Chapter 22 #2
Time passes quickly, and before I know it, it's been three weeks since Gray started attending AA meetings in Dahlonega, driving thirty minutes each way three times a week to maintain his anonymity while still getting the support he needs.
He found a sponsor—a retired music teacher named Xavier, who has been sober for fifteen years and understands the unique pressures of creative professions.
"Xavier says the hardest part about recovery in the music industry is learning to create without chemical inspiration," Gray told me after one of their coffee meetings. "But the best part is discovering that sober creativity is actually more authentic, more connected to who you really are."
He's also found a therapist who specializes in recovery from addiction and can conduct sessions via video call, if Gray needs to skip an in-office session, allowing him to continue the work he started with Bruce while maintaining the privacy he needs as a public figure.
"Dr. Hannah gets it," he explained after his first session. "She understands that being in the public eye adds extra layers of complexity to recovery, but she doesn't let me use it as an excuse to avoid the hard work."
Watching him build this foundation of support while simultaneously creating a physical space for the band's future feels like witnessing someone constructing a life that's made to last. And the fact that he wants me to be part of that construction, both literally and figuratively, makes my heart swell with pride and love.
"Rhea," Gray says one evening as we're cleaning up after another productive day at the studio. The others have already left, and we're alone in the space that's slowly transforming from an empty warehouse to a creative sanctuary.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For all of this." He gestures around the room, which now has proper lighting, comfortable seating areas, and the beginnings of what will become a beautiful, functional recording space. "But more than that, thank you for believing this was worth investing in. Worth the effort."
"Gray," I set down the broom I've been using to sweep up sawdust and cross to where he's standing near the windows. "This isn't just your dream. It's become mine too. Watching you all create music, being part of something that brings joy to people, there's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He pulls me into his arms, and I breathe in the familiar scent of him mixed with sawdust and the lingering aroma of the Chinese takeout we had for dinner.
"I love you," he says simply. "I love the life we're creating together. I love that you see potential in empty spaces and broken people and make them beautiful."
"You were never broken," I tell him fiercely. "Hurt, maybe. Lost for a while. But never broken."
"I was broken when you left," he says quietly.
"But you were right to leave. And somehow, that brokenness led me to the kind of healing that made this possible.
" He gestures around the space that's becoming our shared dream.
"All of this. Us, the studio, the future we're planning for it.
None of it would exist if I hadn't hit bottom hard enough to finally climb back up. "
Standing in our nearly finished studio, seeing what we’ve made happen together now that we’re both in a better place, I get it.
Sometimes you have to lose everything to see what really matters.
The room feels full of accomplishment, like the familiar comfort of fresh coffee at Mountain Mornings, and it feels like a new start.
"Excuse me," a voice calls from the entrance, interrupting our moment. "I heard hammering and thought I'd investigate."
We turn to see a man in his thirties, with perfectly styled dreads and clothes that exude an expensive taste. He’s carrying what appears to be a designer leather satchel and wearing expensive leather shoes that have no business on a construction site.
"I'm Leslie Hartman," he says, extending a gigantic, manicured hand. "I’m just vacationing here from New Orleans.” He peers around our space with the sharp eyes of someone cataloging every design choice. "This is... interesting."
"Rhea," I say, accepting his handshake. "And this is Gray. We're turning this into a recording studio."
"Oh my." Leslie's gaze travels from our mismatched furniture to the industrial lighting we've jury-rigged. "I can see that. And you're doing the design work yourself?"
There's something in his tone that makes Gray stiffen beside me, but I find myself oddly charmed by his obvious horror at our amateur efforts.
"I am. I don't have formal training, but--”
"Oh, honey, no." Leslie steps further into the studio, his heels clicking authoritatively on the hardwood. "This color palette is all wrong for the acoustics you're trying to achieve. And that seating arrangement? It's blocking your natural flow patterns."
"Flow patterns?" Gray asks, and I can hear him fighting back laughter.
