Symphony of Salvation

Timber Creek Academy

Nicky James

Symphony of Salvation

Copyright © 2024 by Nicky James

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Artist:

Natasha Snow Designs

Cover Model Provided by

Wander Aguiar

Editing:

Keir Editing and Writing Service

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.

Contents

Note to Readers

Dedication

1. Niles

2. August

3. Niles

4. August

5. Niles

6. August

7. Niles

8. Niles

9. August

10. Niles

11. August

12. Niles

13. August

14. August

15. Niles

16. Niles

17. Niles

18. Niles

19. August

20. August

21. Niles

22. August

23. Niles

24. Niles

25. August

26. Niles

27. August

28. Niles

29. Niles

30. August

Epilogue

Have you read...

Dear Readers

More by Nicky James

About the Author

Note to Readers

For a complete list of trigger warnings for this or any of my books, please visit my website.

Dedication

To my high school music teacher who taught me ambition and dedication. I didn't follow my dream of becoming a music teacher, but the passion still lives in my heart.

And to my dearest Auggie Doggie. Your name alone inspired me to write August. I love your furry face.

Chapter one

Niles

It started with a ubiquitous high F. Its unwavering, resonant tone commanded the attention of over two thousand theater patrons, who hushed in their seats and shifted their attention forward.

The show had begun.

The single, stunning note hung suspended long past its culmination, leaving an auditory imprint behind. Such wonderous moments often surfaced poignant images in my imagination, transporting me to faraway vistas. On that cool early December evening, I landed pleasantly in a forest of fragrant evergreens. Spring flowers in full bloom. A bee rested on a delicate petal, sucking sweet nectar from its middle. A babbling brook. The air warm against my cheeks. Lovers lying in a muddle of blankets, flushed from exertion, their picnic forgotten.

I closed my eyes and let the waves of beauty, drawn from a particular tone on a French horn, unfold.

Music had the power to flay me, leaving me raw and emotional. Exposed. Unprotected. I was at its mercy. Always. Since the day I heard my first concerto at the tender age of ten, in a long-ago doctor’s office, as I nervously awaited a booster shot and my mother paged through a weathered copy of Chatelaine, my life acquired meaning. Any choice of a future had been taken away. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it a vocation. I knew then music would be a crucial part of my life.

Although fleeting, the moment with the French horn felt as though it extended for eons. One note and I was unmoored, drifting on a timeless journey. At peace. Lost, yet in no rush to be found. Then, out of the deepest, darkest depths of the forest came the steady heartbeat drum of the timpani. It spoke with a resounding pulse, marking the rebirth of the world, calling to every animal, every insect, and every reptile to emerge from slumber and rejoice.

I opened my eyes and let the resplendent eruption of symphonic wonder encapsulate me.

The grand theater vanished, dimming in my periphery. The musicians, swathed in brilliant white light and uniformly dressed in their penguin attire, performed spectacularly. Hypnotically.

Visiting Roy Thompson Hall and seeing the Toronto Symphony Orchestra was a treat, but it brought both boundless joy and tremendous pain. Envy wrapped her fingers around my heart, tugging with enough force to remind me of what I’d failed to achieve.

Ambition hadn’t been enough. Infinite desire turned out to be irrelevant.

Life was malleable to a point, but commanding fate or destiny or providence wasn’t possible, and if I believed in such intervention, god didn’t see me fit for the stage.

Sometimes, our biggest dreams weren’t to be realized.

The stage and players blurred as I swallowed a lump of familiar shame and blinked heavily a few times to clear the sting of regret. This should have been my life. Why had I given up?

Flutes, flittering and trilling birds, took a turn while the oboes snuck up behind them, bounding grasshoppers disturbing the brush. Before long, they too were chased off by a chorus of trumpets, leaping playful foxes, chasing each other along the embankment by the stream. The violins danced and swooped, butterflies catching the air current. The trombones stretched and pinged, bullfrogs lazing in the long grass. The forest was alive. Riotous. Stupendous.

My mind conjured spring despite the flurries that had been falling before our arrival. It was a time of year I enjoyed, so it made sense I should land there in reverie.

With the approaching holiday, the evening’s performance was titled A Christmas Fusion, with highlights from Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, Handel’s Messiah, Vivaldi’s “Winter,” Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, and several more iconic masterpieces to adequately mark the season.

A crescendo.

Tension.

Anticipation.

I held my breath as the aria’s sheer perfection held me cradled in her arms like a lover.

Climbing. Building. Growing. Swelling.

It abruptly stopped. The soundless pause was its own music, perfectly orchestrated to becharm an audience. Not a single person present would dare to disturb it.

The imprint, the echoes of the chase and rebirth, remained, suspending the moment as though time had ceased.

The lights on the orchestra dimmed as a single, radiant spotlight bloomed at the corner of the stage, revealing a young woman who was barely a woman at all. A girl, really. Fine-boned and sylphlike, she wore her flaxen hair down. It spilled in rippling waves to the middle of her back, glossy and angelic. Spine straight, her fingers moved over the ivories of a sleek grand piano. Fairies dancing. Elves scavenging. First one, then many, until the forest was riddled with mystical creatures.

In a shimmering black dress that exposed her pale arms and accentuated her lack of womanly curves, the girl could have been mistaken for a child of twelve. She was petite, as delicate as the notes filling the auditorium. A wonder in and of herself.

But fourteen-year-old Constantina Castellanos was not a child, and if her biography in the playbill was to be believed, she had not been a child for a long time. She’d spent a lifetime on stage, studying, performing, and dedicating her entire existence to music. With two professional musicians as parents, it was hardly surprising.

Koa bumped my arm and leaned against my side; his mouth close enough that his breath tickled my ear lobe. “There she is.”

Yes. There she was. My new student. Unfathomable but true. What could I possibly have to offer a girl like Constantina? A fresh wave of nerves scrambled my belly.

No words adequately described my perplexity, so I didn’t respond. It had been two weeks since Dr. Justine McCaine, Timber Creek Academy’s principal, informed the staff we had acquired a new student who would start before the winter semester.

“Miss Castellanos has been homeschooled to this point. Her academic testing puts her in the ninetieth percentile for her age. She’s a classically trained musician, proficient on both violin and piano and comes from a musical family.” Dr. McCaine scowled at me from over the top of her glasses.

Classically trained was an understatement. The teenager was leaps and bounds beyond any student I’d taught in previous years. A prodigy. A sensation unlike any the academy had ever seen, and considering we housed some of the most brilliant students in the province—in the country—that was saying a lot. In the staffroom, surrounded by colleagues, I wasn’t the only person to question why Constantina’s parents wanted to put her in school when she clearly excelled with tutors.

“There is a catch,” Dr. McCaine had said. “Miss Castellanos has… issues.”

The young woman commanding the piano finished the solo, and the orchestra took over. When the piece ended, Constantina stood and bowed to the audience’s applause.

My attention was drawn to the fashionable black scarf around her neck. The fabric sparkled with the same galactic shimmer as her dress. Constantina touched it subconsciously as she absorbed the audience’s praise. She didn’t smile or seem at all pleased with the performance. Once the appreciation faded, the girl left the stage as quick as a bunny in the forest.

At intermission, Koa and I remained seated as guests swarmed out of the hall to use the facilities, grab wine, or stretch their legs before the second half. The musicians uniformly departed, row by row, until the stage was empty.

Koa turned pages in the playbill while I stared at the glistening sheen of lights reflecting off the grand piano.

Having located Constantina’s biography, Koa presented the booklet. “Well? Thoughts?”

“You don’t want to know my thoughts.”

Constantina was a Featured Performer that evening. Born in Greece to two world-renowned musicians, it wasn’t surprising that she had captured the attention of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. Her father had likely pulled strings or knew the conductor. Had a friend who had a friend. Wasn’t that how it worked?

“Thoughts?” Koa asked more pointedly as I read the girl’s numerous achievements and fought a fresh round of envy and inferiority.

“She’s fourteen. How is it possible?”

“Discipline.”

“Discipline.” The word tasted vile. “If my parents had given half a shit about my passion for music…” I waved the playbill in Koa’s face. “This could have been me. Look at this. She won the gold prize at the World Classical Music Awards at age six, for god’s sake.”

“There is no god.”

“Six, Koa. Do you know what I was doing at age six?”

“Playing war with your GI Joe figurines in the sandbox at the park?”

“Close. Replace GI Joe with my sister’s Ken doll and replace war with… other things. The point is, I could have been something… more. Something… remarkable. But no. I’m the outcast. The black sheep. The disappointment. It wasn’t enough to be gay, but how could I possibly want to pursue such a whimsical career as music? Every time my mother gets me on the phone, she feels the need to remind me of my siblings’ far greater successes. Of their marriages and achievements. Of her grandkids.”

“As much as I’d love to indulge you in this poorly veiled attempt at self-pity, I feel we’ve fatally bludgeoned this poor stallion enough in the past, and I have nothing further to contribute to the conversation. Focus. As a student, Niles. What are your thoughts on Constantina as a future student?”

“She’s going to make me look bad.”

“This isn’t about you. Stop wallowing. I thought we agreed that I was the depressive one in this relationship.”

“I thought we agreed we weren’t in a relationship, hence your handsome hockey star.”

Koa chuckled. “Good grief. Build a bridge.”

“Fine.” I skimmed Constantina’s biography. “Logically, though, what am I going to teach her that she doesn’t already know? Do I start her on a new instrument? I mean, my god, she only knows four.”

“Your sarcasm is showing.”

“Intentionally. I can’t help it.”

“Give her composition projects.”

“In ninth grade? Good lord, what will I teach her next year or the year after? She’s beyond my tutelage. Dr. McCaine knew that. Why allow her into my class?”

“Based on her testing scores, she’s beyond all high school tutelage, even mine.” Koa tapped his chest. “The point was not to advance her academically but to assist her in building socialization skills. You heard about her background.”

Sighing, I handed Koa the program. “I know.”

“So you’re making noise for the sake of it?”

“Kindly shut up and let me wallow in self-pity.”

“Whatever your heart desires. We should go to that wine bar on Queen after. They have incredible appetizers. Jersey’s not a fan. He says it’s too upscale for him.”

“That would be lovely.”

“My treat.”

