14. Bryce
FOURTEEN
brYCE
I stare at myself in the mirror, adjusting my collar. This is ridiculous. I don’t belong at the opera. Not in this get up. Not in that world. I’ve only ever worn this monkey suit to weddings and funerals. But Emerson insisted. Well, more like asked politely. How could I say no?
Bobo is lying on the floor, staring up at me like he knows I’m about to do something dumb. “What do you think?” I ask, smoothing out the wrinkles in the shirt that’s choking me. “Do I look handsome?”
He yawns, his eyes half-closed, and one of his cute little yelps comes out before he rolls over.
I sigh. “Yeah, I don’t enjoy dressing up either.”
The butterflies in my stomach are doing a full-on chorus line. It’s just the opera, right? A fancy show where people spend a lot to dress up and watch people sing in German. Or Italian. French? I need my cheat sheet from selling subscriptions in the basement.
I was planning on giving the tickets to Emerson, anyway.
A little thank you for helping with Bobo the other day.
I figured he would take a friend. Maybe someone from work.
Or a guy if he’s seeing someone. The last thing I expected was for him to ask me.
But here I am, in a suit, without a bride or dead person in sight.
Then the bathroom door opens, and Emerson steps out.
My breath catches.
Holy shit.
He’s wearing a suit I’ve yet to see him in, dark with a bowtie.
He’s like something straight out of a black-and-white movie.
Almost like a tuxedo, but not quite. Nothing like the khakis and blazer he wears to teach.
It’s cut perfectly, and the way it fits him, with his biceps stretching the sleeves, makes it clear that all that farm work in his youth continues to yield rewards.
Knots tie in my stomach as he walks toward me.
“You look …”
He grins, his eyes bright. “Is this okay?”
“Okay?” I laugh, though it comes out a little strained. “You look like you’re about to break some hearts.”
He just shrugs. He clearly doesn’t realize how effortlessly handsome he is. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he says, giving me a once-over. He smiles, and there goes my stomach doing somersaults again. “Are you ready?”
I look down at myself again, at the stuffy suit that seems more like a costume than anything. “I guess so,” I mutter.
I walk to the door, trying to shake off the awkwardness that’s been hanging over me like a cloud. Bobo opens an eye as I pass, his eyes full of adoration even when he’s half asleep.
“We’ll be back soon,” I tell him, giving him a pat on the head. “Be a good boy.”
The lobby of the Met is even more ostentatious than I imagined.
A far cry from the basement, that’s for sure.
It’s so goddamn glamorous it feels like I’m stepping into a movie.
Marble floors gleam under the soft golden light of the chandeliers, and everything seems so polished, so perfect.
So expensive. I guess this is why they need us to beg for all those donations.
There’s a huge grand staircase spiraling upward, and walls lined with beautiful paintings I’ve never seen.
People are mingling in tuxedos and gowns, and here I am, just hoping I don’t accidentally step on someone’s heel or spill anything on my suit.
As long as I’ve worked here, I’ve never been in this part of the building.
They don’t let us peasants out of the dungeon, and even with the offer of free tickets, I’ve never thought about actually attending.
Not until now. This is the world of the rich, of people who have more than thirty-three dollars and forty-two cents in their checking account.
Nobody here is sleeping on the sofa of the apartment that their ex sublet from under them.
These people know how to move, how to talk.
They belong here. I’m an outsider. A fraud.
They all probably can tell I don’t fit in.
“You okay?” Emerson asks, noticing how I’m staring around at everything, wide-eyed, like a fish out of water.
“Yeah, yeah. Just …” I shrug. “This place is … a lot.”
He gives me a calm smile. “It’s impressive, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out more like a question than a statement.
We stand there for a second, taking it all in. I’m clearly out of my depth, but I’m here now, with Emerson, in this ridiculously expensive place, and part of me is excited about what we’re about to experience.
The lights in the opera house flicker. Emerson nudges me gently, his voice low, and a little amused. “We should probably take our seats.”
After a kind usher helps us, I glance around at the not-so-great view we’ve got.
It’s not like we’re front and center or anything, but at least we’re not in the nosebleeds.
The seats were free, and as Emerson’s fond of reminding me, free is good.
I sink into the plush fabric, trying to acclimate myself to the theater and people surrounding us.
I feel underdressed, but Emerson doesn’t seem to care.
He’s clearly in his element here, which is both comforting and a little intimidating.
As the lights finally go down and the orchestra begins tuning, Emerson leans over and whispers, “ Turandot is one of Puccini’s most famous operas.”
I turn to him, still trying to adjust to the dimness, and he’s watching the stage intently. There’s something about his excitement that’s contagious, like he’s inviting me into this world with him.
“It’s Italian. They have these translation screens …
” He points to the small screens in the seats in front of us.
“But we don’t need them.” He presses a button, and the screen fades to black.
“It’s way more immersive without staring at a screen all night, and you can follow the story without really understanding what they’re saying.
” His eyes twinkle as he speaks. “So, the story … It revolves around a princess named Turandot. She’s impossible to get close to. ”
“Sounds like most of my boyfriends.”
Emerson grips his program, rolling it and tapping the tube with his thumb as he speaks. “Well, she initiates this deadly challenge where suitors must answer three riddles or die.”
“Okay, maybe not so much. Although, that could be useful.”
“And the main guy, Calaf, comes in and falls for her. He wants to win her heart.”
I nod, trying to catch a spark of his enthusiasm. He makes me want to understand, to get it, be a part of this world with him.
