Page 62 of The Ballad of Us
“You don't have to apologize for struggling. You just have to let us help when you are.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The restless energy that's been building in my chest all day begins to settle, replaced by something that feels like peace.
“So,” Rhea says eventually, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Ready to go inside and let the guys fuss over you? Because they've been hovering by the window for the past twenty minutes, and I think Parker's about to vibrate out of his skin with worry.”
I glance toward the house and catch sight of five familiar faces quickly disappearing from the living room window.
“Subtle as always,” I mutter, but I'm smiling for the first time all day.
“They love you. Let them show it.”
Inside, the guys are arranged around the living room in poses of elaborate casualness that fool absolutely no one. Andrew is reading a magazine upside down. Parker is flipping through TV channels so fast that the images blur together. Zep is organizing a stack of books that were perfectly organized yesterday.
“We're playing Cards Against Humanity, and before you say you're not in the mood, we already set up the cards. Rhea brought snacks from the coffee shop, and it would be a travesty to let them go to waste,” Parker announces without preamble.
“I don’t get a vote in this?” I ask.
“Nope. Democracy is suspended when one of us is having a shitty day.” Wyatt’s new rule makes me chuckle.
“House rules. Now sit down and prepare to be horrified by our collective lack of moral compass.” Parker pats the couch cushion beside him.
What follows is three hours of the most inappropriate, ridiculous, and healing card game in human history. The guys pull out all the stops to make me laugh, combining cards in ways that would make angels weep and devils applaud. Parker plays a card pairing 'relapse' with 'winning the lottery,' which makes us all groan and chuckle, a nod to the absurdity of how the wrong choices can, at times, be too tempting. Rhea fits right into the chaos, reading cards with such a deadpan delivery that even sly jabs nearly cause me to fall off the couch laughing.
By the time we're too tired to continue, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I notice the emotional shift. The crushing weight that's been on my chest all day has lifted. As I sense this lightness, I realize the nightmares feel distant, like they happened to someone else, in another lifetime where I wasn't convinced love could survive bad days. Joy and calm replace the fear and dread from earlier.
“Better?” Rhea asks as the guys clean up the cards, her hand finding mine automatically.
“Much better. Thank you.”
“For what?” Her smile is so gentle and full of love.
“For not leaving when I had a bad day. For researching meetings. For staying even when I was being an ass.” I sigh at myself for behaving the way I did.
“Gray.” She turns to face me fully, her expression serious. “I'm not going anywhere because of a bad day. Or a bad week. Or even a bad month, as long as you're fighting to get better. The only way you lose me is if you stop trying.”
“And if I drink again?” It’s my biggest fucking fear.
“Then we'll figure out what comes next. But I'm not making decisions based on what-ifs. I'm making them based on what's real, what's now, what's actually happening.”
What's real is that I made it through a bad day without drinking. I'm surrounded by people who care, and I am learning to accept help. Bad days are just moments. They don't define me.
It's not perfect. Sobriety isn't a straight line, and there will be more bad days ahead. But for the first time since the nightmares started, I believe that the bad days don't have to define the story.
Love might not be enough to cure addiction, but it's enough to make the fight worthwhile. That's all I need to keep going.
Twenty
RHEA
December comes with crisp mountain air and a sense of excitement, but beneath the holiday cheer, I'm restless. I wonder if our plans for a joyful season will go as smoothly as I wish. My memories—some wonderful, some tough—mix with hopes for this year. I’m afraid that reality might disrupt our perfect plans. As I set out a new tray of pastries at Mountain Mornings, the smell of cinnamon and sugar comforts me, though my fretfulness lingers. Then, Gray walks in with his usual smile, momentarily relieving my uneasiness.
"Good morning, beautiful.” He approaches the counter with his hands behind his back. "Ready to make this the best Christmas ever?"
I wipe my hands on my apron and give him my full attention. “That's a big promise. What are you planning?”
He produces a small, wrapped gift from behind his back, “I was thinking we could make every day until Christmas special. Our own advent calendar, but instead of chocolate, we exchange small gifts. It doesn’t have to be anything expensive, just meaningful things.”
This is such a Gray thing to do. When he’s his authentic self, he’s thoughtful and romantic. I take the package wrapped in shiny silver paper with a tiny matching bow on top.
