Chapter 19: Nice Guys Save The Show

Okay, I'm beginning to feel like URGENT is Yungblood/Halsey Fanfiction, but I really love this DCFC song, and when I saw that Yungblood and Halsey had covered it...it just  inspired the performance part of this chapter, much like their 11 Minutes...I love "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" for Adam and Mac, because of the spiritual tension and the symbolism of "an impeding dark"--which will make more sense in the upcoming chapters as Mac shares some difficult things and she and Adam struggle with the maybe-baby question...

Adam

The Kat-Parental-Copfrontation could have gone worse. Much worse.

But Mac, Leed and I are walking out with three outcomes I'm unhappy with, in ascending order:

First: our touring manager has been revealed to be a lying, manipulating asshole that has been fucking with Trace's head, and toying with the Ballards. I never liked Dawes, but now I don't want him booking me a haircut, much less a goddamn international tour. I don't give a shit who his contacts are or what the consequences, he's got to go. I can't work with somebody who doesn't have some kind of code. Apparently, Dawes will do anything to justify his desired outcome.

Second: We left Kat with the boyfriend. I know Trace doesn't trust him. We all gave Kat our best shot at an apology, but she wasn't having it. I realized it was a lost cause, trying to convince her to stay with us on tour while Trace is away. If Riley, whom she is probably most comfortable with, can't convince her to stay, then the rest of us don't stand a chance. I don't like her leaving with that Colin guy, but it's not my call, nor anyone else's here. Trace has a fucking deep hole to climb out of there, and he's the one that has to do the work.

But third and worst: Mac is crying again. I really hate it when she cries.

We're back in my suite now, and Leed is pouring Mac tequila to calm her down.

"Mac,take a sip, get a grip," he's pushing a tumbler with three mini-bottles in her hand. Mac a takes a sip automatically, and I can't help it, I feel a tightening in my chest. I wonder if this is going to be an issue. I've seen her drink several times in the last few days. To be fair, hell, I even offered it to her once... but if she's pregnant, surely she's going to stop drinking, right? And if so, why doesn't she just stop now?

Then I realize, drinking is so much a part of our lifestyle, that it would look very strange to the guys if Mac appeared to be refusing drinks. I watch her barely wet her lips with the tequila. She gives me a bleary teary, side-eye, and nudges my leg, sitting the glass on my thigh.

I take the tumbler from Mac's hand, take a large swallow,trying not to wince. It's ten am and my tank is still three-quarters full from last night's clubbing. I do not need a triple tequila, but in this case I'll definitely take one for Team Maybe-Baby.

Mac wets her lips with the liquor again and passes it back to me. After I take another swallow, I rise to get Mac a tissue, and accidentally on purpose leave the tequila at the other end of the coffee table. It's kind of fun, playing Operation Save-The-Maybe-Baby-From-Drowning-In-Tequila with Mac.

Or it would be, if my girl could figure out how to stop drowning in tears. I have never seen her cry so much as the last few days. I know it can't really be pregnancy hormones—not yet. It's just the stress from all of it—the maybe-baby, the Little Sister drama, Ashlynn being hurt, and Trace being MIA.

I try to soothe her, rubbing her back as I offer her the tissue.

"Shorty, we didn't create this situation with Kat. It's not your fault."

She dabs her eyes and blinks hard, trying to stop. "I know. But we all knew she was going to end up so hurt, and we did nothing."

"What could we do? Betray Trace? It was a lose-lose from the beginning, Sweetheart. All we can do is ask hope she and Trace will work it out, and that she'll see, we were all stuck in the middle."

Mac nods, wiping her eyes. "I know...it's just...she's so young, and this must be so hard for her...and Trace just broke her heart, then walked away in the night...I just keep thinking...if I were in her shoes," she looks at me with sad eyes, "I don't think I could take it."

I put my arm around her, rub her tensed shoulder gently. "I know you feel bad for Kat, but you'll never be in her shoes, Mac. Not if you stick with me. I promise."