He reaches up and adjusts his hearing aid. “There’s a setting that pipes the sound right to my hearing aid. Pretty cool, right?”
“Really? That’s handy.”
“Yeah, one of the few benefits.”
The curtain rises, and he shifts his attention to the stage.
He’s so damn excited, like a kid in a candy store.
I try to tap into his passion as I settle in for the performance.
The stage is massive. It’s way bigger than any Broadway stage I’ve seen.
They could hold the Super Bowl halftime show on this thing.
Music fills the air, rich and sweeping, and I find myself leaning forward, caught up in the drama of it all.
My eyes stay fixed on the stage as the performers belt out their lines, their voices so powerful and the acoustics so perfect that the sound envelops the entire space.
And Emerson was right. Even without understanding Italian, I can sense their emotions and the tension building between the characters.
And somehow, sitting here beside him, watching his infectious enjoyment, transforms something I never considered doing into an astounding experience.
By the time the curtain falls for intermission, I’m a little dazed at how much I’m enjoying myself.
Am I into opera now? With all the plot twists in my life lately, that was one I didn’t see coming.
Emerson clicks something on his hearing aid and then nudges me as people start shuffling out of their seats.
“Let’s get a drink,” he says.
“Oh, I’m not thirsty.”
“You got the tickets.” He puts a hand on my leg, and a current of electricity shoots up through it and into my spine. “My treat.”
“Yeah, sure. Okay.”
I stand near the banister, staring out the massive windows. It’s like the churning chaos of the city outside doesn’t dare pierce these hallowed halls. In here, bathed in culture, the gaudy rich folks are immune to it. I take out my phone and snap a quick selfie for Portia.
Emerson appears, holding two flutes of champagne. When he hands me one, his fingers brush mine, but I try not to read too much into it. Maybe it’s the fancy clothes, or the opera, or being on what appears to be a date, but the air between us seems thicker.
As we descend the stairs and approach the glass, the fountain outside serves as a stunning backdrop while Emerson, brimming with excitement, recounts the first act.
“It’s just … incredible, right?” he says, practically glowing with enthusiasm. “Puccini’s music is so rich—every note resonates. The emotions are right there in the strings. You can feel everything he intended. It’s … It’s …”
“Magic.”
“Exactly. That …” He motions to the theater. “That’s magic.”
When the lights flash, we finish our drinks and return to our seats. As the lights dim again and the final act begins, I brace myself for the finale. When the tenor steps forward, and the music swells, my eyes widen. “Nessun Dorma.” I’ve heard this song before.
Before each shift down in the basement, Courtney, our manager, shares little facts and snippets about opera.
It’s meant to help us sell tickets and secure donations from people, but mostly, we just zone out on our phones.
Yet, there was this one time she played an old video from the Grammys.
Pavarotti was scheduled to perform but got sick and had to cancel at the last minute.
Instead of scrapping the song, the ultimate soul diva icon herself, Aretha Franklin, stepped in.
There, in front of all those famous singers, Aretha belted out this operatic piece in Italian.
There’s a part at the end where the music and her voice soar, and it’s fucking transformative.
Just like Ms. Celine Dion, who was in the audience, we were all in shock.
She received a coveted standing ovation—at the Grammys and in our dingy basement workspace.
I may have watched that video a few times at home.
As the tenor’s voice rises, something twists inside me.
His raw emotion hits me like a train. Everything I’ve been feeling—being dumped, almost homeless, the opera, the connection with Emerson, the strange vulnerability I’m not used to showing—comes to the surface.
My breath catches, and before I know it, I’m crying.
Not a few tears, but waterworks. I don’t even realize it until Emerson’ s hand gently wraps around mine, squeezing it in a quiet, understanding way that makes the tears flow even harder.
Grounded by his touch, I grip back. When I glance at him, and his gaze meets mine, we share a silent understanding about the power of what we’re experiencing. Thanks, Mr. Puccini.
When the last notes of “Nessun Dorma” fill the space, the entire audience seems to hold its breath, and my chest tightens until the thunderous applause erupts.
I clap along with them, taking it all in, unsure how to process what Turandot has done to me.
I know I’m not the same Bryce Derrickson who walked into the Met a few hours ago.
It’s like the opera cracked me wide open, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to put myself back together the same way.
And maybe that’s a good thing. Again, grazie, Mr. Puccini.
As the applause simmers down, I turn to Emerson, my heart still racing.
I open my mouth to say something intelligent or profound, but nothing comes out.
Maybe I can ask him what he thought. But before words leave my lips, he’s leaning toward me, his eyes shining with something new. Something I can’t quite place.
And then, without warning, he kisses me.
The audience’s focus returns to the action on stage while my pulse revs up to a manic pace.
Emerson’s lips are on mine. And not in a “you’re dying so here’s mouth-to-mouth” way.
This is most definitely a kiss. He’s a gentleman; there’s no tongue, but he’s wrapped his fingers around the back of my head, holding me in place, and I’m more than happy to stay right here in these less-than-perfect seats and let this perfect moment last forever.
I lean into him, letting the kiss deepen, the warmth of it spreading from my mouth through my entire body.
Feeling brazen, I slip him my tongue, and he releases the faintest moan.
Yeah, kissing Emerson in the Met might be my new favorite thing to do.
It’s like we’ve been transported into our own little world where everything falls away, and it’s just the two of us—and the three thousand eight hundred patrons in the packed house.
When he finally pulls back, my mind races with what to say, a massive smile plastered on my face.
“I guess opera really is … magical,” I whisper.
Emerson grins, his fingers still laced with mine. “It really is.”