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.”