How We Deal With Gravity (27 page)

“You guys are awesome. Please, make sure you tip your
waiters and waitresses—especially that sassy one with the short brown
hair. I owe her a shitload of favors, so you’d be helping me out,” Mason says,
pointing and winking at Claire. She just takes a bow and blows him a kiss; I
start to laugh. “All right, so one more song and then I’m going to pass this
mic on over to the next guy.”

He heads to the back of the stage, and I watch him flip open
his guitar case, pulling a different guitar out and putting his away. When I
realize what he’s holding, I can’t help the tears that drench my face. “Ray
Abbot was the father I never had,” he says, the entire room getting quiet now.
“Ray gave me a lot of things—he gave me his guitar,” he says, holding it
up and waiting through a few whistles and applause.

“He gave me confidence when I had none,” he continues. “He
gave me advice, even when I thought I knew everything and clearly didn’t. But
there’s one thing he gave me—
one
thing
—that freakin’ blows all that other stuff away.”

I’m holding my breath, sitting on my hands and staring at
Mason stand up there and take charge of this room. He looks down for a second,
kicking his right foot against the base of the mic stand, sucking in his bottom
lip, and then he looks at me. “Ray Abbot gave me his blessing to love his
daughter. And he told me to be patient. Avery, he said, is
careful.
”

He smiles at me, his dimples deep, and his eyes focused on
my every breath. “I love that Avery is careful,” he says, situating his guitar
around his neck and pulling the mic a little closer. “I love that she puts
everyone else first. I love that she fights for her son. I love her son. And I
love how she believes in me—even when I don’t deserve it. But mostly, I
just love Avery Abbot.”

The tears are falling uncontrollably now, and I blot my eyes
with the corners of my sleeve, knowing
everyone’s
attention is on me again.

“I grew up at Dusty’s. I know this place by heart. And I
know there are a lot of things in your life that you’re putting on hold,” he
says, looking right at me now, speaking to me and only me. “I’m thinking I
might just make a good manager, run things around here—just for a while.
And
I know
you’re going to tell me I
don’t have to, and that I should go tour and live my dream, blah blah blah. But
the thing is, Ave? You’re sorta my dream. And being here—taking care of
this place? I kind of don’t think it gets any better than that. So, what I’m
asking you is that you let me put
you
first—just
this once. Whatdaya say?”

Mason is holding the mic in his hand, waiting, along with a
thousand other people, for me to just take his offer—to give over some of
the weight I carry, share the load with him. He wants me to choose me, and I’m
frozen, my stomach weighted with the guilt that comes along with letting others
into my life. What started as cheering is turning into light chatter and
eventually whispering, and I’m looking side to side, waiting for someone to
make my decision for me.

Then Mason starts to play. He’s strumming slowly—his
hands on my dad’s guitar, the music conjuring every single memory I have in my
heart. He plays “Tenderness,” and he doesn’t sing at first, but rather just
plays the song, solo, on Ray Abbot’s guitar. By the time he makes it through
the song once, my eyes are puffy from crying, and Barb and Claire aren’t far
behind me. He moves closer to the mic the second time through, and pauses for a
few seconds—long enough for a few women to scream out for him, and for me
to break through the damn barrier inside my chest—and then he flashes me
his smile, and sings about my grief and making it
easier to
bear
.

He looks right at me when he hits the chorus; I shrug my
shoulders, giving in completely. I look at Max, his face intent on the screen
of my phone—he’s still filming, even though I’m pretty sure his timer has
run out by now. When I look back at Mason, he’s started to climb down the steps
of the stage, still playing the song, but getting closer to me. He lets the
guitar rest over his shoulder finally, and Matt takes over the lead, keeping
the song going.

I cry harder with every step he takes in my direction, but
when he kneels in front of me, pulling my hands to his mouth and kissing them,
then placing the small ring in my hand, I start to shake. I can’t breathe, and
my entire body is numb—the sound of the guitar in the distant background
is coming in waves, and the room behind Mason is starting to sway out of focus.
He can see the panic on my face, I know he can, but he holds strong, lifting my
chin back up to face him and moving his hands to both sides of my face. He
comes even closer to me, pulling my forehead against his, pulling me up to a
stand in front of him, and my eyes shut while I force myself to drown out the
noise in my head.

“I know you’re scared,” he whispers against me, soft enough
that only I can hear. “I’m not going anywhere. And Ave, I don’t
want
to go anywhere. Please…just say
yes
. Marry me?”

The whole thing feels like a dream. In fact, I’m sure I’ve
had this exact dream—down to every detail. Only in my dream, my father
was here. I was sixteen then, and Mason wasn’t near the man he is now. But the
one he’s become? This one—the one standing here in front of everyone and
asking to take care of me—is better than my make believe. I nod yes, and
at first he doesn’t feel it, so I nod stronger and whisper it to him.

