Ace of Hearts Ch. 07

***

Mami looks absolutely radiant in her cream colored evening gown, and I tell her so.

"Ey, Mami, que fina y elegante," I grin. She hands me her bracelet, and I clasp it around her wrist. Her long dark hair is up in a twist, and she has a lovely pearl comb in her hair. I offer her her long wool coat, and she steps into it, allowing me to drape it over her shoulders. Quite refined and elegant, indeed.

I pop open the box with the corsage I picked up for her and she gushes and gives me kisses--cheek to cheek, naturally, so she doesn't ruin her lipstick. Or make me look 'like a gigolo', as she would say.

"Gracias, macho!" she coos. She's so funny. She stands with her nose in the air and her neck outstretched like a swan. She pauses and gives me a big sniff with a devilish grin. "Oye pero tan rico tu huele!"

"You like, right? I was thinking of wearing that aftershave you like but I decided to wear the cologne you got me for my birthday, instead," I pull her in for a tight hug and she holds me, sensing that I need the extra. If nothing else, I will never fuck up my mom's love for me. I hope.

I don't mention that it's Asa's favorite scent. I'm such a mess. I miss him so much it hurts. I take a deep breath and step back.

"Ready?" I give her the best smile I can manage.

"Sí, mijo," she smiles and pats my cheek.

I open the door for her and get this shitshow on the road.

As usual, the ride into the city takes fucking forever despite how close it is, and the whole time I am sweating bullets. Mami's doing great though. She happily sings along with the music until we get to the Lincoln Tunnel where I donate what feels like half my wages in toll fare and the music cuts out.

She moves along without skipping a beat about the latest church gossip, whose daughter is marrying whose son, who is a deadbeat, who is pregnant. She has the decency to not bring up any matchmaking this soon after the breakup. The breakup with Tara, I mean. Asa and I didn't have anything to break up.

I think about Asa. I'm always thinking about Asa.

"Don't be so worried, mijo," my mom pats my leg.

"I'm not, I just hate driving in the city," I sigh.

"We're going to have a nice night, and everyone will be jealous of my handsome date," she beams. I smile.

"Weirdo," I shake my head. She laughs.

The music begins to fade back in in fits of static signaling the end of the mile and change spent 100 feet under the Hudson River.

Let the games begin. The object of the experiment is to see how many cars can occupy the exact same space at the same time without touching. Technically, I'm only a left and a right away, a couple miles, tops, but this is New York, baby; those are two miles of terror.

In case it isn't obvious, I hate driving in the city.

Being in the city though? That I love. It's brimming with life, culture and the most delicious foods.

"Ma, if I don't eat falafel I will die," I inform her. "We eatin' halal tonight!"

She laughs and rolls her eyes.

Parking isn't terrible, but costs stupid money. We stop at a Mediterranean restaurant nearby, and I indulge both my belly and my emotions in as much tzatziki sauce as I can manage. I do not propose to the elderly woman at the counter, but it is very hard. I let her know that.

When we finish, my nerves flare up again.

I count my breaths. I've given up wondering why he has this effect on me when literally nobody else ever has. He just does.

Mom loops her arm around mine, and we make our way towards the concert hall at Lincoln Center he'll be performing in.

Er, maybe.

In the center of the plaza, a broad fountain is brightly backlit by the five larger than life arched windows of the Metropolitan Opera House spanning the entire height and width of the building. It has an almost golden glow against the backdrop of NYC at night. On either side are two columned buildings housing more...Lincoln Center, I guess?

Majestic, I think the word is. I understand Mom's incessant planning now. There's a building on either side lined with columns. It looks like a modern day Roman pavilion.

My heart is pounding. I stare at the Met. This is above my pay grade. I don't think I can even afford to look at this building.

"Ese no," Mom glances around. I look to either side. She shakes her head. "Ningunos."

"How can none of these buildings be right? How many Lincoln Centers are there?"

"It's the pointy one," my mom says, paying a street vendor for her coffee. She hands me one. I juggle the coffee and the flower box.

"Did you just say the pointy one?" I stare at her. Oh no. I am not prepared for this game of Charades.

"Sí, the pointy one, 'chacho," she repeats irritably like I'm the fucking crazy one. I stare at her. I look around.

Surprise, I don't know what she's talking about.

