Page 8 of The Ballad of Us
The tears come harder now, hot streams down my cheeks that I angrily swipe away. His reaction isn't unexpected. I've lived this scene a hundred times in smaller doses. Anything that doesn't go Gray's way becomes the end of the world. He lashes out at everyone within reach.
I reach for my suitcase, but he beats me to it, moving with the sudden coordination that comes with fury.
"You want to leave?" He hoists the bag over his head like it weighs nothing, his face twisting with rage. "Then fucking leave!"
He hurls it across the foyer with such violent force that it crashes into the far wall. The latch breaks on impact, spilling my carefully packed belongings across the marble floor. By some miracle, he misses the expensive art and sculptures dotting our entryway. This time. I've lost count of how many irreplaceable things have been casualties of Gray's drunken tantrums.
The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension like a beacon of salvation. I nearly sob with relief as I wade through my scattered belongings toward the front door. But Gray shoots past me, yanking it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
His face contorts into a sneer designed to intimidate anyone brave enough to cross his threshold. "What are you assholes doing here?"
Andrew pushes past his younger brother without ceremony, his eyes immediately taking in the war zone of our foyer. "Jesus Christ, Gray. Are you screaming at Rhea again?"
"What I do in my own fucking house is none of your business."
But it is their business now. I made it their business when I called them. It was the hardest phone call I've ever made. I reached out not just to his bandmates but also to my employer. I risked everything because I knew I couldn't do this alone. Gray in a rage is a dangerous and unpredictable force. I need backup.
The rest of Case in Point files through the door - Parker, Wyatt, Cody, and Zep. They move like a unit that's done this before, each giving Gray a firm shove as they pass. With their various shades of blond and light brown hair, blue eyes, and their myriad of tattoos, they look like avenging angels. All except Zep, whose dark features make him stand out like a shadow among sunlight.
Gray laughs, but there's no humor in it, just bitter, drunken fury. "Let me guess. Intervention time? Well, save your breath. I'm not going to rehab, so you're all wasting your fucking time."
My heart sinks even though I expected this response. We've tried three times before. Three interventions that ended with Gray refusing treatment but promising to get clean on his own. Those promises lasted weeks, maybe a month if we were lucky, before he'd slip back into his alcoholic abyss.
But this isn't an intervention. This is me finally accepting what I should have realized a long time ago. You can't love someone into sobriety. You can't threaten, plead, or bargain your way to their recovery. They must want it more than they want the thing that's killing them.
And Gray doesn't want it. Not enough.
"This isn't an intervention.” My voice lacks strength.
Andrew positions himself behind Gray, placing firm hands on his brother's shoulders like he's restraining a wild animal. "She's leaving, and you're not going to stop her."
Gray throws his hands up. "She can go whenever she wants! I'm not keeping her here!"
"No?" Their drummer, Parker, pushes off the wall, where he's been surveying the damage, his intensity focused entirely on Gray. "Then why are her clothes scattered all over your house? Did she throw her own suitcase across the room?"
Parker’s comment causes Gray to snap. He bucks against Andrew's restraining hands, then charges at Parker like a linebacker going for a tackle. But Andrew yanks him back just as Parker steps forward, meeting the challenge head-on.
"Fuck you, Parker!" Gray spits, his face red with anger.
Parker gets in his face without flinching. "Fuck me? No, buddy. You've fucked yourself. Again. But this time it's for good." He points directly at me. "You've lost the best thing that ever happened to your sorry ass, and you're too drunk to even realize it."
Andrew's voice drops to a dangerous level. "You always said you wouldn't turn out like Richard, Gray. But you act more like him every day. So, are you going to start hitting Rhea next? Is that where this is headed?"
The comparison to their stepfather, the man who killed their mother in a drunken rage when Gray was just seven years old, hangs in the air. I see a flicker of emotion across Gray's face, a moment of recognition, maybe even shame. But the alcohol drowns it quickly.
I can't watch this anymore. I can't stand here and watch this family tear itself apart over me. That's why I called them, after all.
With Zep's quiet help, I begin gathering my scattered belongings. Each piece of clothing I pick up feels like a small funeral. There’s the red dress Gray bought me for our first anniversary. The vintage band t-shirt he gave me after our first fight. The silk pajamas he loves me to wear.
Three years of my life have been reduced to what will fit in grocery bags.
I'm loading the last of my things into tote bags from the kitchen when I hear his voice change behind me.
The anger is replaced by a tone that is far more dangerous to my resolve. "Baby, don't leave."
I freeze, my hands still buried in the bag I'm packing. This is the moment I've been dreading. When the man I fell in love with emerges, broken and pleading.
"I'll go to rehab. I promise. Maybe one of those spiritual places where I can center myself and come back as the man you need me to be.” His voice cracks with genuine anguish.