"Never say never, young Adam," Leed says lightly. "You think when our dashing father courted our blushing young mother, he expected to be divorced...four times over? I think not. A man's road to hell is paved with rash promises and greener pastures."

Mac nods her head morosely and wipes away more tears.

"How is that fucking helpful, Leed?" I throw my arms wide.

"Oh, the words weren't meant to be helpful," he agrees, then slides the tumbler of tequila down the table like he's a goddamn saloon keeper in the wild west. "That's what the tequila is for."

He bangs on the table. "Cowgirl up, MacKenna! We've got a show to save!"

I sigh as Mac takes a sip.

Bodie drags in, takes one look at our unhappy faces and folds onto the floor. "Shit. What'd I miss?"

Leed fills him in while I rub Mac's back, and she and I do a little work—trying to find a replacement guitarist. She's not really in shape to talk to anybody, so she scrolls her contacts and shoots texts while I call the best prospects live. Between the two of us, we contact every guitarist we know, while we share the tequila, her barely tasting, me taking giant gulps while Leed isn't looking.

We don't have much luck making calls. No one is close enough to get here for a run-through for tonight. We get a few local names to call, but can't get through to any of them. I figure by the time any of them call back, it will too late.

I am able to arrange for a Nashville contact who is an excellent studio musician to hook up with us on our next stop. He says he'll work on some of our songs prior to and can probably spend a week or so and hit all the Florida gigs. So that's a save, but Thomas won't exactly bring the stage presence that Trace has—so I know we need to push for a stronger rock guitarist and keep Thomas on the back burner. I hate this kind of industry shit—asking someone to do you a favor and then turning around and walking it back when it's already put them out. I almost hope we can't find anyone better.

But tonight's show leaves us with only one option. We all know it, though none of us want to admit it. We'll have to use Kent Morris—the lead guitarist of our opening band, Narwhal.

Narwhal is a band Dawes and the label pushed on us—and they aren't working out. Their highly produced sound is Alt, but they are basically a boy band cobbled together by the label to bridge the two genres...and nobody told these cats that there is no "I" in band.

They all want to be frontmen, they are all mediocre live musicians on their instruments, and aren't really committed to improving. They are petty and jealous of each other, and mean drunks. Normally, we have a great time hanging out with our openers, but these guys bring discord everywhere they go.

Not to mention, we aren't thrilled with the way they represent us as the opening act. After their first performance opening for us, Trace, Bodie, and I tried to set up some jam sessions with them to bring them along a little. Every time we tried to practice with them, one of the asshats walked out in a snit. We were fucking shocked. No Soundcrusher has ever walked out of a practice like that. But that's the difference in a world class band and Narwhal—whom I doubt is going to survive the next eighteen months.

We all vote Bodie to head down to Kent's room and hit him up to sub for Trace. Actually, we'll need to practice, so that will mean a long ass day for Kent. I can almost guarantee he'll balk at helping us out. He's got a beef with pretty much all of us because Mac shot him down when they first came on tour. She's had to turn him down repeatedly.

Mac is known--correction was known— for fun with fanboys, but she keeps it professional with our crew...and yep, we hardly consider Narwhal more than crew.

All of us, except Bodie, have told Kent to back the fuck off Mac. Which is why we've elected Bodie to ask the favor. Leed will go as wing-man.

"You know, Mac, you might have to take one for the team here, if we can't strong-arm Kent," Bodie jokes. "Not full-on prostitute yourself, but you know...give a little slab and tickle."

"No can do, Bodie," Mac smiles at me, and nudges me with her shoulder. I push her back a little.

"Nope. We'll go acoustic with Leed on rhythm guitar before that fucker Kent touches you," I murmur, pulling her chin in and giving her a soft, small kiss.

Well, I meant for it to be small, but once I start kissing my girl, I find it hard to stop. We nibble softly at each other as Leed snorts and Bodie flips out.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...I missed more than fucking cops and car wrecks and Ballard Sister drama!" Bodie shouts, crawling over to us and planting his hands on our knees, getting right in our faces to inspect as we kiss. I push his head away with my hand, but Mac breaks the kiss with a giggle.