I turn around and flag down a dude who looks nerdy enough to belong here. "Excuse me, sir! Can you please direct me to the Pointy Concert Hall?" My mother is giving me a withering look, and I'm giving Kyle or Kevin or whoever my brightest smile.

"I--" he stammers and looks to the petite brunette next to him who shrugs. He presses his lips together and shakes his head.

I look at Mom with a smug grin, "I'm assuming you have the tickets that have more information?"

"Wait, do you mean Alice Tully Hall?" the brunette blurts out.

"Yes! Alice Tully," my mom beams. It sounds like 'Toolie'.

I stare at her. "You knew the name?"

"Yeah, it's over there, across 65th. Follow signs for The Juilliard School."

Oh, we are literally going to Juilliard, okay. I definitely don't have enough money to stand here.

It takes some turning around but we arrive at our destination an embarrassingly short walk away.

Now that we're here, though, I understand why my mother described it like she did.

"Huh," I tilt my head, observing the looming triangular silhouette of the all glass and steel building. Brilliant light pours out from the floor to ceiling windows of the bottom floor. An enormous triangle seating bank made of concrete, steel and glass juts out away from the front doors, the tip pointing towards the street, giving the illusion that the corner had been sliced off the building. The concrete benches within the triangle face the entrance of the building, giving the passerby an opportunity to sit and watch people come in and out of the hall's expansive glass doors, with Broadway and the entire upper West Side at their back. It's distinctive, clean cut, and...

"Pointy," my mom gestures.

"I see that," I stare up. "I don't belong here."

"Why? Music belongs to everyone," my mother says in Spanish, and pulls me into the severe building.

There's so many people. I think I was expecting it to be all white people, but it isn't at all, and I remember the word "melting pot" from seventh grade. There do be a lot of white people, though.

We leave our coats at a fucking coat check, something I have done exactly zero times. My mom gives these strange people her wool coat. She is really vibing with this rich bitch feel. I low key hate this, but she's so delighted I can't help but smile. I expect to catch shade for my shitty jacket, but I don't, because it's New York and nobody gives a shit. Not counting Mami, of course, plenty of shade there.

An usher takes the stubs from her, hands us each a program, and takes us to our seats. He returns the ticket stubs to me instead of Mom. I look at them.

COMPLIMENTARY - FRIENDS AND FAMILY

I stare at them. "You didn't pay for these tickets."

Mami pushes me to my seat, "Por favor, I never said I paid for the tickets. Cálmate."

"I am calm. And yes, you did. Look, if you wanted to come you could have just said so," I grumble. She ignores me.

I look around at the spacious hall. It's smaller than I expected, but it doesn't mean it's not enormous and imposing. It does mean that there doesn't seem to be a bad seat in the house. We're only six rows back from the stage, and I'm beginning to worry that he'll be able to see me. I jog my leg and sip my coffee.

"Estate quieto, niño," she swats my leg, but I absolutely cannot relax no matter how many times she demands it. She doesn't really care, though, she is eagerly awaiting this entire experience.

My eyes sweep over the warm wood paneling that wraps the entire inside of the theater, the bright lights, the balconies. It's all so surreal. Is this Asa's world? I try to imagine Asa in his jeans and flannel and lazy smile, his dark pieces of hair falling out of his loose ponytail. He doesn't seem to match.

The lights dim several times prompting the audience to be quiet and Mami excitedly pinches my thigh so hard I hiss.

"Ma!"

"Ya!" she whispers, her eyes wide and glittering as the lights drop. I roll my eyes, but I have butterflies. Fuck that, I have bats. Angry and frightened bats. I jog my leg, grateful that I have an aisle seat as I watch the ensemble begin to shuffle out. According to the program, there are only seven people.

I pore over the program to match the faces to the names, trying to glean anything from the people that have spent so much time in his company. Soleil Franceso, Violin I, Marcus Anderson, Violin II, Marissa Lopez, Viola I, etc, etc.

I skim and stop lying to myself because I'm actually just searching for his name.

There it is.

Asa Joseph Hart - Violoncello I, Soloist

I am sweating so much I'm starting to hate this fucking suit jacket. Also violoncello? I thought he was playing the regular cello. Is that the same as a regular cello? This all makes me feel so stupid.

When I look up, Asa is there adjusting his music stand and chair, broad shouldered and stunning.

