting that recovery isn't all meditation and support brings a certain shame, exposing a fear of not being enough. I don't want Rhea to know I woke believing she'd leave again. Maybe admitting this is the first step, and recognizing that asking for help doesn't mean I'm failing.
But I isolate instead, which is exactly what I'm not supposed to do. I silence my phone and create a barrier between myself and the outside world. The quiet is both a refuge and a trap, holding me in my spiraling thoughts.
Around two, Andrew appears on the back porch. “Rhea's here. She's looking for you.” The expression he’s wearing tells me she’s as worried about me as he is.
My stomach drops. “I didn't go to Mountain Mornings this morning.”
“We noticed. So did she,” he confirms.
Shit. My daily coffee run has become so routine that missing it was like sending up a flare that all was not okay. Of course, she noticed. Of course, she came to check on me.
I find her in the kitchen, still in her work clothes with her honey blonde hair in its end-of-shift ponytail. She looks up when I enter, and I watch her face change as she takes in my appearance.
“Hey. How are you feeling?” she asks, careful not to sound anything less than gentle.
“Fine.” The lie comes automatically, but her expression tells me she's not buying it for a second.
“Gray.” She approaches slowly, like I'm a spooked horse she doesn't want to startle. “You missed coffee this morning. That's not like you.”
“I was working on a song. Lost track of time.” I’m shorter than I should be, but I’m having a bad day, and everyone here is looking at me like I might drive off to a bar any minute.
She studies my face for a long moment with those knowing green eyes, then nods toward the living room where the guys are pretending to watch TV while obviously eavesdropping.
“Can we go to the back porch? Get some air?” She’s trying to get me alone to talk without embarrassing me.
I don’t deserve her grace because I want to say no and retreat to my misery, but there’s a fear in her voice that stops me. It’s like she knows exactly what's happening and isn't going to let me hide from it.
The afternoon air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and the approach of early winter. We settle on the chairs around a table on the back porch, and I can sense Rhea's eyes on me as I stare out at the mountains.