“Good. Can I cry on your shoulder?”

“If you must.”

I leaned my head on Koa’s shoulder, and he rested his cheek against my crown. My best friend was different from the man I’d known a year ago. Less closed off. Less distant. He smiled with a fraction more ease and spoke about the future with positivity and anticipation. Anyone who had known Koa for any length of time would understand the profundity of such change. Bleak and apathetic Koa, the reserved and mysterious man I’d once dated, who had frustrated me to no end, had been reborn. Although he might never openly express joy or admit serenity, he was happy. Light gleamed in his eyes where there had once been nothing but darkness and buried pain.

If only I’d been the one to precipitate those changes, but I wasn’t. Koa’s reawakening had been aided by another man.

“What’s Jersey doing this evening?” I asked.

Koa huffed, the action jostling my head. “On a Saturday night in December? Need you ask?”

“Forget it. He’s at the hockey rink.”

“Of course.”

“Are you bringing him to the staff Christmas party?”

“That would imply I was going to the staff Christmas party.”

I playfully slapped Koa’s knee. “You’re going, and you’re bringing Jersey. I need someone academically inferior, so I don’t have to spend the entire night posturing among the crowd of walking doctorates who never fail to point out my shortcomings. It’s exhausting, and it hurts my ego.”

“No one does that, and I don’t appreciate you calling Jersey inferior.”

“I said academically inferior, and he is.”

“He’s university educated.”

“But my master’s degree trumps his bachelor’s.”

“You’re a hypocrite.” Koa shoved me off his shoulder, checking the time on his phone.

“I’m allowed with him. Jersey doesn’t care about stuff like that.”

“Precisely. You shouldn’t either. The only reason people josh is because it offends you. If you’re unhappy with your education, go back to school.”

“I’m forty-four.”

“So?”

Facing the stage, shame burning my insides, I ignored Koa’s blatant stare and pointed remark. We’d had this argument numerous times. Acquiring a PhD was a ship that had long since sailed. I should have completed my schooling when I had the chance, but I’d eagerly ditched the books to start a teaching career, not realizing the regret that would follow years down the road.

The lights in the hall dimmed, warning the audience the show was about to resume. Those still returning to their seats hustled. The murmuring voices hushed. A stillness settled over the vast auditorium.

“So?” Koa asked again.

I stared at the grand piano, imagining the path I’d never taken. “She has another solo in the second half.”

“Niles. I was referring to school.”

I ignored him, annoyed and hurt.

Koa leaned in and whispered as the performers, marching in uniform rows, filed onstage and took their seats. “The letters behind your name mean nothing. You’re an accomplished musician, and the best music teacher Timber Creek has ever hired. Bar none. Get out of your head. Passion outweighs education any day of the week. Ask any student who has ever spent time in a classroom. They can tell the difference, Niles. I wish you could see the greatness other people see and stop focusing on your shortcomings. The only person judging you is you.”

I faced my best friend and ex-lover. At some point over the past year, he’d become the man I knew he could be. One who cared. One who loved. One who believed in tomorrow.

Koa wore the suggestion of a smile, and it broke my heart in a different way. “I never should have given you up.”

The smile grew as he shook his head. “You’re not listening.”

“I am. I hear you.”

A long moment passed as Koa stared into my eyes, and I stared back. I could imagine what he saw. Longing and regret primarily. Oh, how I had loved this man.

The orchestra came alive with the trumpeting introduction to Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker. Koa gently squeezed my thigh. “We worked in theory, Niles, but like those highly educated teachers with a long list of letters behind their name, we lacked passion, remember?”

“Distinctly, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you hate me for that?”

“No.”

But that love could never be returned.

I bussed Koa’s temple, and as I watched the second half of the performance, I let the music take me away.

***

Monday morning dawned with a blizzard. Sipping coffee, staring out the picture window into the backyard, I fought the dizzying effect of billions of swirling flakes filling the sky. Surrounded by a landscape of evergreens, nestled on the outskirts of Peterborough and along the shore of Chemong Lake, the snow created a fantastical oasis for my quaint homestead.

For the better part of my career, I’d taken advantage of the housing options provided to instructors at the elite boarding school. The cabinesque homes proved adequate for a time, but as the years passed, I’d found the proximity to work suffocating. A few years ago, I purchased a bungalow off campus, determined to reclaim some privacy.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. At shortly after seven, I couldn’t imagine who was calling. Koa perhaps? Another colleague? The new student, Constantina, started today. Everyone had been in an uproar following the staff meeting, and she’d been the talk of the school ever since.

But it was neither Koa nor another Timber Creek educator. Dr. McCaine’s office number flashed across the screen. A phone call from my boss at that early hour couldn’t be good.

“Are you able to come in twenty minutes early? We need to chat.” Dr. McCaine wasn’t asking a question despite the inferring inflection. I’d learned long ago to tell the difference. She was the ship’s captain, and in her world, orders were given and obeyed.

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Good.”

“Is this about Miss Castellanos?”

“Not directly.”

“Ma’am?”

“See you in fifteen.” Dr. McCaine hung up.

I poured the rest of my coffee into the sink, found a warm jacket and my briefcase, and headed out the door.

***

After a quick stop in the music room to shed my outdoor wear and ensure I was appropriately presentable—Dr. McCaine did not approve of me wearing my long hair down nor the habit I’d developed of rolling my shirtsleeves to my elbows—I ventured to the second floor and her office.

The gymnasium adjacent to my classroom echoed with the thump of basketballs and the shrill cry of a whistle. Coach Blaine’s Girls’ AAA volleyball team was predicted to win the OFSSA championship in March, and it had been six years since they had been deemed contenders. Extra practices had been set up as a result.

Apart from my allocated corner of the school—I despised existing so close to the gymnasium—the halls were quiet and desolate. A lone janitor pushed a cart of supplies from classroom to classroom, emptying the garbage before the school day began.

The student body—who lived in dorm rooms on campus—would be gathered in the dining hall for breakfast or huddled in the library to finish neglected assignments. The few who crossed my path as I made my way to the administration offices offered a quick, “Good morning, Mr. Edwidge.”

Mister. Like shards of glass raked over tender flesh. I was the only mister in the entire faculty. Timber Creek’s hiring policy stated that their instructors be exemplary. They were an investment. A selling point when encouraging parents to pay extravagant fees. Who better to educate their gifted children than professors with doctorates.

I was the exception, and Dr. McCaine never failed to remind me of the accommodation I’d been granted. “Parents don’t approve,” she’d told me on more than one occasion.

Rapping a knuckle on the office door, I stared at the two gold embossed letters that appeared on the nameplate. McCaine’s designation. Dr.

“Come.”

In her late fifties, Justine McCaine’s hair had gone from bronze to silver as though she’d moved up in the world with age. She wore a navy pantsuit that morning. Her customary attire. Prim and proper as a captain should be. If I could find fault with the woman, it was in her skin. A youth spent sunbathing on beaches with oils instead of sunscreen, and decades of fad-smoking cigarettes before the government actively proclaimed it was not cool and was, in fact, bad for your health had left Timber Creek’s principal wrinkled and spotted like a leopard. Aged in a way that children today, with knowledge, would be able to prevent.

She waved to a vacant chair and urged me to sit.

I’d tied my long hair back into a messy bun, but a few strands must have pulled loose when I’d removed my woolen hat. Dr. McCaine seemed to notice, and I earned a disproving puckered glare, so I quickly found the culprits and tucked them over my ear.

“Quite the storm we’re getting,” I said defensively.

“Indeed.” She opened a brown folder and peered through the bottom half of her silver-framed glasses as she skimmed the top page of what seemed a text-filled booklet. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

I flashed my attention to the text but couldn’t make out the words from my vantage. Every excuse I’d imagined she might use to release me from my contract filled my head.

Timber Creek was a historic building with poor insulation and rattly windows. The winter wind often pierced the walls, encouraging the student body to add extra layers.

But the outdoor chill didn’t reach me that morning.

Sweat greased my palms and dampened the strands of hair at my temples.

Dr. McCaine eyed me over the brim of her spectacles, a cat toying with a mouse for pleasure.

“Not like what, ma’am?” Miraculously, the words came out strong and unwavering.

She cleared her throat, referenced the form, and folded her fingers together on top. “I’ve approved a guest teacher to assist with the instruction of your classes three days a week starting on Wednesday.”

“A what? Excuse me? Did you—”

“I have approved—”

“I heard what you said. I don’t understand.”

“We’ve been offered an invaluable gift, Mr. Edwidge. Turning it down would not only be insulting to the party making the proposal, but considering the reputation of our school, it would be impolitic. Foolhardy, to say the least. If parents caught wind of—”

“What invaluable gift, ma’am?”

Dr. McCaine referenced the folder. “Maestro Castellanos, Miss Castellanos’s father, has charitably offered his expertise in your classroom. Isn’t that wonderful?”

She didn’t wait for my reply. “It’s temporary. A couple of days a week. You’re aware who this man is, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But shamefully, I didn’t know much. Only when Constantina had been drawn into my radar had I briefly looked up the maestro.

World-renowned musician and composer, Augustus Castellanos. Reading the long, humbling list of achievements and awards he’d gathered over his forty-one years would have aggravated my feelings of inferiority, so I’d skipped them, already jaded, already hating the man on principle.

Augustus Castellanos was going to guest-teach a bunch of, albeit intelligent, high school kids? I couldn’t find a single word to contribute to the conversation. It didn’t make sense.

Dr. McCaine waited with irritating patience as I evaluated what it meant.

“Are you… auditioning my replacement, ma’am?”

She tsked. “Really, Mr. Edwidge? Maestro Castellanos has no interest in full-time employment.”

And you know this how? I wanted to ask. Did you make him an offer already, and he turned it down?

“Wednesday?”

“Yes. He and his daughter have taken up temporary residence on campus. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he accompanies his daughter this morning. He was eager to see the music room.”

I had a thousand questions, but the offer wasn’t up for debate. The captain had spoken, and as merely the lowest of ship hands, I didn’t get a say.

“That will be all.”

Dismissed.

Chapter two

August

Never in this lifetime would I knot a tie correctly on the first try. For a man who had worn a tie nearly daily for the vast part of twenty years, my astounding ineptitude shocked almost everyone. Tugging the Windsor loose, I started again while listening for signs of a teenager getting ready for her first official day of school.

