Chapter 14 #2
And fuck, but I can picture myself here, too.
I want to sit on her brown leather couch with my guitar and work out melodies while she reads beside me and tucks her feet under my leg for warmth.
The image is so perfect that it takes my breath away.
But there's more than just the warmth of this vision.
Beneath it lie complex emotions, such as my fear of repeating past mistakes, hope for a new chance, and deep thankfulness for being welcomed back into her world.
Acknowledging this mix of feelings helps me.
It reminds me of the journey I've undertaken toward emotional balance and maturity.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel as she hovers near the kitchen counter; I can hear the nerves in her voice.
“Water would be great.”
While she bustles around the small kitchen, I gravitate toward the bookshelves. I’m unable to resist getting a closer look. The painted edges are even more beautiful up close, with many of them featuring intricate designs and others simple color gradients that catch the light.
“What’s the deal with all the fancy painted edges?” I run my finger along a book with edges that shimmer like oil.
Rhea returns with two glasses of water, her expression brightening with enthusiasm.
“Oh, those are special editions. It’s this whole thing in the romance book world now.
Authors and publishers commission gorgeous editions with painted edges, foil covers, and character art.
They’re kind of like collectibles in a way. ”
“And you collect them?”
She lifts her shoulder into a shrug. “I like pretty books. I know it’s silly, but there’s something satisfying about having beautiful things around me.
After years of our house being dominated by black leather and chrome, and feeling very masculine, I wanted to introduce softness and color.
The beauty serves no purpose except to make me happy. ”
The comment about our home hits me in the gut, but she’s right. The place we shared was decorated to my taste, all dark colors and clean lines. I never thought about whether she liked it or asked what would make her happy. It’s just another way I made our relationship about me instead of us.
“It’s not silly at all. It’s beautiful. You’ve created a really special home here.” I pick up a book and examine the red foil on the hardcover, as well as the shimmering painted edges that match the shiny embellishment.
She settles onto the couch, curling her legs under her, and I return the book to its home before taking the chair across from her. We sip our water in comfortable silence for a moment, both of us adjusting to being in the same space again.
“The guys want to have dinner this weekend with all of us together.
They want to see you, and honestly, they want to discuss a potential collaboration, possibly working together again.
We really need your help with a new recording and studio concept that has us all at a loss.
We're aiming for a fresh change that aligns with the new direction we've been working toward, and your creative touch could make all the difference.”
Her eyebrows rise. “All of you? Like old times?”
“Not exactly like old times. Hopefully, it’ll be better. I’m different now, and the dynamic would be different, too. However, if you’re interested in freelancing for us again, part-time, flexible, whatever works for your life here.”
She considers this for a small lifetime. “When?”
“Saturday evening, if that works for you? We can get together after Mountain Mornings closes. We could meet somewhere neutral, cook at the cabin, or whatever you prefer.”
“Saturday works for me. Emma’s handling the early evening crowd that day anyway. It would be good to see everyone again. I missed them, you know. It wasn’t just you I had to walk away from.” Her reminder is painful.
The admission tugs at my heart. I’d been so focused on my own loss that I hadn’t fully considered what she’d given up by leaving. The guys aren’t just my bandmates. The guys became friends and chosen family. Losing all of us at once must have been devastating.
“They missed you, too. Parker still complains that no one makes coffee the way you do.” I laugh at the conversation from just this morning.
She scoffs in mock exasperation. “Parker’s coffee standards are ridiculously high.”
“Says the woman who just spent all day making artisanal lattes.” I chuckle again.
“Touché.” A small, light bit of laughter leaves her, traveling across the small space to my ears.
It hits me in all the right places.
We talk for another hour, skirting around the weight of our history while rediscovering the easy conversation that first drew us together. As the sun sets outside her windows, it paints the apartment in a golden light.
I realize I need to leave before I wear out my welcome. “I should head back and let you have, at least, part of your evening.”
She walks me to the door. An overwhelming urge to reach out and grab her hand to hold in mine hits me, but I’m slapped with the reminder that I can’t do that anymore.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us quite ready to say goodbye.
Finally, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a hug that’s warm, tight, and perfect.
I hold her carefully, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the lingering aroma of coffee beans from her day at work. This feels like coming home and saying goodbye at the same time.
“Thank you for today and for being willing to see me and for considering working with us again.” I remember to show my appreciation for her taking the time out to see me and hang out. I’m also thankful for seeing her new life.
“Thank you for working so hard to become someone I can be around without wanting to run away or fix you.”
When we pull apart, there’s a different emotion dancing in her eyes. It’s not the love we used to share, but an unidentifiable soft affection, and maybe, hope.
“Just promise me one thing.” I’m unable to resist teasing her as I head toward the stairs.
She cocks her head to the side like I’ve seen her do a thousand times. “What’s that?”
I gesture toward her bookshelves. “Don’t read any of those spicy romance novels right before bed. I’ll be ten minutes away, and my imagination doesn’t need the help.”
Her laugh follows me down the hallway, bright, surprised, and delighted. “Gray Garrison, are you worried about my reading habits?”
I turn around and slap my hand to my chest in mock fear. “Terrified. Absolutely terrified.”
She leans against her doorframe with a grin that’s pure mischief. “Good. A little terror keeps things interesting.”
I’m still smiling as I drive back to the cabin with her flirty comment replaying in my head like a favorite song. Maybe we’re just friends now, and maybe that’s all we’ll ever be again.
But there was a flirtation in her smile. And the way she hugged me goodbye suggests friendship might just be the beginning of whatever comes next.
For the first time in my life, I'm content to let whatever this is unfold at its own pace.
No rushing. No pushing. No desperate attempts to force something that needs to grow naturally.
But will I still choose patience tomorrow?
This question lingers in my mind, guiding me toward a new way of being and thinking.
We're two people, learning how to belong in each other's lives again, one honest conversation at a time. It’s a good place to begin.