“I’d do it all again. Just the same,” he says, his face serious as he looks at me. All I can do is suck in my bottom lip and force a smile in return, because I know if I say anything else, I’m going to fall to pieces and run us off the road.
When I pull into the driveway and park, Mason gets out and walks right to his car. “I’ve gotta meet the guys. If your dad calls, tell him I’ll stop by Dusty’s,” he says, his words barely ending before his car door shuts and his engine is on. His eyes are intent on the gravel drive in front of him—and nothing else—as he pulls away. I gasp for air, forcing myself not to cry until I get Max inside, and I can hide in the bathroom.
Mason
The partying for the guys never really stopped. The three of them were passed out still when I got to Ben’s. He never locks his door, and I just walked into the house, greeted by a coffee table filled with half-eaten take-out boxes and a few flies.
I managed to wake everyone up, but they weren’t really good for much, and anything we talked about right now would only be remembered by one of us. I think they soaked in enough to know we had to catch the bus in Phoenix while the tour we were joining was passing through on the way to Vegas. I told Ben I’d just spend the night at his house Monday so we could leave early together in the morning. I didn’t want to have to leave Avery more than once.
When I pull up, the Dusty’s sign is flicking off and on again. If I come back here after our tour, I’m going to fix that for Ray. The last thing that man needs to do is climb a ladder, and it’s probably just a short in one of the bulbs. Ray has a local country band booked for tonight, so the parking lot is full of mostly pickups and girls with big hair and bigger hats. I recognize the song when I walk through the bar, and it hits me that this is the same band that was playing when I first rolled into town weeks ago.
I sit down on one of the stools and give them a good listen, I guess hoping it might help me remember everything just a little more vividly.
“Hey, man. I heard about the tour. Congrats,” Cole says, pulling the cap from a Heineken and sliding it over to me, and then popping one for himself—we both take a drink, a sort of silent salute. “Ray’s waiting on you. Said to send you on back when you showed up.”
“Thanks, man. Hey, in case I don’t see you—take care of these guys…a’right?” I say, and Cole shrinks his eyes a little when he looks at my hand before finally shaking it. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives me an understanding nod and smiles before getting back to the growing line of ladies waiting for him at the bar.
Ray is busy in his office, filling out a few order forms and checking them against the inventory books. I used to help him with this when I was a kid. I was good at counting crates. “You know, the business is out there, old man,” I say, and Ray laughs lightly and pulls the reading glasses off his face.
“I can’t concentrate worth shit out there when someone’s playing,” he says, kicking back in his chair, and motioning for me to sit down. “So, tell me…how’s this thing working? When do you leave?”
“We hit the road Tuesday, early. We’ll be gone at least six weeks, maybe eight,” I say, watching him chew on the end of his pen and study me. I can read the thoughts he’s not saying out loud, what he really wants to know. What does this mean for Avery and me? It’s the same question I had, and the same one she answered for me. And it’s probably going to be the theme of whatever album my ass is lucky enough to write.
“You coming back after that?” he says, his own way of getting to the point.
“I guess that depends…on a lot of things,” I say, rubbing my hand over my face, trying to find feeling somewhere.
“Well, I’ve got something…sort of a good luck thing I wanna give ya,” Ray says, grunting as he gets to his feet and moves into the back storage area. I can hear a few boxes sliding around, followed by more grunting.
“You want me to come lift whatever it is? You sound like a walking hernia,” I joke, and Ray’s face reads smart-ass when he comes back into his office. He moves closer to his desk and sets a dusty guitar case on top, flicking open the buckles on the lid.
“I had her fixed up,” he says, reaching in and lifting his old guitar—a classic Les Paul. The color was always my favorite, tan in the middle, and burnt black around the edges. Ray taught me everything I know on this guitar, and I secretly wanted it for most of my life.
“Ray, I…I don’t know what to say,” I say, my hands shaking as I take the guitar from him and hold it close to my body.