"Oh. Yeah. Trace won the bet. Apparently limo sex was next level for Madam," Leed says dryly. "They are official. Unbelievably, Mac says she loves him and still means it in the light of day."

Bodie jumps up and does the Running Man. "Ooooh yeah...Adam gonna get it and this time Mac ain't gonna quit it." Then he switches to pelvic thrusts and pretend bootie slaps. "Adam gonna tap it and Mac gonna slap it. Adam gonna stick it, and Mac gonna lick it..."

Wow, it's amazing how this shit is grating on me already. Leed chimes in, lazily, rubbing his stomach... "Yeah, Adam's gonna spank it raw, Mac's already ranked it...small" Leed holds his hands apart in estimation.

Bodie laughs hysterically and makes a beat-box sound with his mouth, "Mac gonna lock him down, Adam gonna knock her up."

Mac was laughing but at that she chokes on her own saliva and descends into a coughing fit. I pound her back helpfully and go off on them, mostly as a distraction to cover her alarm.

"Yeah, yeah, we're gonna fuck! A lot! Shit, what's so damn interesting about our sex life—especially to a couple of man-whores like you two? Shut the fuck up about it!" I yell, as Mac collapses her head into my lap, trying to get control of her coughing. "Jesus, you guys act like twelve year olds. Show some fucking respect."

"Relax, relax.She's your lady now, we get it," Bodie laughs. "But...come on, Adam. Can we get a grace period? Give us like a week to jerk your chain, man. It's just too rich."

"I hate you fuckers," I mumble. I pull Mac back up to a sitting position. "You ok?" She nods, her hazel eyes watering. "I hate these fuckers," I complain to her.

She pouts at me and scrapes her knuckles through my beard, clearing her throat. "They will run out of jokes in about two days," she promises me, her voice a little rough from her coughing fit.

"Not.Likely.Baby.Sister." Leed assures her, and they rise to pay Kent a visit.

"Kent's doing this shit whether he wants to or not," I call after Bodie and Leed as they leave. "Even if we have to call the label and have somebody lean on him. I'm calling Andy and we're going over to the venue with the crew now. We'll have to make big adjustments tonight." Usually, it would be Dawes who manages the crew but I don't want to talk to him right now, so I'm going to cut him out as much as possible. At least for today. Hopefully for good, once Trace gets back and we can take a band vote.

"Leed—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll get the list of brand execs from Riley on the way. I'll purr if I can, roar if I need to."

"You go, Brother!" Mac calls after him.

Mac and I are alone, for the first time in a couple of hours. But there is no time for "us"—we both know we need to get over to the venue as soon as possible. We have work to do that doesn't really involve Bodie and Leed, and it's best done before they bring Kent over.

Kent is nowhere near the guitarist that Trace is. Mac and I will have to rearrange the songs, split Trace's complex guitars solo's into synthesizer and bass solo's, and maybe even tab out some rhythm backing guitar for Leed to play, in order to bulk up Kent's sound. Honestly, I could do a better job on guitar tonight than Kent, but using Narwhal's bass player to replace me is not an option—he does a decent job with Narwhal's songs because he's learned them by rote,and whoever wrote them kept the bass lines simple, but he has no real musicianship to get him up to speed on our songs. I think he picked up a bass for the first time less than two years ago. I've never heard him improvise, or go off his repertoire. I doubt he can even read tabs.

We ride with the crew over to the venue, and talk with Andy about the adjustments we need to make. He reminds us we need to stop for food. The crew has to eat. I definitely need something to absorb the tequila. Mac surely needs to. She's been eating even less than usual these last couple of days. When means, less than nothing. I side-eye her.

I have this weird idea to test the maybe-baby's appetites.

"Burgers and fries?" I ask Mac, pointing down the busy restaurant row of fast food restaurants.

She sticks out her tongue and pretends to barf. "You've got to be kidding. Look, there's a Chipotle's, way down there. You can have your beef there, and I can eat organic."

Damn. If there's a maybe-baby in there, it's either too tiny to be directing her appetite, or it did not inherit my love for a bacon cheeseburger. Well, I'll just try again in a few days. You never know.