Ever.

The cottage—it certainly wasn’t my customary type of living arrangement—remained ever silent. Ties and teenagers. Both were the bane of my existence. If I could adapt to raising the latter, I would never complain about the former again.

“Constance? I hope you’re ready. We need to leave in ten minutes.”

I didn’t expect a reply and received none.

Reworking the knot, I hummed a troublesome exposition from the sonata I’d been working on. It erased the sullen quietude of our new living space. When playing the piano, flute, or any instrument, my fingers moved deftly without thought or struggle. Ask them to fold a simple piece of silk into something resembling grade-school origami, and they floundered.

I fit the final product snugly under my shirt collar and tipped my head side to side, evaluating its suitability.

“Not bad. Third time’s a charm. Maybe I’m… Damn.” I touched a spot on my jaw where I’d missed shaving. “Constance? Are you dressed?”

No response.

I sent a prayer heavenward. “Lord, give me strength so I don’t wring her neck.”

Retrieving a straight razor from its case, I fixed the shaving problem before assessing my presence in the bathroom mirror for the hundredth time. I buttoned my jacket, smoothed the front, unbuttoned it, and buttoned it again before adjusting a mahogany strand of hair that had snuck out of place. A brow gone astray caught my attention. I smoothed a finger over the culprit. When it refused to cooperate, I tweezed the mutineer.

“Good enough.” Shadows hung beneath my eyes. The first sign of crow’s feet had developed over the past two months. Worry lines created crevices across my once smooth forehead. The unpredictability of my once orderly life was taking a toll.

The man in the mirror was not me. He was a tired version.

“Constance?”

God help me. What was a person supposed to do with a teenager who didn’t listen and refused to speak?

“I didn’t sign up for this,” I muttered.

Except I had.

The opening to Verdi’s Requiem, “Dies Irae” exploded in my head, a punctuation of nervous energy, a soundtrack to accompany the most troublesome task ahead: Parenting a Teenager. Was it overly dramatic? Perhaps.

I hummed the parts of specific instruments as the music flowed through my veins. My fingers twitched until I submitted and waved an invisible baton, conducting the unseen orchestra. Each resounding thwack of the bass drum hit hard, and I punctuated the sound with a flick of my wrist and a snap of my elbow.

Beauty.

Art.

Passion.

My daughter appeared at the bathroom door, and the orchestra faded. The man in the mirror came back into focus. “Verdi,” I explained unnecessarily.

Her expressionless stare was the only response I was going to get. She didn’t care. Not about me.

“Are you ready?”

She half shrugged, hugging her school cardigan tighter around her middle. The Timber Creek uniform consisted of a pleated navy skirt—or pants since the academy claimed to be progressive and didn’t require their female students to wear skirts if they didn’t want to—a white blouse with the Timber Creek emblem embroidered on the pocket, white knee socks, and black leather dress shoes.

Constance had artfully knotted a fashionable scarf with a navy and white patterned design around her neck. It was a necessity, not an act of rebellion. The excess makeup and chunky jewelry, however, crossed lines I’d recently drawn. Again, she didn’t care.

Instead of rebuking her heavily lined eyes and brightly painted lips, lecturing her yet again, I tugged the edges of my suit jacket and lifted my chin. “How’s the tie? Did I get it straight?”

Constance spent less than a second examining the accessory before giving a halfhearted shrug that neither approved nor disapproved of the finished product.

“It was a simple question.”

I earned a sneer.

“Are you nervous?”

No response.

“You’re being rude.”

She glared, lips pursed, nose wrinkled.

“Look, I know you don’t want me dropping you off, but I need to get a look at their music room, assess their supplies, and see what I have to work with.”

She rolled her eyes in a manner teenage girls had been perfecting for centuries.

“What?”

She sharply shook her head, whipping a braid over her shoulder as though the violent gesture explained everything.

“I know you don’t want to go to school here, but—”

Constance huffed. Her hands flew in a string of sign language that made no sense to me.

“Stop. You know I don’t understand when you—”

She stamped her foot in frustration and stormed away. The middle finger displayed over her shoulder, I did understand.

I unbuttoned my suit jacket and flicked off the bathroom light, gritting my teeth as I called after her with as much patience as I could muster. “You look lovely in your uniform, but it’s cold and snowy. You would be better off wearing boots and packing your shoes.”

The double thump of leather loafers hitting the wall sounded from the front hall. A moment later— slam.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” I muttered under my breath in my native Greek. Despite her objection, I told Constance’s mother that I would encourage our daughter to use English. Like her parents, Constance was fluent in several languages but stubbornly stuck to the only one I didn’t know.

Jittery, remorseful, and defeated, I briefly closed my eyes and returned to Verdi, seeking balance. If I could have conjured something more tranquil, I would have, but that wasn’t how my brain operated. Internal soundtracks reflected my emotions, and they couldn’t be swayed to change. It wasn’t a radio I could switch to a new station. When music played inside my head, I was at its mercy. All I could do was listen.

Life had thrown me a curveball in October. After months of brooding and arguing with Constance’s mother, I made the executive decision to send my daughter to private school. I would take time off work and learn to be a father, but it was temporary. Once Constance was settled, I would return to my abandoned life and be at peace once more.

Perhaps staying in Canada was the wrong decision. Time would tell.

***

Constance marched ten feet ahead, plowing a path through the freshly fallen snow like she’d been born in the tundra and not in a climate where the temperatures rarely dipped below ten degrees Celsius. She pretended I didn’t exist, refusing to hear me reminisce about adventures skiing in the Alps or the time I’d spent in Russia during one of the worst winters imaginable. She didn’t care about the uniqueness of snowflakes, nor did she want to stop to admire the tranquility of a half-frozen lake in winter.

When the impractical boots her mother had bought didn’t do their job and she slipped on an icy patch, landing hard on one knee, Constance thwarted any attempt to help her up. She struggled with her backpack and angrily brushed the snow and debris off her stockings before delivering me a scathing look as though I’d been the person to orchestrate her fall.

Off she went.

Constance didn’t want a father. She didn’t want to go to a real school. I wasn’t sure she knew what she wanted. The only thing that seemed clear was how much she hated the sudden shift in the direction of her life.

Join the club, I thought.

I jogged to keep up. “We have to stop at the office to get your schedule.”

She walked faster.

“Dr. McCaine promised no physical education. You’re welcome, by the way. I fought for you.”

No gratitude.

I would be more apt to get a response from the frozen trees and frost-crusted pinecones than my daughter.

I couldn’t decide if Constance was angry because I’d made her go to school, because I’d accepted a guest teaching position at said school, because I wouldn’t yet let her live in the dorms with the other girls her age, because her mother had gotten herself in a tangle and forced her into my care, because I refused to take her back to Greece and her grandparents, because the latest advancement in technology and her subsequent surgery hadn’t lived up to her expectations, or simply because she was fourteen and hormonal. It was Russian roulette, and no matter where the spinner landed, the answer was wrong.

No handbook existed to explain Constance’s frequently swaying moods, and she refused to talk about her feelings no matter how many times I pried.

The confusing floor plan of Timber Creek’s main building forced her to slow down and await directions. Constance had declined to accompany me the previous week when I’d filled out registration forms, so it was her first time in the main body of the school.

Students bustled up and down the wide corridors as a shrill bell announced the commencement of first period. Their overlapping voices echoed off the high ceiling, and I dodged a few swinging backpacks as their owners raced past so they wouldn’t be late.

The century-old architecture gave the premises a sophisticated, erudite appeal. Photographs of directors and other prominent figures from decades past hung in ornate frames along the walls in the administration hall. The brass plates on mounted plaques—ones displaying high achievements—glistened as though recently polished. Timber Creek’s reputation as one of the highest academic academies in the province was what first attracted me to the idea of sending Constance here.

Besides, we needed space from one another if we were going to survive this father-daughter nonsense. Neither of us was much fond of the other. Once I reassured myself that she was settled—a month or two, I figured—I could return to my normal life as a full-time musician and a less than part-time parent. If she moved into the school’s dormitories, I could book a few performances with my agent and travel anywhere I pleased.

I was counting the weeks, days, and hours.

Inside the administration office, Constance put a hand on my chest and shook her head. She’d styled her flaxen hair in double French braids, and they swung with her adamancy.

Her mouth formed the word no as her fingers made one of the few signs I understood.

“You don’t want me to go in?”

A stubborn head shake. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose, and her electric-green eyes said all she couldn’t—or wouldn’t.

“All right.” I touched the knot of my necktie, and Constance swatted my hand. She fixed it straight, pulled it tight until it choked me, and offered the barest suggestion of a smile before making a shooing motion.

“I plan to check out the music room and meet the head of the department to coordinate our schedules. Then I’ll head… home”—it was hard to consider the cottage home—“to work on that damnable sonata. If you need me—”

Constance shoved me toward the door, nonverbally indicating she was perfectly fine on her own.

Dr. Justine McCaine emerged from a private office on the left and beamed. “Oh, hello. You must be Constantina.”

A remarkable change overtook my daughter. She spun, affecting an air of innocence, of girlhood. I hadn’t seen her wear that smile since a long-ago birthday. Was she five? Maybe six? It was before everything in her life had changed. Before the subsequent surgery. Before her mother revealed her true nature and Constance ended up in my care.

Dr. McCaine guided Constance into her office with a gentle touch to her shoulder. “Will you be joining us, Maestro?”

I cringed. “Please, call me August.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

My daughter’s imploring gaze warned me off. “I’ll let Constance get settled on her own. Could you direct me to the music room?”

Dr. McCaine’s instructions were fundamentally flawed—or my sense of direction was skewed. I got turned around more than once and second-guessed if I’d heard her correctly. Thankfully, after arriving at the same back exit for the third time in a row, a friendly student helped aim me in the right direction. “Down that hall. It’s adjacent to the gymnasium. You can’t miss it. There are music notes on the door.”

Finally on the right track, I followed the thump of basketballs and screech of youthful voices along a lengthy hallway. I couldn’t say I was pleased that the music and physical education departments shared a wing. The excess noise could prove to be problematic. I prayed for soundproof walls and decent acoustics. What were the chances in a century-old building?