His dark hair gleams obsidian under the lights, slicked back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck highlighting the sharp angles of his cheeks, nose, his jaw. It gives him a decidedly indigenous look. He's grown out his sideburns. My mouth is watering. His tuxedo shirt is open at the collar to just below his collarbone, revealing his bare throat and corded neck. His black suit jacket streamlines his build with narrow lapels. He has no bow tie. I make a little whining sound.

It doesn't matter how many times I see him. Each time is like the first.

I check to see if I'm drooling. I'm not.

He leans over his chair, one hand on the neck of his cello, one in the pocket of his slacks. I sweep my gaze over him, and find myself breathless. Mom laces her fingers with mine, and I clear my throat. She pats the back of my hand. I'm afraid to look at her.

Everyone is tuning, but Asa is flipping through his music. I smile a little. He told me that he thought tuning on stage was a stupid and unnecessary ritual. No, he didn't say stupid. He said it was silly. He never calls anything stupid.

He sits, resting the cello between his legs, and at that moment he looks up abruptly in my direction.

Shit, can he see me? Isn't it too bright?

The light catches his eyes, turning the warm swirling amber of wildflower honey into a blazing gold. The corner of his mouth hooks into a crooked smile, dimples deepening as it spreads across his face slowly and sweetly. My eyes burn and I huff out a wet, breathy laugh. His smile grows.

He is looking at me--and smiling. Something in my chest catches and releases.

I almost get up before I remember myself. I squeeze Mom's hand and she squeezes back. I am...weirdly grateful that she's here.

They begin with a sudden unified sound that fills the theater and rocks my fucking socks off. That shit is loud. And fucking amazing. They are in sync without a conductor and it's incredible to watch.

They all have varying expressions of intensity, ranging from focused to almost angry looking. Every musician I've ever seen does it, but somehow it's more jarring behind a violin than an electric guitar.

It's his face, however, that captures my attention. His expressions of pure bliss as he immerses himself into the music, how he tilts his head this way and that, the way a smile will blossom during seemingly random moments. How the tip of his tongue just barely touches his top teeth when he's concentrating. When his brows furrow and his lips part because the bow is blurring over the strings.

He's so fucking talented. Like, I knew that in my head, but seeing him actually play, I've never seen anything like it.

They play Bach, Handel, and Haydn according to the damp wad of papers in my clammy hands. I've pinned my hands between my knees in an effort to keep myself still, because I want to leap onto the stage and wrap him in my arms.

He has to take me back. He has to.

During the quiet stretches between pieces, as they all shuffle their papers, and adjust their instruments, Asa looks for me. Every time he finds me his grin is so broad he could light the room. Every time it makes me smile until my cheeks hurt.

Eventually, after about an hour and change, intermission comes, and I wander out with Mom to help her find the bathroom and to use it myself. We get drinks, rosé for mom and a beer for me.

"Que linda la música, eh?" Mom toasts.

"Very beautiful music," I agree and clink glasses.

"Que lindos son los vestidos," she gushes.

I nod absently, "Very beautiful dresses."

"Que lindo luce el teatro," she continues, but I'm only half listening at this point.

"Very beautiful theater," I respond automatically, and sip my glass trying to figure out exactly what I'm going to say to him.

"Y que lindo me parece Asa," she chirps.

"Asa is fucking beautiful," I murmur, shaking my head with a smile; thinking about the way Asa looked at me from the stage. It flips my stomach, and I feel the heat rise to my che--

Hold up.

I blink. Slowly, my attention drifts to my mother's face, who is searching mine with a smile of her own, with something like satisfaction. She holds my wide eyed gaze.

I'm afraid. I don't say another word.

Mami reaches for my face and pats my cheek, and doesn't even get on me about my language, "Te quiero. Let's go back."

I swallow hard and nod.

I love you, too, Ma.

I loop arms with her again, squeeze her arm, and we settle back in our seats for the rest of the concert.

When we return, there's only two chairs and a piano on the stage. I worry that I have to wait another hour before seeing his face, but when the lights dim, the three people that come onto the stage are an asian woman in a red gown with a violin, a severe looking young white guy with orange hair and flappy coattails, and Asa. My Asa. He looks for me. I laugh and wipe my eyes.

It's all I seem to fucking do anymore. I'm so tired of being so damn emotional all the time.

