“They won’t like it,” Micah says. “I’ll just play a classic.”
I purse my lips at him. “Why would they not like it?”
“Because… Because…” He gives me a pleading look. “I haven’t practiced it enough.”
I know that’s not true. He’s been practicing during every free moment since he asked me about performing his original piece, and the first time I’d gotten to hear it, I’d been swept away by the soft, haunting music.
“And maybe it’s too sad-sounding for the restaurant,” he adds. “I can come up with something better, something more upbeat.”
“These people don’t want upbeat,” I point out. “They are here for romantic evening. Or business deals. I think your music is good.”
He takes a deep breath, biting his bottom lip. He meets my eyes. “Do you really think so?” he asks, and there’s a weight to the question that lets me know he’s still thinking about what that pig said about his music.
“I do,” I say confidently. “I would not ruin my business, not even for a face as pretty as yours.” I lean in and brush my lips against his. “It’s a very tempting face, though.”
Micah smiles against my mouth, and he wraps his arms around me. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Then I’ll do my best. I’ll make you proud.” He pauses, then asks, “Are you going to be there?” He smiles weakly. “I’m not sure if that’ll make it better or worse. I’ve never really had stage fright before, but I think I have a little bit of it right now.”
“Of course,” I promise. “I can pretend to be working, but mostly I want to hear you.”
I should probably go check on the gambling hall, but Boris has it all in check and his updates satisfy me.
After the shit with Artyom, I should keep a closer eye on my business.
Everybody in Russia would scoff at me. Boris is already getting antsy about my terrible work ethic these past few days. But I don’t care about the business as much as I care about Micah.
“You’ve already heard that piece so much thatyoucould probably perform it,” he says. He kisses me again, then takes a reluctant step back. “Okay. I can do this.”
“You can,” I agree, smiling.
I gently direct him toward the mini stage, where his cello is already waiting. A few of the diners glance up at him, but most of them continue their regular conversation.
This is a horrible stage for Micah.
He deserves to play where everybody is listening with rapt attention. A concert hall, with him center stage, where they’ll clap and cheer for him when he’s done playing his pieces.
Micah steps onto the stage, and he sits down before taking the cello from its case with as much care as he might show a newborn. Without preamble, he begins playing a familiar piece. It isn’thispiece, but I assume he needs to warm up.
I hope he hasn’t lost his nerve so quickly.
When he looks at me, I nod to him, gesturing for him to continue.
He smiles faintly, and this time, the opening notes of the piece he’d composed fill the air.
It’s a beautiful piece, sad and hopeful at the same time. It makes me think of my first day in New Bristol, five short years ago, when the oppressive air that weighed down on me was finally lifted.
Even my father’s funeral hadn’t given me as much hope as that first step on American soil.
Some of the patrons stop their conversation to pay attention to him, but as before, most are too absorbed in their own conversation to even care what piece he’s playing. They don’t understand how monumental this is.
They don’t understand that they are getting to hear a piece of his soul.
When the music draws to a close, Micah looks up at me, and I realize he’s blinking back tears even as he smiles at me.
One of the patrons that had stopped speaking to listen to his performance gets Taka’s attention, handing him something.
Micah had mentioned that he’d gotten tips on a few occasions, and I hope this one is worthy of his soul-baring composition. He pauses to take a few sips of water before easing into another piece, this time something I’ve heard him play on multiple occasions.
It doesn’t lack heart, exactly, but I can tell it isn’this.