When we get to the venue, the crew jumps on it. Mac's synthesizers and a few guitars and bass are ready to play in half an hour. It takes Mac and I that long to sort through the small black roadie box that has Box of Tricks stenciled on it--the case that contains all the sheet music for all our songs.The five of us never need it, of course, but it's there for emergencies just like this, or if we decide to mess around with one of the many half written songs, patterns or melodies that sometimes arise out of Soundcheck. We'll sometimes make notes or put some tabs down on paper and Mac diligently files it all in there.

We pull all the songs in our set, and break them down, leaving the simplest possible guitar patterns for Kent and two easy solos, just because he'll probably get pissed off if we don't feature him. I strap on Trace's Schecter and run through the solo's while Mac puts them down on paper for Kent. Trace has never bothered to lay down anything more than tabs. The dude riffs something one time and he remembers it forever.

Mac is smiling at me, and I wink at her. After we finish with the sheet music for Kent, Mac says, "It always amazes me when I hear you play lead guitar like that. I forget how good you are. How did you end up playing bass in the band anyway?"

"Somebody had to. And Trace is a better guitarist than me, we both knew that." I grin at her.

"Maybe a little," she concedes, "but you are a better all around musician. Bass, cello,banjo, guitar, a little piano..."

"Drums, too," I add.

"You do not play drums," she purses in lips and rotates her head side to side.

I feign indignation at her lack of belief.

"Sure I do, who can't beat a damn drum?" I tell her.

They've got Bodie's kit set up now. I pick up Bodie's sticks and plant my ass on the stool, just to show off for my girl. Granted, it's been a while, but I did run the drums for a praise band back in my high school days. I do a fair job with one of our simpler songs. Mac is grinning from ear to ear, playing along on her keys. I fall apart during the drum solo, through, just as Bodie, Leed and Kent arrive.

"Whhooooaaaaaa, leave that to the professionals," Bodie laughs, immediately shoving me off his stool and flawlessly showing me up.

That ends our fun. We try to be cool and express our appreciation to Kent, but he's pissy and full of himself from the start. The rehearsal is tense; Mac and I have to make more adjustments. Leed wordlessly picks up an acoustic and strums along with the songs we practice, trying to help Kent find more confidence.

"You're gonna have to keep that for the show," I tell him quietly.

"I know," Leed says, but he's not happy about it. It really ties his hands, performance wise. He's such a show pony; he likes to stalk around the stage.

Kent complains through most of the practice that our songs "aren't fun" to play, but really what he means is they are too damn hard for him. He only wants to hit the highlights, but by sheer force of will we bully him into practicing the whole set and our signature songs twice. We are all drenched in sweat by the time we finish. I do feel a little bad for Kent, he has to turn right back around for Narwhal's soundcheck.

None of us are happy when we take it backstage. We grimly seek out Tamara. There's really no point in showering but Tamara is waiting for us all in one bathroom, with sinks full of fragrant suds, offering us cloths to towel down with. Mac strips to her bra and underwear, and voraciously wipes herself down while Tamara starts to pat her dry.

Leed gets completely naked, towels off and redresses in his stage pants, like he doesn't even give a damn that his sister is in the room. This isn't the first time, and it has always bothered me a little, but I know families are different. I wouldn't strip in front of my sisters, and my mom would have ripped into them if they had sauntered around our house in their bras and panties, but Leed and Mac have this weird hippie vibe about family nudity, or near nudity. Whatever.

However, I  feel differently about Bodie being in here and the crew sauntering past the open bathroom door, especially when Mac takes her bra off to change into her stage costume. Bodie usually does an incredibly cool job of keeping his eyes on his business when Mac is naked, but I glare at him anyway, and stomp over to the door, slamming it.

Tamara laughs. "See Lee-Lee, how everything is different between fuck-buddies and actual boyfriends and girlfriends?"

"I can see that Tamara. Seems like boyfriends are jealous assholes," he replies, while he shaves in the mirror. "If you get tired of your mysterious jealous asshole, your friendly fuckbuddy has no problem picking back up."

