The day crawls by with the speed of geological time. Every minute feels like an hour, and every hour feels like a small eternity. I’ve checked my phone two hundred times to see if it has magically jumped to four o’clock.

The cabin the guys rented boasts spacious rooms, and it’s private. There are enough bedrooms that we’re not stepping on each other constantly. We set up a recording area in the main room. There’s a deck that overlooks the valley where Rhea’s little town sits nestled among the trees, and I’ve spent most of the morning standing there with my coffee, trying to spot Mountain Mornings among the buildings below.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the wood if you keep pacing.” Andrew settles into one of the porch rockers with a coffee mug in his hands.

“I’m not pacing,” I lie.

“You’ve walked the same ten-foot area about fifty times just in the last hour. That’s the definition of pacing.”

I force myself into the chair next to him. The second I sit, my leg starts bouncing restlessly, betraying my nerves. I can’t stop thinking about all that’s at stake. I just want things to go well. I can’t shake the fear that I’ll ruin the fragile peace she’s managed to achieve here in Dogwood Hollow. The worry chews at me. If I screw this up, it’s not just my heart that pays for it. I’m terrified of being another mistake for her.

“You won’t mess it up. You’re not the same person anymore.” He reminds me.

I’m glad others have more faith in me than I do. “How can you be so sure?”

Andrew sets down his coffee and looks at me seriously. “Because yesterday, when we told you we’d rented a place near her, your first concern was whether being here would be good for her, not just for you. The old Gray would have been thinking about how to get her back. This Gray is thinking about how to be worthy of being in her life at all.”

Andrew’s words land harder than he can know. The same pervasive thought has haunted me. It’s been my blueprint every day since I entered rehab, the silent promise behind every choice.

His words settle something in my chest, but the nervous energy remains. At three-thirty, I can’t stand it anymore. I shower, change into clean jeans and a black button-down shirt, and drive ten minutes into town to wait outside Mountain Mornings like a hopeless, lovesick teenager.

Through the window, I see Rhea moving behind the counter, her hands skillfully working with the steam wand. She’s in her element here, moving with the efficient grace I remember from watching her work with the band – confident and comfortable. My heart swells with pride and breaks a little at the same time. She has been living this life without me. She didn’t need me to be happy.

Which is exactly how it should be, but damn if it doesn’t sting a little.

At exactly four o’clock, she emerges from the shop, having traded her apron for a light cardigan. Her face lights up when she sees me leaning against my truck, and her smile hits me like a shot to the jaw.

She approaches. “Right on time.” Her tone is warm but tentative as we both try to navigate this new dynamic.

“Military precision. Bruce would be proud.” I push off the car. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Good. The afternoon rush was busy, but Emma handled most of it while I worried about what we were going to talk about.” Rhea shifts her bag to her other shoulder and offers a self-deprecating smile.

“We don’t have to talk about anything heavy if you don’t want to. We could just…” I gesture vaguely, realizing I have no idea what normal people do when they spend time together. “Exist in the same space without drama?”

She laughs, reaching up to tuck an invisible strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and the sound eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “That sounds perfect, actually.”

We’re walking toward her building when a young guy with a college sweatshirt does a double-take as he passes us on the sidewalk.

“Holy shit, are you Gray Garrison?” he asks, eyes widening with excitement.

Rhea stiffens next to me. I can feel it. I can hear her mind working overtime behind her silence. Instantly, I’m dragged into that familiar battle between public adoration and private reality. Fame always costs us. It turns quiet afternoons into performances, stripping us of the intimate moments that should’ve been just ours. There are days when I wish I could just disappear for her sake to give her the peace she deserves without the constant threat of being recognized. My guilt resurfaces fast and bitter as ever.

“Yeah, that’s me.” I keep my voice friendly, but I’m hoping he’ll move along.

“Dude, I saw you guys in Atlanta last year. Best show ever. Can I get a picture?” The man asks so nicely that it becomes difficult to decline.