Slim.

When I came to a door with a winding staff and improperly hung musical notes, I paused. The treble clef dangled upside down. Quarter notes, following an improperly written key signature, waved their flags in the wrong direction. Utter nonsense. Who had done this? Why?

The impulse to fix the mess was too strong to resist. I hoped the carelessness wasn’t an indication of the quality of the music department. I’d been led to believe Timber Creek hired the most superior educators.

Once the notes, key signature, and treble clef were properly arranged—the lack of a time signature bothered me greatly—I let myself in. I was given to understand that Mr. Edwidge had planning time during first period, so I wasn’t surprised to find the classroom empty of teenagers.

A lone man sat at an upright piano—a Steinway in poor condition—playing an instantly recognizable sonata, his back to the door. I’d performed the technically demanding piece several times in the past.

Not wanting to interrupt—and curious about how he would handle the upcoming third movement—I took a moment to evaluate the space where my daughter would spend most of her time. Where I had agreed to spend a great deal of my time.

A bank of old-fashioned chalkboards lined one wall, the remains of chalk dust leaving them an uneven, smoky gray color. Motivational posters hung above them by the ceiling. Music is a safe kind of high, and The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is practice. One in particular caught my attention. Where words fail, music speaks. Instead of fostering enlightenment, as I supposed was its purpose, the words felt like a personal attack on my recent situation.

The room was set up like an orchestra pit with four levels of risers surrounding a conductor’s podium in the center. The piano sat off to the side, angled to face the empty seats and music stands.

The man’s fingers danced beautifully over the ivories. His control and dynamics were admirable, if not slightly inconsistent. It was not performance-worthy, but he had potential.

In the back corner of the room, a glossy black five-piece Pearl drum set shared space with a timpani and xylophone. A few other percussion instruments had been carelessly discarded on a nearby table. Drumsticks and a spread of sheet music joined the chaos.

As the intensity of the sonata heightened, I tuned in to the room’s acoustics. Not bad. Not great. The back wall and ceiling had been padded with popcorn material meant to absorb sound, but the other three walls were not effective in that regard.

The tempo shifted and changed. My attention returned to the man at the piano. He had hair the color of wheat during a fall harvest with variegated highlights of greige, gold, and faded sepia. It was long and tied in a rough knot at his nape. Several flyaways rested messily on his shoulders and fanned wildly around his temples.

I moved farther into the room, angling myself to view him in partial profile. Strong yet gentle jawline. A tawny, tightly groomed beard. Sharp nose. Parted lips. Brows set at a concentrated angle. His focus was such that he didn’t notice me, even when I was surely in his line of sight.

With shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, the muscles and tendons along his forearms showed, moving and straining with the increased tempo and power with which he played. His long fingers danced marvelously, and I was entranced. Not because he was attractive—the thought alone was troublesome—but because it was a challenging piece, even for an experienced pianist.

I inched closer on silent feet until I was near enough to make out the sheet music propped on the rack.

Perhaps he sensed a presence or disturbance in the air. Perhaps he smelled my cologne and knew he was being watched. Regardless, the man fumbled the especially difficult transition into the third movement as I suspected he might and stopped playing with a heavy sigh. “Goddammit.”

He plucked a pencil from the rack and made a notation on the page where he’d erred. Rearranging the sheet music, he picked up where he left off and got a decent way through the final movement before floundering again.

“Dammit.”

“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Maurice Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit requires extraordinary dexterity and control. Especially the third movement. The complexity is astounding, and you performed reasonably well, considering.”

The man abruptly spun on the piano bench, eyes wide, mouth agape at finding he wasn’t alone. He must not have sensed me after all.

In an instant, his captivating beauty held me prisoner and stole my ordered thoughts.

“You startled me,” he said, hand to chest.

I cleared my throat and shook free the peril of his good looks. “Pardon the intrusion. It was not my intent.” I extended my hand to shake. “August Castellanos.”

The man looked at the whole of me for a long time before rising from the bench and obliging the offered greeting.

His hand was warm and soft. A delicate grip. Eyes the same sun-drenched shade as his disordered hair took me in from head to toe, their shocked expression replaced with curiosity and what seemed a touch of discord.

“Niles Edwidge. It’s… nice to meet you.” The pause negated the claim. “I wasn’t expecting you today. I was told you started on Wednesday.”

“That’s correct. I planned to help my daughter get oriented, but she… doesn’t require my assistance, so I figured I’d stop in and introduce myself.”

The man was without a necktie, his collar open and revealing more skin than was appropriate. Something about the corded tendons bracketing his throat drew my attention more than once, distorting my thoughts. His collarbones showed at the edges of his shirt, and I wondered at their definition, curious about what was still concealed.

I cleared my throat again, ejecting the unsuitable musings and motioning to the piano. “Do you mind…”

Mr. Edwidge hesitated, and although he stepped aside and waved for me to take a seat, I sensed that allowing me the honor was the last thing he wanted to do. “Please.”

I sat, gathered the spread of sheet music into a pile, and handed it to the perplexed and annoyed-looking music teacher. “Follow along. I’ll offer some tips for that tricky transition and give you feedback about your attempt.”

I closed my eyes and felt every note of the sonata resonate in my bones as it came back to me. It had been years, but my music recall was far superior to the average person’s. If I played a piece once, it lived in my heart eternally.

I moved flawlessly through the first movement, “Ondine,” and transitioned to the second before eyeing Mr. Edwidge. He hugged the stack of pages to his chest, his face as impassive and unreadable as my teenage daughter’s.

“You’re not following along.”

He stared, unmoving.

“Ravel is especially talented when it comes to creating texture and innovative harmonies. This piece is profoundly technical and demands much from the pianist, so don’t be discouraged. In ‘Le Gibet,’ the second movement, the hardest part is when the notes are split.” I played through them effortlessly. “The melody is in the left hand. You want to be sure the bell comes through. Don’t let it get lost underneath. Hear how I ensure its prominence? It’s structurally important and should be emphasized. You can’t beat at it with no heart.”

I played a few more measures. “Don’t rush. Your pacing was all over the place. It’s a common mistake. You can use a slower tempo. You’ll have more control, and it’s powerful that way, don’t you think?”

Mr. Edwidge didn’t respond.

Again, I let the music flow, let it speak what I couldn’t articulate. Gaspard de la Nuit was a twenty-two-minute sonata that couldn’t be hurried. Each movement required tender, loving care. I wanted to consume every note. Drink of their essence. Live, breathe, and love the composition as it was intended.

The third movement approached. The section where Mr. Edwidge had initially stumbled.

“Ah, here we go. The lovely ‘Scarbo.’ It’s wonderfully nightmarish, don’t you think? A tricky transition. A lot of people struggle to manage it. Here. Listen. I suggest training yourself to use one finger when the tempo takes on this rhythm. It requires building tension in your forearm. I saw you using two. Not ideal. Some people use three, but it shows. It reflects in the smoothness of the piece, making the pianissimo hard to maintain. But if you can find the control with a single digit, you’ll get the effect you’re looking for. Do you hear it?”

I stayed with that section of the movement longer, repeating a few bars to demonstrate. “Listen to how quietly I can play. Like a tremor. It hits a nerve. The adjustment from two fingers to one can change the mood entirely. This effect simply cannot be simulated any other way. Practice, Mr. Edwidge. It all comes down to practice.”

I played past that point, moving toward another section I wanted to address. “I recommend taking more bass with the whole of ‘Scarbo.’ It does well with that added emphasis. And watch your timing. Again, you were rushing. It’s funny. Everyone I’ve heard play this piece tends to fluctuate their tempo to suit themselves. They race through it, thinking speed is required when it isn’t. The problem with going too fast is you can’t maintain the same tempo in other sequences. You’re constantly adjusting, so the smooth effect is lost, and it becomes stilted and choppy. One pace. Slow and measured. Beginning to end. Let the dynamics speak for themselves.”

I concluded the sonata with the dramatics it demanded and spun to face Mr. Edwidge, whose lips were pressed together in a firm line as he continued to hug the stack of sheet music. In the whole twenty minutes, he hadn’t moved.

The pale skin at his exposed throat stretched long with his raised chin, unwittingly drawing my focus again.

Warmth suffused the inner lining of my belly, and I subconsciously touched the strangling knot of my necktie before recalling my daughter’s reprimand and dropping the hand to my lap. “I hope that helps.”

Mr. Edwidge ran his tongue along the inside of his upper teeth before plastering on a less-than-genuine smile. “I’ll keep your suggestions in mind, Maestro.” His tone suggested otherwise.

Nonetheless, I nodded, appeased. I’d trained plenty of stubborn pupils over the years who needed time for their bruised egos to mend before they understood the value of a lesson.

Silence prevailed. Short of staring at the man, I admired the Steinway instead, noting its flaws. Chipped ivories. Blemished wood. Scratches and ink stains. Its condition bruised my soul. I tinkled a few keys.

“The piano is slightly out of tune. I would suggest—”

“It’s not.”

I turned at the snappy tone. “But I assure you, it is. I have an ear for these things, and—”

“As do I, and I’m telling you, the tuning is fine.”

I thought it best not to argue or debate the acuity of pitch with a high school music teacher, so I acquiesced. Again. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from our first meeting, but it wasn’t this… tension.

Not only was my presence clearly unwelcomed, but I was inordinately distracted by the man’s hippiesque hairstyle, unshaven jaw, and sunset eyes—never mind the eloquent stretch of his long neck and those pronounced collarbones that vanished mysteriously under his shirt. I wished he would find a tie and button up so my mind would quit wandering into the gutter.

It had been many years since I’d had to fight the impulsive need to look at a man.

Mr. Edwidge cleared his throat and erased some of the friction from the room. “I suppose we should… discuss your role in the classroom, figure out what you plan to teach over the coming weeks, and—”

“Months.”

“Excuse me?”

“I was assured a position for a few months.”

“A position?”

“Yes.”

“They’re paying you?”

“It’s trivial, but Dr. McCaine insisted.”

Mr. Edwidge’s troubled gaze flicked over my face. “That’s not what I was told.”

It was said more to himself than to me. I didn’t know how to respond.

“A few months?” he repeated.