"Awww, that's sweet, but maybe you shouldn't hold your breath, okay, honey? I really like my new boyfriend."

Mac turns around to Tamara. "Come on girl—who is it? Tell us. Is it somebody on the tour?"

"I really would, Mac, but we decided to keep it private for a couple months, see how things go."

"Because you work together and there are all these little things that come up that make it awkward...I get that," Mac agrees and Tamara nods. "That's going to be a challenge for us, too. Don't you think so, Adam?" Mac and Tamara both turn to look at me.

"You mean like me having to watch my girlfriend stand around naked in front of other men? Yeah, I can see your point, Mac. That's going to be a little bit of a challenge for me."

Behind me, Leed and Bodie laugh.

"Jesus, baby. It's nothing they haven't seen before," Mac says to me, as Tamara slaps Mac's shiny silver corset-thingy on Mac's naked chest.

Mac adjusts her cleavage to spill over, and Tamara laces the back.

I sigh. It's true. There is no room for modesty on tour. She often strips like this backstage and it's never been an issue. It just feels different now, to me. She's mine, now—and every part of her is sacred to me. I don't like her so casually on display, like her beauty is...mundane, nothing special.

Then again, I'm not sure I love the idea of my woman flaunting her body for fame, either. I'm gonna have to work on that, too. Mac's body is part of her brand, and by extension, part of our image. I know that. Maybe some people think that's a bad thing, or a poor example for young women, or whatever, but I don't get to choose how Mac wields her power just because we said "I-love-you's."

When Bodie and I are dressed, we head to the Green Room for a bit to schmooze whatever VIP industry types Dawes has invited. There's bound to be some, New Orleans is a music hub. I get into an interesting conversation with a rep whose handling a band one from Nashville. The rep wants to know if I have a taste for producing. He thinks the band he's working with might be a good fit for my eclectic musical interests.

Soundcrush works with a producer but Trace, Mac, and I are highly involved in mixing the tracks and crafting the sound. I've never taken lead, though. It's an interesting opportunity. I tell him I'll consider it.

When Mac and Leed are finally ready, they stalk into the green room like twin gods, and the room starts to buzz with energy.

Mac looks incredible...the silver corset is paired with ripped up jeans and short silver cowgirl boots. Sparkly, dangling earrings nearly brush her bare shoulders. Her eyes sparkle to match—like they always do before a performance.

She loves this life. She was created to be a star.

Mac's eyes are only for me. She crosses the room at once, whispering in my ear. "You look hot, Preacher."

I wrap my arm around her waist. I look the same as always, but I'm glad she thinks so. "You are gorgeous. And tonight...you are also fucktastically on point ."

She lowers her eyes.

"So, I did a thing. Check my Instagram." She's playing it cool, but glowing underneath.

I dutifully pull it up. There's a picture of her, apparently taken moments ago, but she has my favorite bass strapped on. Her tagline is:

Holding my boyfriend's bass hostage for a kiss. Come and get it, Adam.

I grin. "You didn't think you should ask me first?"

Her lit up face falls. "Do you mind?"

"Of course not. I'm so fucking happy you want to tell the world."

But I do wish she had given me a little lead time.

All my sisters follow all the band accounts. There's going to be hell to pay with my family for finding out on Instagram first. No way am I telling Mac that. She doesn't think about family-first stuff like that, and it would spoil the moment for her. I pull out my phone. "Bring it in," I murmur, framing our kiss up in the shot. Our lips meet in our first official social media shot. Mac commandeers my phone and shops it a little bit—mostly hazing the background and pinking our lips a little to emphasize the kiss. She doesn't need a filter. She has Tamara.

I post it with the response:

Payment delivered, bass liberated. Let's rock, New Orleans!

Dawes steals Mac away to meet some people. He and I give each other glare-down, but Mac pats my arm in a play-nice gesture. I don't know why she likes Dawes better than the rest of us. Probably because he's more professional with her than the rest of us. He cusses us six ways to Sunday, but he treats Mac like the star of the show. He's never worked with a mixed gender band before. He's got a dirty rock star management style, and a Diva management style, I guess.