Before I can respond, another person notices the commotion, then another. Within minutes, a small crowd gathers. As Rhea’s jaw tightens and I see the hesitation in her eyes, I’m hit with guilt for disrupting her hard-won peace. The excitement of recognition is replaced by a growing sense of unease. The familiar stress returns, reminding us of how quickly privacy can be lost. Each moment standing there, I feel caught between pride in my career and the fear of reawakening old wounds for both of us.

Rhea leans in, lowering her voice as she scans the crowd. “Maybe we should go inside.”

I sign a couple of autographs and take a few quick photos, then politely but firmly extract us from the situation. “Sorry, folks, we’ve got to run.”

As we escape into her building, Rhea shakes her head. “I forgot about that part. The way privacy just disappears when you’re around.”

“One of the many perks of loving a rock star.” I attempt a lighthearted tone, then immediately wince and shift my weight. The realization that we’re not there yet hits, and it might never happen again.

But she doesn’t flinch at the word ‘loving.’ Instead, she gives me a small smile. “At least they were nice about it.”

We’re heading to her apartment when an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes comes out of the bookstore below Rhea’s place.

“Oh, Rhea dear! Perfect timing. I was just heading to the bank before they closed.” The woman is excited to see Rhea, and I can tell she’s fond of my girl.

“Mrs. Chen, this is my friend Gray.” Rhea introduces me.

The word ‘friend’ feels like a small electric shock. It stings because it’s a step down from what we were, but it’s also a relief because it means I still matter to her in some way.

Mrs. Chen’s eyes widen slightly in recognition, but she’s gracious about it. “Gray Garrison! My goodness, what a pleasure. I’m Helen Chen. I own the bookstore.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Chen. Rhea’s told me so much about you and your amazing bookstore.” I reach out to shake her hand.

“Has she now? You know, you two would make the most adorable couple. Such a handsome pair.” Mrs. Chen beams, then looks between us with the shrewd gaze of a woman who’s been watching people fall in love for fifty years.

Rhea’s cheeks flush pink. “Mrs. Chen, we’re just…”

“Friends.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Good friends.”

“Well, friendship is the foundation of all the best love stories.” Mrs. Chen winks. “I should know. I’ve read enough of them. Now, I really must run before the bank closes. Rhea, dear, we’ll chat more later. And Gray, you’re welcome anytime. Any friend of Rhea’s is a friend of mine.”

After she leaves, we continue up to Rhea’s apartment in a silence I can’t decipher.

“She’s exactly as wonderful as you described.” I smile as Rhea unlocks her door and glances at me over her shoulder.

“She’s adopted me as one of her own. I think she likes me more than her actual grandchildren.” The fondness in her tone when she speaks about the townspeople really warms my heart for Rhea.

The door opens, and I step into Rhea’s new life.

The apartment is small but perfect and exactly what I would have imagined she’d choose if she were picking a place just for herself. It boasts warm wood floors, big windows that let in plenty of light, and everywhere I look, books. Beautiful, gorgeous bookshelves line every wall, filled with volumes in every color.

But amid the beautifully arranged volumes, my gaze is caught by something unexpected. Tucked between two teal-colored books is an old, dog-eared tour pass from one of her early Case in Point shows. A relic from the past I had forgotten. Seeing it here is a stark reminder of the whirlwind of my mistakes that defined our relationship. It also serves as a pivotal moment. It whispers promises of a future where those mistakes could give way to something better, a chance to rewrite our story and my role within it.

It’s not just the quantity of books that catches my attention. It’s how many of them are special editions. Books with painted edges in gold and silver, and covers that resemble works of art, are neatly placed on the shelves.

“Jesus, Rhea. This is incredible.” I turn around slowly to take in all her books and the new life she’s pieced together here.

She hovers near the kitchen, nervous energy radiating from her. “It’s small, but it’s mine, you know? Everything here is something I chose.”

“It’s perfect.” And I mean it. This space is so quintessentially her. It’s thoughtfully arranged. I can picture her curled up in that armchair by the window, book in hand and completely content. I can imagine her drinking coffee in the morning, humming under her breath, sunshine streaming through those big windows.

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.