There are two different songs left, but it almost looks like an outline once it's broken down into movements. I try to recall all the things Asa has told me.

The first piece is Tchaikovsky. It sounds much different than what I expected. Sometimes it's like the violin and cello are having a conversation, back and forth, sometimes it reminds me of an argument. Then sometimes it's like a duel between the strings and the piano. They come together in time, and begin the chase again. It's wild. The musicians lean into each other. They move like the instruments play them instead of the other way around. They speed up and intensify and then soften. It's mesmerizing. I can see why he likes it.

Eventually, because every classical song is like an entire episode of Game of Thrones, they finish and the three of them bow. We in the audience holler. As in me, the audience is me.

Mom slaps my arm, but I can see Asa's quiet laugh from here and that's all I care about. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

Red Dress bows with her violin and walks off the stage, leaving Asa and Mean Mug behind.

They adjust themselves and their music. Someone comes, takes the music stand and chair belonging to the violinist, and brings it off stage. Asa stands and clears his throat.

"Good evening, and thank you for coming this evening. In your program, you'll see that the next piece to be played is the famous Bach Cello Suite number one, however," Asa glances back at the mean muggin' pianist who gives him the thumbs up. I guess he just looks like that. "There's been a change of plans."

A small murmur ripples through the crowd, but he flashes his million dollar grin. I have to make this right.

"Don't worry," he laughs in that deep rich voice of his. I'm grinning like a fool. "Nothing too different. We won't cover Jay-Z until next week."

The audience laughs, charmed. Corny as hell, but that's Asa for you.

"Instead, Anthony and I will be playing for you the last major composition of Frederic Chopin; Cello Sonata in G minor, opus 65," he smiles. He spares me a glance and his smile widens, before giving the audience a quick nod and short bow.

"I like Chopin," I muse to my mother.

"I know, mi baby," she pats my hand. I swing my head to her again. Acting like she really does know who put the ram in the ramalamadingdong.

"Why do you know? Who told you?" I arch a brow. She shushes me and nods to the stage. I sigh and watch.

Is this on my behalf?

No. Nah.

I flash mom a quick look, but she's watching the concert.

Asa looks at me one more time.

This is for me, I realize.

I recognize it, Asa's played it for me before. Not on the cello like this, I've never seen him play his cello before tonight, we haven't had a chance. That hits me in the gut.

I can't bear watching him any longer. I need the concert to end. I've missed him so fucking much, I can't stand another fucking day of standing in the same room as him but on the other side, always out of reach.

As they approach the finale, all my hair is standing on end and my face is wet with tears. My mom hands me a tissue wordlessly. They bow, and the audience stands emphatically clapping. The other musicians return to the stage and everyone bows once more before leaving the stage.

Soon.

The house lights come up and the shuffle out of the theater begins. My skin feels electric and I'm sweating holding the flower box with my suit jacket draped over my arm. Mom is gushing, but I'm not listening.

I'm counting down the minutes until I see him.

We collect our coats. There's so many people between me and him. I need to find him. My chest is tight and I'm overwarm and I'm constantly scanning, looking for him over the sea of bodies. By the time we reach the lobby, I'm starting to worry that he's already left.

The familiar scent of his cologne hits me. I whirl around.

He's heading right towards us. I can hear my blood rushing in my ears.

"Doña Milagros! You made it! Muy bonita," he beams, flexing his language skills in his heavy American accent. I break into a grin.

My mom squeezes him and kisses his face and tells him how amazing he was and how much she loved the performance and how she'll come to every show and he has to come over and play his cello for her and he laughs and promises he will do anything if it means he can eat her cooking.

He looks at me and smiles.

I look at him and shift my weight from foot to foot.

My mother looks at us both and excuses herself to the ladies room. What a con artist.

"You look..." he rakes his eyes up and down my body and flushes red with a grin. I'm immediately hot under his gaze.

"Amazing," he finishes.

I moisten my lips. "I, uh, got you these."

I offer him the long box and he opens it, a dozen long stemmed red roses neatly tucked inside with the little green tubes of water at their ends.

"You brought me roses?" he exclaims and brings the box to his nose. The red petals complement his skin. His eyes are bright when he looks back at me and I can't help but smile at the way his face transforms. "You're really here."

I swallow hard. "Yeah. I am."