Page 9 of The Ballad of Us
The negotiations. I've heard variations of this speech dozens of times. Each one was delivered with heartbreaking sincerity. I don't respond, though. I can't. Every instinct I have screams at me to turn around, to run to him, and to believe this time will be different. But that's exactly what's gotten us here.
I collect my purse and the last few items. My movements are mechanical. Each step toward the door depletes every ounce of strength I have left.
"Rhea! Baby, please don't leave me!" His voice rises to a desperate shout.
Against every rational thought in my head, I look back.
The sight that greets me nearly brings me to my knees. The love of my life is a brilliant, talented, yet broken man, who has fallen to his knees in our foyer. Andrew and Parker kneel on either side of him, holding him up as tears stream down his face. He looks exactly like the lost child he’s always been. One who never learned how to heal from the trauma that shaped him.
"Baby, please. I can't do this without you. I don't know how to do this without you." His voice is pure desperation.
For a moment, I see him as he was when we first met. He was freshly sober, scared, and trying so hard to be better than his demons. I see the man who wrote me songs in the middle of the night. This is the Gray who held me through my own nightmares and who promised me a future where love was enough to conquer anything.
This is the image that will haunt me. This is what will wake me up in cold sweat for months to come. Gray Garrison, superstar, reduced to begging on his knees among the wreckage of our life.
I force out the words that feel like they're killing me. "You have to."
He struggles against Andrew and Parker's grip, fighting to get to his feet and reach me. "No, no, no, no. Rhea! Baby, please!"
But I'm already walking away, each step requiring all the effort I have. Behind me, I can hear him calling my name. His voice breaks with each desperate plea.
The door closes behind me with a finality that echoes in my soul like a gunshot. Still, his voice carries through the thick wood.
"Rhea! Baby, come back! Don't do this to us!"
I make it exactly three steps toward my car before the sob I've been holding back breaks free. My hands shake as I fumble for my keys, and I wipe my eyes twice before I can see clearly enough to unlock the door.
As I start the engine, I catch a glimpse of movement in my rearview mirror.
Gray has broken free from his bandmates and is stumbling down the driveway after me. His face is streaked with tears. His voice carries across the lawn. "Rhea! Please, baby, don't leave me! I'll change! I swear to God, I'll change!"
The image burns itself into my memory. His silhouette stands against the lights of the house we share, screaming promises into the night that we both know he can't keep. In my mirrors, I see Andrew and Parker restraining Gray as he fights to follow my car, his cries echoing down the empty street. I press down on the accelerator, forcing myself not to look back again.
I make it to the corner gas station before I pull over.
And I cry for the man I'm leaving behind and for the woman I used to be—before loving an addict taught me that sometimes love isn't enough. I sob for all the mornings I woke up hoping this would be the day he chose me over the bottle. I weep for all the nights I went to bed alone while he passed out on the couch, intoxicated. Most of all, I cry because I know this is just the beginning. The hardest part isn't leaving. It's staying gone. If I go back now, I'll never find the strength to leave again. One of us must be strong enough to break this cycle before it completely destroys us both.
Even if it kills me in the process.
Two
GRAY
The heavy door slams shut with a finality that cuts through my fog, dragging me from dreams where Rhea's fingers still trace the scars on my chest.
"Hey, man. You can't be here." The voice belongs to a stranger, but it might as well be God himself pronouncing judgment.
My eyelids feel like they're made of concrete as I force them open, squinting against light that stabs through my skull. A man of African American ancestry crouches ten feet away, his brown eyes holding the kind of wariness usually reserved for wild animals or men who've lost everything.
"What time is it?" The words scrape against my throat like I've been gargling gravel.
He glances at his watch. "Nine."
Nine what? Nine in the morning? Evening? Nine days since Rhea walked out of my life and took every reason I had for drawing breath with her?
I struggle to sit up, my body protesting every movement as I take in the green dumpster that has been my pillow, the red brick walls closing me in like a tomb, the concrete that has left my bones aching in ways I didn't know were possible. Nothing looks familiar, but then again, nothing has looked familiar since she left.
"Where am I?"
