“I lost everything, yet I still have something. I have passion. I have the beat in my soul to carry on and the strings in my heart to play it forward. The Juliette Academy is more than a building on Rivington. It is a place of love.
“Isn’t that why we’re here today? It’s not to get dressed up or drink and dance. There are children out there who have lost more than I have. Many will grow up and realize we live in a cruel, harsh world. Yet if we can give them an ounce of the passion and feeling and love we have to offer . . . well, we may be able to save them.” I smile at the thought. “And we may, just may, be able to save ourselves.”
The audience around me begins to clap and a few people rise to their feet and then a few more and a couple more. Soon, the entire room is on its feet, applauding for me. I say a quick thanks and depart the podium quickly. On my way to my table, I glance over at Asher’s table and notice that he’s not there.
I guess I should be used to him disappearing on me.
My taxi pulls up to the curb of my Mott Street apartment. The night was long and my feet are hurting. After my speech, we enjoyed a delicious dinner and then we danced until the event was over. I decided dancing with Crystal and Lisa was the best way to keep from having to answer their questions about Asher.
Asher—who, by the way, never came back. I saw Frank looking for him a few times and I can’t deny I glanced around, but to no avail. He did what he does best. He left.
I pay the cabbie and get out of the cab. I see the familiar figure of a man, huddled in the doorway, and I worry about poor Mattie, who must be freezing in the early December chill. It isn’t as cold as some of my Ohio nights, but it’s not the kind you want to be locked out of your apartment on.
But when he raises his head, I see it is not who I thought it was.
Asher stands up, brushing the gravel off his pant legs. He is still wearing his tuxedo. His bow tie is undone and hanging around his neck. Other than that, he still looks as perfect as he did when I last saw him a few hours ago.
I stop in my place by the curb and approach him tentatively. “What are you doing here?”
Asher’s eyes are sullen and leaden with emotion. He takes a deep breath and when he lets it out I start to hold my own. “My name is Alexander Gutierrez. My mother was Juliette Asher and my father was John Gutierrez—”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, Emma, I do. You asked for something real.” He holds out his hands to the side, open as in offering. “This is me. This is real.”
“Okay.” I pull my coat in, protecting myself from the evening chill. “Go on.”
Asher takes a beat to start, as if the weight of his words are hard to lift off his tongue. His red-rimmed eyes look deep into mine and I know what he is about to say is going to be potent with meaning.
“When I was ten years old, my parents took me to a hockey game. The roads were a mess. We had no business being out that night but they wanted to take me for my birthday. It was the first game I’d ever been to. It was also my last. Our car rolled off an embankment. My parents, they were both crushed on the impact. We were in the middle of nowhere and we didn’t have cell phones. There was no one to call for help.
My hand rises to my mouth as I let out a gasp. I don’t say a word, though. I let him speak.
“I watched my parents die in that car. My father died first. My mother tried to fight but she eventually lost. I sat in the back seat for five hours, staring at them, hoping they’d wake up but they never did.”
Asher takes a step toward me, his eyes wide and red, the beautiful gold gone. In its place is sheer sorrow. “My grandfather hated my father. When I came to live with him, he told me I was no longer my father’s son. I was an Asher now. He didn’t even call me by my first name because it was my father’s name as well. Instead, he called me Sunny. Said it was my hair.”