My texts are pinging already. Marcy was the first. She says to both Mac and I: Nice job on the Instagram. Play it cagey with official press. No quotes or interviews, in case we need to leverage it. Ballard sisters are going to be an image nightmare.

My sisters are already texting, in a group thread that includes my brothers-in-law, too.

Alex, my oldest sister: Wow, Instagram. Really? Mom is going to be pissed.

Janie, middle sister:, Praying for you, bro.

Her husband Peyton: Good idea J...that girl looks like she has claws and teeth.

My sister, Brett—the one that's only three years older than me: Preacher bet you like Mac's cute little boots, huh?

Her husband Tyler: Brett, I think you had a typo...you meant boobs not boots, right?

I text back: I'm screen-shotting this shit and sending it to Dad. You assholes are going to be the topic of the Sunday Sermon. Where's the love, people?

Tyler: You tell us, bro. In the limo?

Peyton: And the private jet.

Brett: I know where there won't be any lovin' for Adam...

Andrea: On the farm. Bring Mac home and she'll get put in the guest bedroom.

Andrea's husband Luke finally jumps in: Hayloft always works, though.

Janie: When ARE we meeting the famous Ms. Lawson? Don't you think it's time?

I text back: Hell no, I don't bring people I actually like around you crazies. I'm out, gotta go to work.

A round of have-a-great-show's and rock-on's follow.

If only their well-wishes had helped.

Coming off the Benz show—which was maybe our best performance to date, this show is...bad.

There's no way around it. Trace leaves too  big of a whole. Mac does her damnedest with her synthesizers, but she didn't have enough time to work up a consistent patch. She's improvising from song to song, and about halfway through the show, she looking pretty stressed, not having fun at all.

Leed's performance isn't the best either. It's been a long time since he played guitar at a show, and obviously he's focused on that, and his vocals suffer. Kent flubs a solo, but I'm able to cover it with a dirty bass jam.

The crowd isn't in it. I mean, they aren't leaving, and there is still alot of dancing and drinking and cheering—and the wasted people don't know our performance is bad—but it's not like last show-where we kept 40,000 people on their feet. I watch the way back of this open air stadium, where the lines of people on their phones in front of the beer trucks keep getting longer and longer.

I round the stage twice, giving the nod to cut two jams short, because we are losing them. I shout at Bodie to skip two songs and go ahead with Seven Minutes. Leed loses the guitar, but it's okay, Seven is a stripped down, haunting sound anyway. Mac and Leed regroup and bring it home like the pro's they are, and it reinvigorates the crowd and carries us through the encore.

When we come back out to do Little Sister as the encore, a lone, frustrated music lover screams. "WHERE'S TRACE?!?!" and the crowd picks up the chant. "Where's Trace?"

Kyle gives the finger and walks off the stage.

There's no way to give the fans what they are expecting from our biggest radio hit without a lead guitarist. Dawes is arguing with Kent off-stage, but I see it in his eyes, that fucker is not coming back.

While Leed chats the crowd, making vague excuses for Trace, and I stride off-stage. I head first to two roadies. "Find my cello...get it tuned and miked! Go!" Then over to Kent—just so I can say I tried.

"Get your ass back out there or you guys are done opening for us." They have a contract for four more shows with an option to keep them on. We won't be doing that anyway, but he didn't know that.

"Fuck it, you sell-outs are too hard to work with." Kent walks off.

"No more label decisions about our openers!" I yell at Dawes and jerk my bass off.

I stride back out and walk over to my mic.

"Hey Leed, you done making excuses for Trace?" The crowd hushes, because I hardly ever talk on stage.

"Yeah, I think it's about time to wrap this up, Adam. Where's your bass, man?" Leed makes a show of gesturing to me.

"Well, you know, I thought tonight we'd do something different for the encore. There's this song Mac really likes. Not ours. You know...that real sweet, sad song she plays all the time to torture us?"

We both turn to Mac and grin at her. It's kind of an inside joke. She's been playing that song since she was twelve years old, Leed told me. It's like some kind of therapy for her or something. We were all sick of it years ago.

