Page 22 of Drawn to You
Mason drives us west on Hollywood for about fifteen minutes and turns into the parking of a bar, saying he used to sing here before he became famous.
The funny thing is, the bar’s name is Almost Famous. I wonder how many of its visitors have become famous.
Perhaps it isn’t late enough, or because it’s a weekday, there aren’t that many people inside. We sit down at a table close to the stage. The servers and bartenders are all tall and gorgeous. I guess these are people who dream of becoming famous in Hollywood.
Obviously, Mason’s a regular customer, even though he’s already famous. The waiter beams at him, and they exchange a high five. “Hey, Mason. How’s it going?”
“Not bad. What’s new with you?”
After we sit down at a table, I look around and see posters of Mason on the walls.
“Do you own this place?” Darrell asks.
“I wish,” Mason chuckles. “I hung out here often when I first came to Hollywood.”
That makes sense. Mason’s earliest music videos on YouTube have been recorded at a bar with a dark background. His debut song, “Until After Tomorrow,” was such a hit that everyone in the school I went to knew how to sing it.Tomorrow isn’t enough, baby. Let’s wait until the day after tomorrow.I still recall the famous line of lyrics.
“Why did you name the song Until After Tomorrow?” I ask Mason. I wondered about it in the past.
He shrugs. “I get that a lot. The truth is I don’t even know why. It just felt right at the moment I wrote it. Until tomorrow seemed banal. After tomorrow just sounded better.”
“Much better,” Darrell chimes in. “After tomorrow feels like procrastination. You know? It shows you don’t want the love to end, even though it’ll have to.”
Mason gives Darrell a thumbs-up. “You got it!”
Mason and Darrell each order a beer, and I ask for a Coke. I can’t drink alcohol because it makes me throw up.
After he’s done with his beer, Masons stands up and walks to the piano. He starts with playing the song Careless Whisper, and then he sings. Darrell hums along, smiling as his eyes are glued on the man as he sings, and his eyes are filled with admiration. Mason is such a good singer. I can’t even tell the difference between what I hear with the original version by George Michael.
The bar is hushed when he finishes. I look around and notice a few customers recording or taking pictures of him. I make a mental note to ask Darrell to take a picture of Mason and me later so I can send it to Dana. I told her about the singer the other day, and she wanted to know how he looked now.
“He sings beautifully,” Darrell says, holding his hands in front of his chest.
“Are you a musician too?” I ask.
“Yes, I am!” He chuckles. “I don’t sing well, but I’m a good drummer.”
Darrell tells me about his garage band and shows me a website where I can download their songs. They’ve made a few CDs in the past but haven’t gotten enough public attention yet.
And then I hear Mason’s voice singing the song he wrote for me, and my heart flutters again.
His eyes seldom leave me when he sings. Oh my God. I feel my cheeks flushed, and I don’t really hear the rest. Darrell wriggles his eyebrows at me. “I think he likes you!”
I stammer, “I… don’t think so. He’s just eccentric, you know?” I repeat what I said to Jennifer earlier.
But my stomach is full of butterflies. I don’t know what I did to deserve all this. I’ve only known Mason briefly. But then again, Mason is famous for this kind of quick affairs with non-celebrities. I recall a few names that appeared on People magazine before. And then I imagine a headline stating, “Mason Mayer’s New Favorite: Brittney from Central California!” Holy shit. This is crazy.
Mason sings a few more songs, including his Until After Tomorrow, before we leave the bar.
On our way to the gym parking, Mason offers to take Darrell to his house to give him some career advice in the music industry. Darrell accepts it without hesitation. After dropping me off at the gym’s parking, I say goodbye to them. Mason is weird, and he gives me goosebumps, especially when he fixes his eyes on me. But I have to confess I like him. He feels down to earth, not like a stuck-up Hollywood celebrity that media portrays him.
I hum the tune ofBrittneyon my way home. By the time I get to front door, it’s nine. The living room light is on. The door is open, and Andrew is standing there waiting for me.
“Hi, Andrew!”
He glances at me with a mixture of expressions.
“Where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer my call?”
