Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
GRAY
The ring box in my pocket feels impossibly hot, reminding me of the huge question I'm about to ask.
My hands shake as I adjust the microphone for the third time.
The evening air is cool, carrying the smell of pine and a hint of wood smoke from far-off chimneys.
The stage we've set in the village square looks magical in the fading light, with string lights and glowing lanterns everywhere.
The crowd murmurs softly, spreading out on blankets and in folding chairs.
A dog barks nearby. All these sounds blend, making the moment feel comforting, as if everyone in our little mountain town has come out to witness our magic.
“You're going to wear a hole in that stage if you keep pacing,” Andrew says quietly, tuning a guitar with the calm precision that used to infuriate me when I was spiraling. Now it grounds me, reminds me that some things stay steady even when everything else feels like it’s not.
As he continues tuning, the predictable raw musical sounds are like an anchor, bringing me back to the present moment.
“I'm not pacing,” I lie, then immediately resume pacing.
“Brother, you've checked that ring box seventeen times in the last ten minutes,” Parker observes, drumming his fingers lightly on the edge of his drum kit. “She's going to say yes.” The rhythm of his tapping serves as a heartbeat, a constant sound in the background that reassures me.
Three weeks of planning have led to this.
I’ve had secret meetings with Mrs. Chen about flowers, worked with Emma to get Rhea here without her guessing, and what felt like hundreds of texts with Leslie about how everything should look.
I remember one Monday night, Leslie and I sat in the back room at Mountain Mornings, surrounded by unfinished song sheets and half-empty coffee cups.
We debated lanterns versus sparklers, finally agreeing that lanterns were right for tonight.
Mrs. Chen arrived with fresh mooncakes, saying that the right flavors could help set the mood.
She’s supporting us in her quiet way, her eyes shining with understanding.
A wave of doubt hits me. “What if she doesn't?” The question escapes before I can stop it, vulnerability laid bare in front of my brothers who've seen me at my worst and still believe I deserve this happiness.
An intrusive fear I barely allow myself to acknowledge tumbles through my mind.
She's too good for me. She'll realize that asking her was a mistake.
My thoughts spiral back to a cold, sterile room, my own breathing deafening, after I lost everything to my addiction.
I see myself sitting there, staring at bright fluorescent lights, my heart pounding like a drum that refuses to stop.
Every decision felt like stepping onto thin ice, and dragging myself out of bed seemed more daunting than scaling the steepest mountain.
Those mornings when hope felt like a distant, unreachable star.
My throat tightens as panic flickers at the edge of my consciousness, my palms beginning to sweat, returning me back to the present and the brothers who believe in me.
I swallow hard, pushing those thoughts away, but they linger in the corners of my mind.
“Then she's not the Rhea we all know and love, and we've all been reading this situation completely wrong for months.” Zep calms me, letting me know that they read it the same.
“Plus, Duke already approved the ring. He sniffed it very thoroughly and wagged his tail. That's basically a binding contract in dog law.” Parker makes a great point.
Duke is currently stationed at the front of the crowd with Mrs. Patterson, wearing a bow tie that Leslie insisted was “absolutely essential for formal occasions.” He looks dignified and slightly confused, which is probably how I look, too.
The crowd is buzzing with anticipation. They know this isn't a regular concert. The elaborate setup and our first performance in the village square have everyone speculating, but only a few know what's really about to happen.
“Five minutes,” Wyatt announces, and my stomach does a complicated flip that would impress an Olympic gymnast.
Rhea sits in the third row, between Emma and Mrs. Chen.
Her pretty blue sundress makes her green eyes shine, and her honey blonde hair catches the lantern light.
She looks curious and excited, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.
When our eyes meet, anticipation and warmth flood me, making my chest ache.
Emma had told her it was a “community appreciation concert” and our way of thanking the village for embracing us. Not technically a lie, since we are appreciating the community, but not the whole truth.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath that goes all the way down to my toes. “Let's do this before I lose my nerve completely.”