"I thought you guys hated that song?"

"Nah, that's just Trace, but he's not here..." Bodie interjects on his mic, and the crowd roars.

"Can we do that...just cover a song impromptu?" Leed asks. Leed is great at playing dumb and building a little skit on-stage.

Mac leans into her mic. "Yes, dumbass." The crowd laughs and cheers. "We can play it live, no problem."

"I just don't feel right about it, though." Leed puts his hands on his hips, and turns to the crowd, then back to me. "Should we maybe...call somebody?"

"Well, if you wanna call up one of the guys that wrote it and give them a head's up...I think I have the bass player's number..."

Leed laughs. "Naw man, fuck it. Let's do this: somebody out there in the crowd do me a favor. Record it and post it #deathcab..." The crowd goes insane when he says that. Ah shit Leed, recording a cover without permission is a no-no. He did it on purpose, though. I hope those guys from DeathCab for Cutie are cool. They could make a case that Leed encouraged distribution.

Fuck it, we'll let Dawes deal with the headache.

Just then, the roadie walks out with my cello. I haven't played it in ages.

"Oohhhh, it's like that, huh?" Mac purrs into the mic.

There was a time back in college when I was a little bit punkish and went through an-impress-Mac-with-all-the-instruments-I-can-play-phase. I showed up for a booty call with my cello one night. It stayed in her dorm room until we left for LA, and we've played this song together more times that I can remember.

"Yeah, Mac." I fiddle with tuning, then, suddenly inspired, I step back up to the mic quickly, swing around and look at her, and murmur "I thought tonight, we'd do it slow and sweet—just like old times." The crowd screams and catcalls and the chant starts up: Madam, Madam, Madam...

The way she looks down at me from her platform in that moment—sweaty and gorgeous, her adrenaline pumping, those earrings shimmering as she laughs,a look of adoration on her face just for me, the crowd screaming for us, as she sings one random line of the song, "We'll hold each other soon, in the blackest of rooms..."

A moment in time, captured forever. At the end of my (hopefully long) life, I know I will still be able to see her clearly, just like this—forever young, and bleeding love with her song.

She sucks in her breath and breaks our intense stare.  She looks down at her fingers playing the opening refrain of "I Will Follow You Into The Dark."

The crowd quiets at her playing, still chanting Madam, but more like a whisper-chant now.

She gives Leed the nod to take the first verse and he sings softly, soulfully, traveling slowly with the mic to sit down beside her at the piano bench.

She takes the second verse, but she never takes her eyes off me. Their perfect harmonies and the way they soften in unison on certain words without even reading each other's expressions...it's like they've sung this song together before. Maybe they have.

Halfway through, I bring the cello in. Thank god, it's in tune...I was worried, but it's perfect and sad and sonorous, like a third voice in their harmony. Bodie gives the barest whisper of a backbeat and it's the best part of the show— Mac's voice soaring into the hushed stadium as she finishes the final chorus alone.

The cheers go on for a lot longer than we maybe deserved tonight, but we pulled it out in the end.

Several long hours later, I'm holding Mac in the dark, showered, exhausted, sated from sweet and simple lovemaking, and she says, "You saved us, tonight. The encore—that's what everyone took away. You did so good, baby."

My arm is behind her head, and I lazily trail her hairline with three fingers. "All I did was give you the space to shine, Mac. That's pretty easy to do."

We are quiet then, for awhile. I'm nearly asleep, when she says, "All those times I sang that song before, I was only feeling the sadness, thinking about the nothingness of the dark. But tonight, singing it...it was different. It was hopeful."

I smile into the dark. "Why is that, you think?"

"I'm not sure, but maybe... because of you. Maybe you make me feel like love is not just some dark descent into oblivion. Maybe...you...make me...want forever."

"I've got a half-million dollars down on forever--over there in that safe," I whisper in her ear. "You want it?"

"Shhhhh." Then, she quotes the lyrics of the song. "We are all worn down. The time for sleep is now."

And so it is. And so we do.