“Yes. My daughter… she… I anticipate she’ll need at least a semester to adapt before I can comfortably return to work. When I enrolled her, I promised Chloé I wouldn’t abandon Constance before she was ready. Our daughter is…” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Is my presence going to be a problem? I’m by no means planning to overstep. Dr. McCaine seemed adamant to have me on staff, and—”

“It’s fine. Decisions have obviously been made without my knowledge.” The man returned the music to the rack and glanced about, his cheeks flush with what I could only read to be undisguised hurt. “I suppose we should start with a quick tour.”

“As you wish.”

I sensed displeasure as he led me down a short hallway with doors on either side. He opened the first, flicked on a light, and held it wide so I could peer inside. “We have four practice rooms. Thankfully, they’re far more soundproof than the main room.”

The moderately sized area contained several empty music stands shoved haphazardly in a corner, another Steinway, in rougher shape than the one I’d played, and a wall of shelving where several percussion instruments gathered dust: drumsticks, crooked stacks of rubber practice pads, triangles, broken castanets, tambourines, spare cymbals, a glockenspiel, a variety of bells, and maracas of various size.

“Budget cuts. We make do,” he explained, reading my mind.

The back room housed Timber Creek Music Department’s selection of wind instruments. It was hard not to respect the orderly arrangement of the hard black cases sitting in neat rows. Flutes, clarinets, and oboes occupied the top shelf. Trumpets, saxophones, French horns, trombones, and so forth in the middle. Tubas and baritones took up much of the bottom shelf.

The stringed instruments, Mr. Edwidge explained, were inconveniently located in a storage room next to the gymnasium. “We don’t have enough space back here. Most kids have their own instruments, but part of my curriculum is training them on several, hence the abundance of supplies. Ideally, before they graduate, I aim to have them adept at playing at least three.”

Constance expertly played four, but I smartly kept that fact to myself.

Most of the instruments were Yamahas, an inexpensive standard typically purchased for beginners, but they worked for the school’s purpose.

“In here,”—Mr. Edwidge opened a door in a dark corner of the back room—“is our musical library.” He flicked a switch. The tired overhead fluorescent illuminated a dusty enclosure. “It’s stuffy and in dire need of organization, but I haven’t found the time. It would be a massive undertaking. Perhaps during the summer months. We’ll see. I assure you, I’m usually more organized.”

The room was similar in size to the practice rooms but far less spacious, considering its sheer volume of sheet music. Built-in wooden shelves climbed to the ceiling on three sides, every square inch filled with files, bursting at the seams with compositions: orchestral scores, duets, solos, piano concertos, and more. Layer upon layer upon layer of partitura. It was both a dream and a nightmare. The floor space was filled with knee-high stacks, leaving a maze of paths, enough to access nearly every shelf if one was careful where they stepped.

“The room isn’t big enough,” I mused. It was the first I’d spoken since the tour began when I’d discovered my unwanted presence at the academy.

The man tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind his ear as he followed my gaze. “No, but there’s nowhere else.”

I squeezed past him, doing my best to ignore his aromatic, woodsy scent, but it snuck up my nostrils regardless, impeding the reasoning center of my brain, conjuring visions and long-buried desires. I couldn’t tell if it was a special type of cologne or if the forest and fresh air had permeated his skin.

Either way, I liked it more than I should have.

“You’ll find everything in here, from the popular to the obscure. It was alphabetical by composer, but any number of students have tampered with my system, so I make no promises. Let me know if we don’t have something you’re looking for. I can explore the budget and possibly purchase what you need, or I have connections at other schools who will often let us borrow from their libraries.”

His words barely registered as I scanned the shelves, reading the colorful tabs, tugging loose files containing the work of composers I’d not thought about for decades. “Astounding. You have an impressive collection. I should enjoy exploring your catalog, Mr. Edwidge.”

“You can call me Niles… since we’re to work together.”

“Niles it is. You can call me August. I’m not one for titles.”

I met his pensive gaze with a smile but didn’t get one in return. With his arms crossed defensively, his offer seemed officious. Forced politeness that wasn’t felt. The size of the room seemed to shrink, and I had the sudden urge to escape its confining walls, but Niles blocked the only door.

“I’d like to examine your curriculum to assess what might be lacking and focus my tutelage on those areas.”

“Lacking. Right.” Niles checked his watch. “I have less than twenty minutes before my first class begins. Let’s go further explore my weaknesses, shall we?”

Be it the slight language barrier—sarcasm outside my native tongue wasn’t always immediately clear—or my sheer obtuseness, but the meaning behind Niles’s words took a beat too long to register.

Before I could open my mouth to respond or apologize for misspeaking, he walked away, leaving me alone in the dusty disorder of Timber Creek’s music library. I had the distinct feeling I’d landed in yet another prison with a warden who hated me on sight.

Chapter three

Niles

Lunch break took forever to arrive. I spent the entire morning in a wretched mood, snapping unfairly at students and deviating from my lesson plan after an unexpected early morning visitor had degraded not only my curriculum but my entire existence and sense of self.

I shouldn’t have let it bother me. My bruised ego and hurt feelings were rooted in resentment and fertilized in jealousy. But could the man have been a bigger pompous jerk?

When the noon bell rang, I dismissed the class and hustled down the long corridor, past the gymnasium, and to the nearest stairwell, where I scaled two steps at a time in my haste to catch Koa before he departed for lunch.

Rushing proved unnecessary. I found Koa burrowed in stacks of books, surrounded by mountains of papers, and reading a tattered copy of Sound and the Fury, his face contorted with concentration.

He didn’t react or move his attention from the novel when I barreled into the room and deposited my ass on the corner of the nearest desk, arms crossed and fuming from a morning of contained rage.

Koa’s quirks could be grating on a good day. No one could block out the world and the people in it better than a classic literary professor hell-bent on finishing a book. But I had no patience left, so after a full minute without Koa acknowledging my presence, I obnoxiously cleared my throat.

“A moment, Master Edwidge.”

I wasn’t in the mood for the soul-soothing moniker he’d given me years ago and didn’t respond as I usually might.

He continued to read, turning a page like we had all the time in the world.

“I hate Faulkner,” I snapped. “That book was nothing but stream-of-conscious writing. God help your students if that’s what you’re teaching.”

“It’s personal reading, and don’t bring god into my classroom, thank you very much.”

“It’s junk. If it was meant to deliver a message, it failed. I had a migraine for a week after finishing it.”

With a petulant sigh, Koa set the book aside and removed his reading glasses. “It’s about the moral and social decay of a prestigious family. It explores the thought process of the human mind. The stream-of-conscious style is intentional.”

“It’s annoying.”

“You’re tetchy.”

“You would be too if you’d had my morning. They hired him. He’s a paid staff member. Do you know what that means? I’m being replaced. No one has come out and said it, but how obtuse do they think I am? The board has always taken issue with my credentials. Parents complain, and now, a solution has landed on their doorstep. He isn’t merely better qualified, he’s a goddamn maestro. They can pretend he’s here to temporarily enhance the musical curriculum, but it’s bullshit. They’re phasing me out. I told you this would happen.”

“I’ll assume the him in question is Maestro Augustus Castellanos?”

“Oh, but please, you can call him August. He’s not one for titles,” I said haughtily. “I’ve never met a more pretentious asshole in my life. Do you know what he did?”

Koa glanced longingly at the discarded book, but I barreled through the excuse before it crossed his lips.

“I was practicing Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit—”

“Tricky piece.”

“I’m aware. Thank you, Koa. Please read the sarcasm in my tone. Well, doesn’t Mr. Maestro sneak up behind me for a listen. Do you know what he said when I finished? He said I performed reasonably well.” I tore the elastic from my hair, letting the long strands fall around my face. “Reasonably well.” I mimicked August’s mild accent. “Asshole.”

Huffing, I raked fingers through my thick mane, gathered it at my nape, and secured it in a messy bun. A few shorter pieces instantly tumbled free, framing my face.

“Considering the piece’s complexity, ‘reasonably well’ sounds like praise. I’m failing to understand your temper.”

“No, it’s not praise. It’s insulting. I can paint a picture reasonably well. I can cook reasonably well. I can quote Shakespeare reasonably well. I can—”

“You can’t, actually. You often get it wrong.”

“Not the time for nitpicking, Koa. I’m making a point.”

“A tenuous point at best.”

“Can you not?”

“So, it was not a compliment.”

“No, and I’ll tell you why.” Unable to sit still, I launched into an aggressive pace. “The man proceeded to sit on the bench and play the entire sonata by heart. He handed me the sheet music and commanded me to follow along. I refused. And he performed it without a single error. But what’s more? While playing, he spent the full twenty-two minutes of the three combined movements informing me of where I went wrong and demonstrating how I could improve. He called it, giving me feedback on my attempt. My attempt!”

I paused, waiting for a reaction, wanting Koa to endorse my claims or defend my rage, but his expression conveyed confusion. “Still not a compliment, I assume?”

“No, Koa. It was demoralizing. He said my pacing was all over the place. Can you believe that? The nerve.”

“You often rush that piece.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“Well, we are.”

“I’m struggling to understand why any of it matters. Who cares if he offered constructive criticism of your playing. Isn’t that good? Don’t you want to improve? If you didn’t like it, don’t listen to it.”

“You’re missing the point.”

Koa held his hands aloft. “Then help me find it.”

“I’m going to lose my job to this prick. Contrary to what I was told, he isn’t taking the role of guest teacher for a week or so. He’s usurping half my curriculum for several months. Don’t you see what they’re doing? In June, I’ll be shown the door, and by September, Timber Creek will welcome a new, highly regarded, better-educated faculty member. The parents will be so pleased, and I will be jobless.”

“Your logic is flawed.”

“It’s not.”

“In what universe would a world-renowned musician, a maestro, want to teach high school music?”

“In this world.” I stabbed a finger on Koa’s desk.

“I think it’s highly unlikely.”

“You didn’t meet the guy. He of the perfect suit and impeccable hair. You should see the way he carries himself. Shoulders back, chin high, oozing confidence because he knows I’m nothing but a subordinate. And the way he stared. Judgment in his eyes. Is a guy not allowed to have long hair? Do I have to wear a tie to be acceptable in his world? God, his voice alone was grating. So… cultured and suave.”