"Energy movement through space. You know, sonic feng shui," Leslie explains seriously. "Very important for creativity. And don't get me started on your lighting temperature. You want warm for comfort, cool for focus, but what you've got is... confusion."
I look around our lovingly assembled space, seeing it through professional eyes for the first time. He’s not wrong, our lighting is a hodgepodge of whatever we found on sale, and I did just arrange the furniture based on where it looked comfortable rather than any actual design principle.
"Would you like to give us some advice?" I ask, genuinely curious despite Gray's obvious amusement.
Leslie's face lights up like I've just offered him a Christmas present.
"Would I! Oh, we could do such amazing things with this space.
The bones are gorgeous, with a 1910s industrial aesthetic, excellent natural light, and wonderful ceiling height.
But you need proper acoustic panels that don't look like prison walls, and this color scheme needs to be completely rethought for optimal creativity and sound quality.
" My stomach twists with a mix of pride and defensiveness.
I am proud of what Gray and I have created, yet his critique stings a bit.
Does our work truly look that amateur? Still, I remind myself that we've built this from the ground up, and that means something.
Perhaps Leslie's vision could enhance our cohesiveness, but at what cost to our own creativity?
For now, I just nod along, finding moments of humor in his passionate delivery.
"And finally," Leslie concludes, standing in the center of the room with his arms outstretched, "you need a statement piece.
Something that says, 'we are serious artists but also approachable humans.
' I'm thinking of a living wall of plants, or perhaps a sculptural element that incorporates both visual appeal and sound-dampening properties. "
"That sounds..." I search for the right word, "comprehensive."
"Oh, it would be. I could have preliminary designs ready by next week, complete with vendor recommendations and a timeline for implementation."
Gray and I exchange a look. On the one hand, Leslie clearly knows what he’s talking about, and our amateur efforts probably could benefit from professional guidance.
On the other hand, there's something endearing about the space we've created together, mismatched and imperfect as it is.
Yet, as we stand amid our growing project, a concern nags at the back of my mind about how Leslie's expertise might challenge our group's unity.
Could his professional eye disrupt the delicate balance and shared vision that has bound us together so far?
It's a question neither of us voices, but I sense it's hovering between us.
"That's very generous," Gray says diplomatically, "but we're pretty attached to the DIY approach. Part of the charm, you know?"
Leslie looks around the space again, and I can practically see his design sensibilities weeping.
"Well," he says finally, "if you change your mind, I'm right down the street in an Airbnb with a few friends.
And maybe... maybe I could just pop over occasionally?
Just to make sure you're not committing any egregious design sins? "
"Deal," I tell him, because the thought of Leslie periodically appearing to critique our choices is actually hilarious. "But fair warning—we're musicians and a coffee shop manager. Our design budget is more 'thrift store chic' than 'interior designer approved.'"
"Oh, honey," Leslie pats my arm sympathetically. "I work miracles with tight budgets. You'd be surprised what you can accomplish with the right eye and a little creativity."
Later, after Leslie clicks his way back out into the afternoon, Gray and I stand together in our 'acoustically challenged' space and burst into laughter.
Gray gasps between laughs. "Did he really say sonic feng shui?"
"With a completely straight face," I confirm. "And I think he’s actually coming back to check on us."
"God help us all," Gray grins, pulling me back into his arms. "Our guardian angel of interior design."
"He’s not wrong, though," I admit. "Our lighting really is confused."
"Our lighting has character," Gray protests. "It's got personality."
"It's got problems."
"It's got charm."
"It's got Leslie Hartman very concerned about our creative energy flow."
Gray kisses me, cutting off my laughter, and I catch our reflection in the window, surrounded by the warm, uneven light of our new space.
This is what our life is now—unexpected joy, friends who care enough to give advice, and problems that turn out to be blessings.
We’re constructing more than just a studio— it’s a life together, one that’s stronger because of everything we’ve faced, even the small things like odd lighting and surprise design help.
It's worth every risk we've taken to get here.