We open with some of our older songs, the ones everyone knows that get the crowd singing along.
Even as I perform songs that I've sung hundreds of times, my mind is on the piece of paper in my back pocket, which holds the lyrics to “The Ballad of Us,” handwritten this morning in case I forget the words I've been perfecting for months.
Three songs in, I catch Leslie's eye. He's positioned strategically near the sound board, and he gives me the subtle nod that means everything is in place.
The flowers have been distributed to key villagers, the photographer he secretly hired is in position, and the mocktails are chilling at Mountain Mornings for the after-party that Rhea doesn't know is happening.
“So,” I say into the microphone, my voice steadier than I expected, “we wanted to share something special with you tonight. A new song that means everything to me. To us.”
I look directly at Rhea as I say it, watching her expression shift from casual interest to focused attention. She knows I've been working on a song and has caught me humming melodies and scribbling lyrics for months, but I've kept this song hidden like a sacred secret.
“This song is about second chances,” I continue, my fingers finding the opening chords on my guitar. “About learning that sometimes love means letting go, and sometimes it means holding on, and wisdom is knowing the difference.”
The opening notes of “The Ballad of Us” fill the square, and I can feel the collective intake of breath from the crowd. This is different from our usual sound. It’s a more intimate one, more vulnerable, more honest than anything we've recorded before.
I sing the first verse, looking directly at Rhea, watching her face transform as she recognizes this isn't just any love song. This is our story, set to music and shared with the entire village we've made our home in.
“I was ninety-one days clean when you walked in...”
Her hand goes to her mouth, and I can see tears starting to form in her eyes. Emma reaches over to squeeze her other hand, and Mrs. Chen is already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that probably came from Leslie's emergency supply.
“Coffee shop girl with the nervous smile
Said you’d take a chance on broken things
Help us make music for a while
You saw something in my shaking hands
That I couldn’t see myself
You loved me when I was learning how
To be someone else
This is the ballad of us
Written in scars and second chances
This is the ballad of us
Love that survives when the music dies
You saved me by letting me save myself
You loved me by letting me go
This is the ballad of us
The only song I need to know
For three years, we built a life on hope
And the promise I could change
But demons don’t die quietly
They whisper through the pain
The bottle called louder than your voice
I chose poison over gold
You packed your bags on a midnight train
Left me broken in the cold
This is the ballad of us
Written in scars and second chances
This is the ballad of us
Love that survives when the music dies
You saved me by letting me save myself
You loved me by letting me go
This is the ballad of us
The only song I need to know
They say you can’t love someone into healing
But you can love them while they learn to try
In the mountains where we found each other
Underneath the Georgia sky
Now I wake up every morning grateful
For the grace that brought us home
Two people who learned how to be whole
Before we learned not to be alone
Now I’m two hundred days and counting
Building something made to last
Not running from the future
Not hiding in the past
Your hand fits perfectly in my pocket
Your laugh sounds like coming home
This is our story, our beginning
The love we’ve always known
This is the ballad of us
Written in scars and second chances
This is the ballad of us
Love that survives when the music dies
You saved me by letting me save myself
You loved me by learning to let go
This is the ballad of us
The only song I’ll ever need to know
This is the ballad of us
Forever and always, the ballad of us”
The song is a map of our history. Each part is a stop on our journey — the beauty and the pain, the leaving, the returning, the breaking, and the healing.
As I sing, I'm transported back to an autumn evening when we sat on the porch, wrapped in blankets, sharing dreams and fears under a canopy of stars.
By the bridge, half the audience is crying, and my own voice is thick with emotion.
Mid-chorus, I stop playing. The band falters for a beat, leaving me standing in sudden silence with hundreds of eyes on me.
At that moment, I realize the perfect moment isn't about perfect timing.
Looking at Rhea with tears streaming down her face and love radiating from every part of her being, I know what I have to do.
“Rhea,” I say into the microphone, and my voice cracks on her name. “Can you come up here, please?”