My best friend quirked a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Koa checked the time on his phone. “How long is this rant going to take? I was hoping to eat lunch before the bell.”

I ignored his pettish comment and sat again, deflated, weary, and in no mood to play games. “The worst part is… he’s fucking gorgeous.”

“And there it is. It took enough meandering to get to the point.”

“I hate him.”

“And yet you’re halfway in love.”

“I’m not.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“I’m not,” I emphasized.

“Can I have an opinion?”

“Only if it endorses my own.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion. You know I despise repeating myself, but it warrants reiteration. He is a prominent figure in the world of classical music. He’s performed all over the world and won dozens of awards. He’s celebrated as one of the finest musicians and composers of the twenty-first century. The man must be worth a fortune.”

“Please, rub it in more. It doesn’t hurt enough yet.”

“He isn’t going to want your job, Niles. Shocking as this may sound, especially since it’s a known sore spot, but he’s overqualified. There is no reason for you to feel threatened.”

“What I feel is inadequate.”

“That’s a you problem. Take it as an opportunity to learn. You couldn’t find a better teacher if you tried. Are you going to use this to your advantage or bitch about it until spring?”

Koa was right, in theory, but I’d always feared being replaced.

“Look at the bright side.” Koa stood and gathered his phone and book. “At least the view will be nice for a few months.”

“Just what I need. Sexual frustration on top of everything else. I know better than to ogle straight married men. It never ends well.”

“He’s not married.” Koa gestured to the door, indicating we were leaving.

“He has a daughter.”

“And it’s not the nineteenth century. Haven’t you read his bio?”

“God no. I already suffer from an inferiority complex. I have no desire to research the acclaimed maestro. Salt on a wound.”

Koa locked the classroom door. “I’m running to Peterborough for coffee and a sandwich. I refuse to subject myself to that sludge in the staffroom. Do you want to join me?”

“You’re buying.”

“On one condition. You leave the sour attitude behind.”

“Did you ever think there would come a day when you said that to me?”

“No.”

I chuckled. “Fine. Consider it left.”

“And, since I’ve listened to you bemoan your situation for the past twenty minutes, we will spend the rest of our lunch hour discussing The Sound and the Fury.”

I groaned, and Koa hooked his arm with mine, dragging my miserable ass down the hall.

***

What was worse? Having a pompous maestro as a guest teacher or his genius daughter in my fourth period class. I was about to find out as third period students filtered from the room, and my last class was about to commence.

The Timber Creek faculty had been given a perfunctory overview of Constantina Castellanos’s academic testing results. The gifted young woman landed in the ninetieth percentile for her age bracket. Her education was not of great concern. Her mental health, however, was said to be fragile. The focus of the staff meeting included a detailed medical summary of Constantina’s challenging childhood.

The teenager—who, according to her file, preferred to go by Constance—had been diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma at age seven, an extremely rare and aggressive form of cancer more commonly found in children. Due to its location and risk factors, Constance underwent three complex surgeries over the course of two months to remove a troublesome tumor in her neck.

The final surgery resulted in a partial laryngectomy. At age twelve, when the doctors were ready to proclaim Constance in remission, the cancer returned with vengeance. Despite chemotherapy, she’d undergone surgery for a fourth time. In the end, to halt the spread of the cancer, Constance ended up having the whole of her voice box removed, resulting in a tracheoesophageal puncture or voice prosthesis.

Although the cancer hadn’t been gone long enough to warrant saying it was in remission, things were looking up. Since the surgery, however, the teenager had battled a different disease.

Depression.

Although Constance had undergone intensive speech therapy to teach her how to speak with the artificial device, she refused. According to her father, Constance didn’t like how her voice sounded. It embarrassed her, and on more than one occasion, the teen had openly stated she’d wished the cancer had killed her instead. Because her mother had taught her sign language as a child, the girl resorted to using it for communication instead of the prosthesis she’d been given.

In accordance with her family’s wishes, we were to dissuade her from using signs and promote speaking in class.

The warning bell rang, and my ninth-grade students streamed into the classroom, chatting noisily as they took their assigned seats on the risers, dictated by what primary instrument they played.

Each student carried an instrument case along with their standard backpack. Our routine never fluctuated. We started every day with scales.

Constance entered as the final bell rang. Tight flaxen braids hung over each shoulder. Her uniform did nothing to hide her petite frame. Knobby knees showed under the hem of her skirt, while bony fingers clasped the straps of her backpack. Nervous eyes glanced around the room, taking in everything and everyone at once. I could imagine it had been a daunting first day.

Her wary attention fell on me.

“Hush. The bell’s gone. Instruments out. You have ten minutes of free practice time before we get started.”

The noise settled to hum and the clamor of instruments being assembled. The squeak of adjusting stands, the preliminary honk of a horn, a screech of a bow on an untuned string. I motioned for Constance to join me at the desk in the back corner of the room.

Constance looked nothing like her father. Her fair skin and lighter hair contrasted August’s darker features. Where he was tall and broad, she was short and willowy. Fragile, which I feared was a result of the cancer.

Before she reached the desk, the hectic commotion of twenty-one students running scales overtook the room, reverberating against the walls.

Constance didn’t carry an instrument, only a school bag. I directed her to pull up a chair, and when she sat, she placed the backpack at her feet.

“I’m told you go by the name of Constance. Is that correct?”

The girl nodded, her body language the epitome of misery. I didn’t have to know a thing about her to know she didn’t want to be here. It was torture.

A patterned scarf circled the girl’s neck, drawing my attention. She didn’t wear it for fashion, but how many other girls had accused her of breaking the Timber Creek dress code rules because of it? Had they teased? Tattled?

I knew what the fabric covered and told myself not to stare or make her uncomfortable. Having worked in a high school for my entire career, I understood teenage sensitivities regarding self-image. I could only imagine how such a drastic change in the girl’s life had affected her—not purely her fight against cancer and having surgery, but Constance had spent her whole academic life with private tutors.

Koa had been homeschooled, and I knew the social struggles he’d encountered when his grandfather eventually put him in a regular curriculum.

But here was a girl battling depression after a life-altering surgery, and instead of allowing for a period of adjustment, her parents had made it worse by plunging her into a school system where Constance was at the mercy of potentially mean-spirited peers.

I offered the fretful teen a warm smile as I leaned across the desk, getting closer to be heard over the racket. “If no one has said it yet, welcome to Timber Creek. I’m Mr. Edwidge, the one and only music teacher. Let me start by saying I’m pleased and rather embarrassed to have you in my class. I saw your performance at Roy Thompson Hall. I have to be honest, Miss Castellanos, I don’t think I’m a worthy instructor. You should be teaching me, not the other way around.”

My comment earned a soft smile and a modest head shake. The girl’s cheeks flushed pink.

“What? You’re not that good? I misheard? That wasn’t you playing the piano the other night?”

Her smile grew, and she shrugged.

“I think you’re humble. I met your father earlier today.”

The smile faded. Constance’s chin dipped until her gaze landed on the bag at her feet. The same melancholy I used to see on my best friend slipped over her body like a comfortable sweater, so I said something I shouldn’t.

“Your dad’s a bit of a show-off, isn’t he?”

Constance lifted her head, eyes sparkling with humor. She nodded briskly in agreement. I’d spent one period with the man. I couldn’t fathom growing up under his tutelage.

I chuckled. “You’re not going to waltz in here and make me feel small too, are you? I’ll hand in my teaching badge right now. I don’t think I could handle it.”

She shook her head, still grinning.

“Good. Phew.” I dramatically swiped my brow. “Now that we got that out of the way, I see you didn’t bring an instrument. How about we take a stroll and find you something to play for today?”

With her disability, I had no idea if wind instruments were possible. Not wanting to make her unnecessarily uncomfortable by asking, I encouraged Constance to follow me to the storage room outside the music department, where we kept our stringed instruments.

The noise dampened beyond the classroom, so I didn’t need to raise my voice as I guided her to the storage closet adjacent to the gymnasium. I unlocked it and held the door wide.

“Pick whatever your heart desires, mademoiselle.”

With less strain in her shoulders, Constance peered into the crowded room and scanned the full shelves. She moved immediately to the violins and selected the shiniest case. Giving her options seemed to have made her happy.

Constance opened the case and inspected the instrument from the scroll to the chin rest before reverently removing it from its soft velvet cushion and cradling it under her jaw. The bows were kept separately. I selected one and handed it to her. She carefully adjusted the tension on the bow until it was to her liking and glanced up as though seeking approval.

“Do you want to try it first before we go back?”

She nodded, and I told her to go ahead.

Eyes closed, fingers balanced with precision over the strings, Constance played. She started with a simple scale, a C major, but moved rapidly into scale variations, something I encouraged my students to practice all the time for warmup. Few of them listened, which was why scales were part of our daily routine.

The violin’s tuning was off, but Constance caught it immediately and adjusted a peg. Satisfied, she balanced the violin under her chin again and went right into a piece of music I didn’t recognize.

A dreamy expression came over her. At the show, I’d been too far away to register an emotional impact, but in the storage room, I had front-row seats, and the music transformed her.

Forget it. Never mind the crusty rules. I didn’t care who her father was or what his demands were. Constance’s parents could force her to speak, but I wasn’t doing it. It wasn’t my job. My job was to teach. My job was to nurture the heart and soul of music. This girl had a talent like none I’d ever seen, and despite envy and jealousy, I wanted to be part of her growth. Without knowing a thing about her, I could tell Constance needed an adult on her side.

Chapter four

August

The restaurant was modest, with a standard menu of comfort food and a wine list consisting of two choices: Red or white. Constance had picked the location for dinner, and considering Peterborough was a small city in relation to the various others I’d visited over the years, it could have been worse. I wouldn’t begrudge her on the first day of school. We were meant to be celebrating.

Although agreeable to dinner out, Constance made no attempt to share her impressions of Timber Creek, the faculty, or her assigned schedule. Since arriving at the restaurant, she’d picked at the complimentary bread rolls, tore a napkin to pulp, and people-watched. It was as though I didn’t exist.

“How was day one?”

