by Ginger Scott
“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.
Epilogue
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
Acknowledgements
I’ve given a great deal of thought to this part of the book. The acknowledgements. There are a lot of people I want to acknowledge—people who have poured over my words with me, put up with my neurotic questioning, slapped my hand while I chewed my nails and worried that I was getting it just right. But the first words of acknowledgement need to go to the warriors on this earth—the parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends of those with autism.
I came to understand autism fully years ago while working as a journalist. As with many things in my journalism career, it was a story assignment that educated me. I went into the assignment with some basic understanding, but I came away with open eyes—and a new passion. And over the years, I’ve volunteered my writing services for an organization here in Arizona—the Southwest Autism Research and Resource Center—and I’ve been blessed to meet amazing families, medical practitioners, therapists, volunteers and teachers who all work to pull on the strands of the puzzle that autism is with the hope of unraveling it just a little more for those living with it.
I have had family affected by diagnosis. I have had friends affected by diagnosis. And I have interviewed countless parents who, like Avery Abbot, are brave fighters in the face of a strong wind, traveling uphill every minute of every day. So this book is first and foremost for them, my humble way of honoring their story and spreading their mantra—hope.
I must also thank, as always, my husband and son, for believing in me more than I think I deserve. And this story would never have made it safely from my Mac to market without the assistance of my editors, Tina Scott and Billi Joy Carson, and my team of amazing beta readers who helped make sure Avery and Mason’s story was honest, heartfelt and truly one of love. Thank you, Jen, Nikki, Shelley, Debbie and Brigitte.
And lastly, if you would like to learn more about the many amazing programs, services, research projects, resources, opportunities and more at the Southwest Autism Research and Resource Center, please visit them online at www.autismcenter.org.
About the author
Ginger Scott is a journalist and writer from Peoria, Arizona. A proud Sun Devil, she is a graduate and associate faculty member of Arizona State University’s Cronkite School of Journalism. When she’s not typing feverishly on her MacBook during the wee hours or reading in the dark on her iPad, she’s probably at a baseball diamond somewhere watching her son or her favorite team, the Arizona Diamondbacks, take the field.
Also by Ginger Scott
In addition to How We Deal With Gravity, Ginger Scott is the author of the powerful and character-driven coming-of-age romance series Waiting on the Sidelines and Going Long as well as the new-adult romance Blindness. She will have a new romance releasing in late summer 2014 titled This Is Falling. For the latest information on new projects, book signings and more, be sure to follow her on Facebook and Twitter or visit her online.
www.littlemisswrite.com
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