“Yes?” he says, opening his eyes now and backing away from
me just enough to slide the ring from my palm and onto my finger.

I nod again, and my core quivers with nerves, but happiness
starts to flood my chest.

Mason doesn’t go back on stage. He pulls me to him, his
thumbs soft on my cheeks, and his fingertips deep in my hair; he kisses me so
hard, he has to sweep my legs up and pull them around his waist to keep me from
falling over. I can hear everyone around us start to whistle and cheer, but
time stands still while Mason is kissing me, and soon I hear Stanley start to
sing on stage.

The spotlight has finally gone back to where it belongs, and
Mason and I slip to the booth in the corner, him on one side of Max and me on
the other. Mason asks Max to show him what he’s been working on, and without
really answering, Max starts to flip through screens on my phone, showing him
pictures and video clips, and Mason just watches in wonder, his face full of
contentment. All I can feel is the touch of his hand linked with mine on the
booth top behind Max, his finger lightly running over the ring he’s just placed
on my finger. Subconsciously, I start counting in my mind, but rather than trying
to survive until one moment ends and I can get to the next, I’m counting
because I never want this one to end.

Mason

“This is stupid, I don’t know why I even wrote this shit
down,” I say, shoving the list of people to thank back into my pocket. I wrote
the list on a napkin at the diner we stopped at before the Grammys.

“It’s not stupid, and I
know
you’re going to need it,” Avery says, snuggling up against my arm and
tilting her chin up so she can kiss my cheek. I keep my eyes on her, watching
her look up at me—not a doubt to be found on her face. Hell, I don’t care
if I win at this point, for me the best damn award in this world is earning
that smile she’s making right there.

Who knew Matt’s words would be so prophetic.
There will be other bands.
He ended up
sticking around Dusty’s with me, and Josh hooked up with Stanley to make
another blues album. Matt and I started working on some duets, refining a
really cool country kind of folk-rock sound. We’d practice during the week, and
perform on weekends at Dusty’s; we ended up picking up another bass player and
a drummer from those sessions—Jeremy and Nathan, just a couple of local
guys who really dug our sound.

And that was enough. Then Kevin showed up one night for
another show. I thought he was just passing through town, maybe staying at one
of the fancy desert resorts. But then he stayed through the whole set, hung out
until the place emptied, and waited at a table while I closed up for the night.

Seems my song “Perfect” was getting a lot of
questions—and people started asking for it at Tenenbaum shows, wanting
them to cover it or bring back the band that played it. Kevin offered me a
recording contract that night—one shot at an album. It was two months
away from Avery—away from Max. We had just gotten married, and Dusty’s
was just finding its groove again. But that woman of mine, she insisted. So the
new
Mason Street Band rented a house
in LA, and I flew home every weekend until the album was done.

We called it
One Night
at Ray’s
—in honor of the man who will always be my father to me. Ray
named Dusty’s after his dad, and it just seemed fitting to me that I give him
credit in my big break. And, yeah, it sounds arrogant as fuck, but I wasn’t
really surprised when “Perfect” hit the charts at number seven. People always
loved that song on the road, and it had that emotional thing going for it.

When six other songs followed it though…one spending three
weeks at number one? Yeah, that pretty much shot my surreal meter up to a
million. My face was in magazines, and I even had to make some security changes
to the house to keep out crazy stalker-types and paparazzi. I tried to talk
Avery into moving; I’d made enough for us to move into one of those luxury,
gated neighborhoods in the hills. But she’s not quite ready to let go of her
dad’s place yet. I kinda don’t think I am either. Besides, Max likes it
there—and that’s really all that matters to me.

Our category is coming up soon…best new artist. “Perfect”
was up for song of the year, but I knew I’d lose that. Somewhere in the back of
my head, though, I feel like we
might
win
this one. I can’t stop my knee from bobbing up and down, and Avery keeps
sliding her hand over every thirty seconds to hold it still. She bought a new
dress for tonight, a silky light pink one that hugs her amazing body—we
took photographs together.
People wanted
to take our picture
!
I keep
looking at her legs in that dress, and the more I do, the more I want to hunt
down that photographer and get her photo back—I don’t want people knowing
how sexy my woman is.

“This is it,” she says, holding my arm even tighter now. I
smile at her, but I decide to keep my eyes on her, because I’d rather watch her
face light up when they read the nominees. When they say our name, she screams
and claps her hands close to me, still keeping her arm linked through mine. I
don’t miss any of it—from the quiver of nerves along her lips to the
small side-glances she gives me just to see if I’m still looking at her.

“Mason Street Band!” I barely register it at first, but soon
Avery’s lips are on mine and she’s practically sitting in my lap, hugging me,
and talking in between kisses, her hands clinging to the sides of my face.

“You did it, Mason! Oh my god, you did it!” she says. “I’m
so proud of you. So very proud!”

Somehow, I manage to get my legs to work, and I stand up and
walk to the aisle, putting my arm around Matt, mostly because I need him to
haul my numb ass up to the stage.