She shrugged noncommittally, more interested in a family dining a few tables away. A mother and father seemed entrenched in a silent argument while continuously shooting daggers at one another across the table. A teenage girl, more focused on her phone than the untouched lasagna heaped on her plate, and two boys who looked to be about eight and ten, horsing around with their french fries in a manner inappropriate for dining out—or eating in for that matter.

I sipped red wine and searched for our waiter. A meal might divert Constance’s attention to our table since my company failed to do so. “Do you have homework?”

No eye contact. She shook her head and stirred the thick milkshake she’d ordered with the paper straw.

“Make any friends?”

I earned a dirty look that conveyed I was an idiot, coupled with another head shake

I sighed and attempted a humorous angle to see if I could draw some life out of her. “Don’t forget my stance on dating. Unless he can play Stravinsky’s Trois mouvements de Petrouchka backward while standing on his head, he isn’t worthy of my daughter.”

Constance rolled her eyes.

Every conversation since October, when I’d taken custody of my daughter, followed the same pattern. I talked, and she either nodded, shook her head, rolled her eyes, or shrugged, depending on the question or context of the offered dialogue. In the beginning, I’d found it infuriating and insisted she stop being difficult. Informing her she ought to use her voice or else. Or else what? I didn’t know. I’d paid for the best speech therapy in the world, so in my opinion, she should damn well use the skills she’d learned to communicate.

Teenagers, however, were of a different breed, and there existed no minacious threat strong enough to force them to do anything they didn’t want to do. Constance was especially willful, and since Chloé had given up and allowed our daughter to use the sign language she’d been taught as a child, I was the spiteful parent.

I tried a new angle. “How was music class? I have a feeling you might be able to teach your instructor a thing or two.”

Basal gestures and a sulking posture were so commonplace that I flinched when Constance snapped to attention with a flash of anger. I expected a flurry of hand movements I wouldn’t understand, so when she rose from the table and returned with a fresh napkin and pen, it took me by surprise. Not once in the months we’d been cohabiting did Constance make communication easy.

She spent a minute furiously writing before shoving the napkin toward me and crossing her arms.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She stabbed a finger on the table and pointed at her written message.

I read. Why do you have to be such an egotistical show-off? I don’t need you hovering over me. Mr. Edwidge was the nicest teacher I had today. He was warm and understanding, unlike you. He doesn’t need your help, and I don’t need you constantly in my face. Stay home.

Frowning, I glanced at my daughter. “I don’t understand.”

She snatched the napkin back and wrote again with such passion the pen tore through in places.

Why can’t you be normal? Why do you have to make everyone feel small? You don’t need another job. Stay home and work on that stupid composition you were hired for. Leave Mr. Edwidge alone. He doesn’t need your expertise.

She underlined the word expertise, although it needed no added emphasis. The sentiment showed in the bold press of the pen. Confused, I replayed the exchange with Timber Creek’s music teacher, seeking evidence I’d overstepped. Was my lesson on Gaspard de la Nuit misconstrued? Did Niles think I was showing off? Had I made him feel small? I’d only wanted to help.

It would explain the surliness I’d encountered.

Since my daughter’s concerns seemed multilayered, I let the narcissistic implication fall to the wayside and focused on the more pressing matter of my attendance at the school.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy with this decision, but your mother and I discussed sending you to school and felt it was in your best interest if I—”

She tore the napkin from my hand, ripping the corner. Again, she penned a message.

“I wish you would speak to me properly.”

Constance paused long enough to sneer before continuing.

Mom didn’t agree with this. She would never have sent me to school. My best interest would have been staying with her. I liked my tutors. I liked my life. You ruined everything. The least you could have done was stick up for her. You should have stayed in Chicago.

The untimely arrival of our meals halted the conversation. I took a moment to process the hatred and accusation in my daughter’s written tone. Chloé hadn’t agreed with me about school, that was true, but Constance’s view surrounding everything else was skewed, and I’d become the scapegoat for her anger.

I thanked the server, requested a second glass of wine, and positioned a napkin on my lap, still absorbing Constance’s hurtful words. I couldn’t tell my daughter I didn’t want to be there either, that I would have much preferred staying in Chicago than racing to Ontario to rescue her. I’d never played an active role in Constance’s life. Over the years, Chloé had allowed me to come and go as I pleased, so I’d focused on my career instead.

When Constance was first diagnosed, I’d gone home and tried to have a proper relationship with Chloé, to be the parent I was supposed to be. It had been an utter mess. I was miserable without music, and Chloé was miserable with me.

My silence persisted for too long. Constance rolled her eyes and reached for the makeshift notepad I’d discarded.

I removed it from her hand before she could scold me anew, crumpling it into a ball. “No more. Eat your dinner.”

The meal passed uncomfortably, the air between us doused with hostility. Instead of objurgating my daughter on things she didn’t understand, I cleared my mind with some Debussy, hearing the notes in my head and imagining “Syrinx” flowing effortlessly off my fingers, filling an auditorium.

It gave me peace and took me away for a while to a place where the world hadn’t been turned upside down, where I wasn’t fully responsible for the well-being of a depressed, disabled, and stubborn daughter who hated and blamed me for her misery.

At one point, Debussy changed to a faint tune, a few bars of music I’d heard earlier in the day. It was nothing more than a handful of connecting notes. I couldn’t name the piece or recall when I’d heard them, but they lingered.

Constance picked at her food, eating small morsels of cheese-baked macaroni while cautiously sipping the milkshake between bites. As instructed by the team of specialists, she pressed against the prosthesis when swallowing the thickened liquid to ensure a tight seal of the plug to prevent leaking.

Eating had been the first challenge. Upon conquering this initial summit, we realized the mountain of woes, ascending beyond the clouds, stretched to a height we never knew existed. We were still climbing, and the clouds blocked our view of the peak.

In the early days of the TEP, Chloé hired someone to make special scarf-like TEP covers suitable for a teenager. Constance owned one for every color of the rainbow and several with fancy patterns to match any outfit she might want to wear. It gave her a unique style and flair, but they never made her happy.

As dinner progressed, the unknown music vanished, replaced once again by “Syrinx.” “Syrinx” became Chaminade’s “Concertino,” and my thoughts drifted to that morning with Niles. I must have been too caught up in my inappropriate musing of his person to fully register the hurt I’d caused.

Constance slapped the table, drawing my attention.

“What? Don’t do that. It’s rude.”

She pointed to her mouth, then made the universal sign for be quiet. Unsure what had invoked such reproach, I stared at my daughter as I finished the last few bites of seafood ravioli from my plate and drained the wine. When I caught myself humming and my daughter silently shushed me again, I understood.

Constance had long ago pushed her plate aside, abandoning more than half her meal. Her appetite had never returned after chemo, and the doctors worried she was underweight for a girl her age.

I didn’t have the capacity to argue any longer, so I paid for dinner and followed her out to the rental car.

At the cottage, Constance went to her room. I didn’t expect to see her again for the rest of the night. Hearing the soft reverberation of the violin, I smiled. Music was the only thing we had in common, and hearing her practice soothed the ache in my heart.

I retrieved the growing stacks of pencil-marked staff paper from my desk and deposited myself at the upright Steinway in the corner of the living room. Constance had her vice, and I had mine. Together, yet apart, we played.

Hours passed as I worked on a commissioned piece of music, scribbling and erasing like a man on a mission, pounding out chords and testing arias, experimenting with arpeggios and various dynamics. The whole while, Constance entertained with Bach, Mozart, and Haydn.

Constance’s playing ended at nine thirty, and I assumed she’d gone to bed.

It was long past midnight before I did the same. Drifting off to those same few unknown bars of music that had troubled me at the restaurant, I tumbled into a dream where together Niles and I played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on the piano in his music room. Shoulder to shoulder, the hot press of his body lit me on fire, stirring desires I hadn’t felt in years.

In the bright light of day, I would have denied the feelings, but in sleep, I had no control.

***

Wednesday, the first day of my guest teaching position, dawned gray and wet. Low clouds moved swiftly across the charcoal sky. The snow of the previous two days had melted into mucky sludge along the cedar chip paths, and a cold December wind blew off the lake. Timber Creek’s sodden campus emitted pungent odors of pine, fishy water, and wet earth.

Constance marched ahead as she’d done the first day of class, refusing to acknowledge my presence or engage in conversation. When I’d spoken to her mother on the phone the previous night, I’d lied and told her our daughter was adjusting well. In truth, we’d barely talked since dinner at the restaurant on Monday, and if school was troublesome, I would likely be the last to find out.

When I’d tried to engage Constance in meaningful conversation the previous afternoon, she’d piled her homework on the dining room table and given me the I’m busy glare with which I was intimately acquainted.

Constance cut across the parking lot and entered the main building, veering down a hallway and vanishing from sight before I could catch up or say goodbye. I considered chasing her down but aimed for the music room instead, pretending my feelings weren’t hurt. The goal was to arrive early so I could talk to Niles before class, apologize for my behavior on the day we’d met—although I still didn’t know where I’d gone wrong—and offer to start again on the right foot.

The classroom was empty, and only when the bell rang and no one showed up did I recall the first-period spare. For all I knew, Niles would spend the time in the staffroom or library simply to avoid running into me too soon. Maybe he’d decided to sleep in and was wandering his house in boxers with his long hair brushing the edges of his collarbones.

I immediately dismissed the thought before it grew into something I couldn’t contain. Dreaming inappropriately was one thing, but I was wide awake and refused to consciously entertain such notions.

I wandered to the center of the room and the conductor’s stand, glancing at the risers, stands, and empty chairs. Self-conscious, I touched my necktie as I envisioned a full body of students, an audience, and spotlights warming my cheeks. I buttoned my jacket and stood tall.

Music filled my head. I picked up the baton from the conductor’s stand and took control. A haunting requiem, a dainty ballad, a punchy, complex concerto. Conducting was a position I’d filled many times in the past. In Vienna, Bologna, and Ibiza. I loved the power of having an entire symphony orchestra at my mercy, commanding every nuance of an ensemble.

I swung my arm in accordance with the complex 7/8 time signature, emphasizing certain passages with hard strokes of the wrist while softening others with smoother movements and a lighter touch. I heard it all and felt the music in my veins. Every note. Every crescendo and decrescendo. Every accent and articulation.