“Holy shit, man! We did it!” he says, shaking me with a side
hug while we walk up to the front along with Nathan and Jeremy.

What they don’t tell you about awards shows like this is
that the awards are really heavy. It’s not the one I’ll actually take home, but
it’s a replica they use for the presentation—and it’s really heavy! My
hands are trembling, and I know I’m going to drop mine, so I hand it to Matt
and look him square in the eyes while I reach into my pocket in front of the
mic.

“Good thing Avery made you write that junk on the napkin,”
he says, laughing at me. I shake my head in disbelief and pull it out, turning
back to the mic and adjusting it a little for my height.

“So…this is unexpected,” I start, and the audience screams
in response. “A year and a half ago, I was getting into bar fights and getting
tossed from shows in two-bit holes in the wall in places like Norman, Oklahoma.
Man…thank you guys for giving us a shot again.”

I step back for a few seconds just to take it all in, but I know
I don’t have long, so I start rattling off the list of
thank yous
before time runs out. I get through the various agent
and label types, and then I put the napkin away, because the rest of what I
want to say is personal, and I’d never forget a word of it.

“Just a few more names…I promise. First and foremost, I need
to thank my inspiration—Avery Street. Have you all seen how hot my wife
is tonight?”

I throw that in mostly because I love watching her get
embarrassed, and she does, shirking down in her seat, her eyes wide, but her
hand quick to cover her face.

“I love you, Birdie,” I say, letting those words linger out
there for everyone to hear and remember. I started calling her Birdie again
after our wedding—when she told me she liked my story about why I thought
of that name, and the “Blackbird” song that inspired it.

“I also need to thank the man the album’s named after. Ray
Abbot was a silent warrior in the world of up-and-coming musicians—and
anyone who was ever touched by him was a thousand times better off as a human
just for knowing him. I love you, Ray…this one’s for you!” I say, taking my
Grammy from Matt and holding it up to the sky. The rest of the guys do the
same, and I can feel my eyes wanting to cry.

“Finally, there’s one member of our band who’s not up here.
He couldn’t make it tonight because his bedtime is eight o’clock. If you look
on the credits for
One Night at Ray’s,
you’ll see the name Max Abbot. His name’s actually Max Abbot-Street now. Max is
my son—it became
official
four
days ago when the judge signed the adoption order. Max has autism…” I say, and
the crowd is quiet for this part.

“But he also has so much more,” I say, smiling as I look
into Avery’s weeping eyes. “Max has fierce determination. He doesn’t give up on
things, and when he finds the answer, it’s
always
right. He’s also a very patient teacher. Technology comes pretty easily to
him, and he taught me how to use the computer program we used to write all of
our music for the album.”

“Max is also a genius…and no, I’m not saying that because
I’m biased as his dad. I’m saying it because he is. Before I left for LA to
start recording, I sat in our music room working through melodies and various
riffs and chords, looking for things that went together well so we had something
to work with when we started recording. I’d play it once, and then it was
locked away in Max’s brain—permanently. By the next morning, he’d have
every note written down and recorded on his iPad. So it just seems right that
Max gets credit for this, too—he was a writer on the album. He’s six,
going on seven, so imagine what you all will get to see him do at twenty,
thirty, forty.”

I didn’t expect the producers to let me go on so long, but
I’m glad they did. And when the audience starts to clap and get to their feet
for the words I just said, I feel overwhelmed. I hold up my award again along
with the rest of the guys, and say one last “Thanks,” into the mic. We all head
back stage, and all I can think of is getting back to Avery. Some woman is
telling us about picking up our final awards, and Matt’s telling me he’ll get
mine, but I’m too busy pushing and shoving through people, just trying to find
my girl.

Someone brings her backstage finally, and I kiss her lips
just to ground myself. “Can you believe this?” I say, still in shock from
everything.

“I knew you’d win,” she says, her eyes still red from
crying. “Mason, I can’t believe everything you said. Oh my god, that was
beautiful. Max…he’s going to be so excited to see this in the morning. Oh, we
have to get home…I want to show it to him!”

“Let’s go then,” I say, tugging her hand in mine, and
tucking my award that Matt just handed to me under my arm.

“Mace, we can’t just leave! You have to stay for parties and
things,” she says, giggling because she doesn’t think I’m serious. But I am. I
learned a lot of things from Ray Abbot, and first and foremost was that things
like fame and attention don’t add up to a hill of shit in the end. But Avery?
And my life at home with her and Max? That’s what I want my legacy to be. And
when the guy getting the award after me gives a nod to Otis Redding in his
acceptance speech, I know it’s Ray’s way of telling me I’m right.
 

So I get us a car, and we go straight to the airport,
because clothes and things can be shipped. We’ll be home when Max wakes up in
the morning. And Avery loves me for it. And I love her…for
everything
else.

THE END