The music ended, and I opened my eyes to find empty chairs and empty stands. What was I doing? Why was I here? I didn’t belong. Years of study and practice, only to land in a high school music room seemed unjust. Worse, the man running the department had already classified me as an intrusive show-off.

Unfairly dejected, I replaced the baton, undid my suit jacket, and sat at the piano bench. The chipped ivories carried a history I knew nothing about. How many musicians had sat on this bench and played these keys? How many tears had been shed? How painful were the finger cramps and shoulder aches? How many had given up? How many had gone on to make something of their lives?

Would my presence at the academy make a difference, or was I wasting my time? I loved my daughter, but until recently, I’d never had to sacrifice anything for her benefit. Timber Creek Academy was a sacrifice. Maybe I wouldn’t feel resentful if she didn’t turn everything into a challenge.

I didn’t classify myself as a good father, but I put Constance first, as was required and expected. I took care of her needs and parented the only way I knew how. Shamefully, in the dark recess of my mind, I was a selfish bastard who missed his old life and hated Chloé for putting me in this situation. I wanted to be back in Chicago, in the first chair, in the first row, where I belonged.

Unsettled, I began to play, starting with a lesser-known piece by Rachmaninoff but quickly moving on to Liszt. From there, I played a bit of Brahms, Gershwin, and a particular piece I enjoyed by Wagner. None of it settled my troubled soul. None of it vanquished the guilt or resentment I held toward my daughter and Chloé. None of it would give me back the position I’d abandoned with the orchestra.

Focusing my energy elsewhere, I considered Timber Creek’s music teacher, wishing I could find the power to hate him or not care what he thought of me. Instead, I tumbled into dreamland, reminiscing about wild, wheat-colored hair splayed on a pillowcase, sunset eyes, a tightly bearded jaw, and the strained stretch of tendons along a neck tipped back in ecstasy.

My tempo changed. I was not one to rush when I played, but as my heart picked up, so did my pace. The tune shifted to those few random bars. I added to them, following the path of the music wherever it might lead.

I inhaled the rich foresty scent of Niles’s skin and imagined the warm press of his body against my own.

My dream had not been this detailed, but as I conjured far lewder fantasies and slipped deeper into a rarely explored hole in my mind, I forgot where I was and what I was doing. Only when I fumbled the notes, the error jolting me back to reality, did I give my head a shake and scowl.

No. I wasn’t going there. That wasn’t me. I didn’t do those things anymore.

Also, the piano was definitely out of tune. Niles didn’t know what he was talking about, and if he ever showed his face, I would tell him as much.

Chapter five

Niles

The warning bell rang, and students filtered through the door to Koa’s classroom. I’d overstayed my welcome, but Koa’s indifferent attitude was the only thing keeping me grounded. Without it, I’d have gone off the rails, worrying about my job and the man who’d come to replace me.

It was hard to rile Koa. Until recently, my ex-lover’s views on life veered toward morbid and bleak. It was partly why we’d broken up. No matter the exuded effort, I hadn’t been able to make Koa care about anything, including me. Jersey, one of Koa’s childhood friends from camp, had broken through those barriers. It initially stung, but time had healed the wound. I was happy for Koa but couldn’t help feeling like I’d missed my chance at love.

At forty-four, all the good men were taken.

“Have lunch with me?” I vacated the desk where I’d spent the last fifteen minutes bemoaning my situation.

Koa moved to the doorway to greet students and collect assignments from tired-looking teens before they collapsed into their seats. “I can’t today. Jersey’s meeting me at Pestle & Mortar. He has a game in Niagara tonight, so I won’t see him otherwise. Besides, you should spend your lunch hour making your guest feel welcome. Take him out to eat.”

“Except I don’t want to.”

“Then eat lunch alone and mope. It won’t change your circumstance.”

A group of boys entered, roughhousing and laughing, bringing with them a cloud of Axe body spray. The stockier of the bunch, a trumpet player named Dean, bumped into me before I could step out of the way.

“Oh, hey. Sorry, Mr. Edwidge.”

“No harm, no foul.”

“Homework.” Koa extended a hand as each boy deposited their reports in turn.

“I’ll see you later.”

The influx of students dwindled, and Koa stepped into the hall to see me off. Without a teacher surveying the class, the teens took Koa’s absence as permission to chatter and grow rambunctious.

Koa poked his head back into the room to hush them before closing the door partly to block the noise. “Did you talk to Dr. McCaine?”

“No. What am I going to say? Do I accuse her of lying? Ask if she’s planning to offer Mr. Maestro my job?”

“I believe it’s Dr. Maestro if we’re giving him two titles.”

“You’re an ass.”

A rare smile appeared on my friend’s face. “She could assuage your fears.”

“True, or she could validate them.”

“Honestly, Niles. You’re overreacting.”

“Time will tell. I’ll be jobless by summer. Prepare your spare room. I’ll need to give up the house and move in.”

“He doesn’t want your job. Who would? Listen to these animals.” He motioned to the classroom and the steadily growing madness within.

The final bell rang, and Constance appeared at the end of the hall, moving in our direction. Koa noticed her as well.

I lowered my voice. “Is she in your class?”

“She is.”

“Has she spoken?”

“Not a word, but she’s an avid reader. I can tell.”

Constance closed the distance and held out her printed assignment.

“Good morning, Miss Castellanos.” Koa accepted the report and scanned the cover page. “You didn’t need the extra time?”

Constance shook her head. Before slipping into the classroom, she offered me a soft smile and a shy wave.

“Good morning. Should I assume your dad is waiting for me?”

She stopped short of rolling her eyes and nodded.

Chuckling, I squeezed Koa’s arm. “I better not keep him waiting. I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Come over tonight for wine. Jersey won’t be home, and you can tell me about your day.”

I would have said something unsavory had August’s daughter not been standing there with watchful eyes and perked ears. Instead, I agreed and retreated as Koa and Constance entered the classroom.

“All right. Settle down,” Koa shouted above the din.

The wide, vacant halls with their tall ceilings echoed with the clip of my shoes as I wandered to the stairwell and descended to the first floor. I considered spending my free period in the staffroom to avoid seeing August but figured my petulance about the situation had reached its limits.

Koa was right. Whining and bitching—avoiding—wouldn’t change the situation. It was what it was, and I could get over myself and stop acting like the teenagers I taught.

The screech of running shoes on the gymnasium floor accompanied me down the lengthy hallway leading to the music room. A sharp whistle sounded before Coach Blaine shouted muffled instructions I couldn’t make out from beyond the concrete wall.

I stopped outside the music room door and noticed that someone had fixed the staff and notes I’d plastered to its surface. Constance? August? It had to be one of the two since, prior to their arrival, I alone spent endless hours correcting the mess. The students made a game of rehanging my decorations. Lately, I’d lost the energy to care and refused to amend the disorder.

From within, the piano sounded out a jaunty tune with a clash of chords and intricate fingering. The mood shifted, and the tone changed. It became melancholy. I didn’t recognize the piece, but it sounded… sloppy and disconnected, which made me think a student with a spare period had come to practice.

I half expected to find August hovered over them, offering suggestions for improvement, so I was taken aback when I discovered the maestro himself was the one faltering the melody and tangling chords. It wasn’t hard to see why. The man was zoned out, gaze locked on an unseen distant landscape, no longer present with the music. His fingers played by rote, attention seemingly divided.

I still didn’t recognize the piece. The style was unique enough that I should have picked up on the composer’s signature, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Before I could announce my presence and ask, August returned to himself, stopped playing with a heavy sigh, and muttered something under his breath that wasn’t in English.

“It’s reassuring to discover you’re as flawed as the rest of us. What were you playing? I don’t know it.” Was the remark pettish and immature? Yes, but the man had upset me during our previous encounter, and despite Koa’s lectures, I wasn’t over it.

August spun to face me, showing no signs of having been startled. “Ah, Mr. Edwidge. Hello. I, um… I call it Silent Dove. One of many pieces I’m working on. It’s meant to illustrate the trials of my daughter’s life, only I can’t quite capture the right tone. She’s an enigma… with me, anyhow.” He shook his head. “It’s a work in progress. I don’t have the sheet music I’ve written with me, so I’m playing from memory and trying to reconstruct it as I go.”

My stomach fell. It wasn’t a lesser-known composer’s piece. The obscurity lay in its origins. Unpublished. Unknown. A creation still in the making. Not sloppy, fumbled, or filled with errors. The flawed playing I’d overheard was the first brushstroke of a work of art—and I’d criticized it.

August stood. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was hoping we could talk before the students arrive.” He buttoned his jacket and touched his necktie, moving it slightly off-center in his attempt to straighten it. Its incongruence didn’t fit.

Everything else about the man was perfect. His mahogany hair, scarcely touched by age, the clean-shaven, razor-sharp edge of his jaw, his costly suit, and polished shoes. Even the comforting aroma of musk and sophistication spoke of elegance and superiority.

“Talk?” I asked, trying to find my footing, my inadequacies roaring to life.

“Yes. We got off to a bad start the other day. I have a tendency to… I shouldn’t have offered suggestions when you didn’t ask to be appraised. It won’t happen again. My daughter… Constance informed me I was showing off by… Well, she didn’t specify. I assume I shouldn’t have demonstrated those strategies for Gaspard de la Nuit. I thought I was being helpful, but… Regardless, I apologize if I overstepped or offended. It was not my intent.”

Again, he touched the tie, and his fingers moved subconsciously to the buttons on his jacket before he caught himself and lowered his arm.

I never bothered with a jacket. Most days, I could barely keep my sleeves rolled down. The confinement of a suit was never to my liking, so again, I walked the line of Timber Creek’s faculty regulations.

Despite the desire to clash swords, arguing with the man wouldn’t prove productive. If we were to work together, I needed to put my bruised ego in a box and trust Koa when he promised the school wasn’t seeking a replacement.

“I’m sure we can put our differences aside. Your… remarks were much appreciated,” I lied. “I’ve been struggling with that piece for a while.”

“It’s quite challenging.”

And yet you played it by heart, I wanted to say but smartly kept the observation to myself.

I glanced about the classroom before returning my attention to August. “I was considering how best to incorporate your… talent into the curriculum.”

“If it helps, I have no desire to teach history or theory. Although it was the primary focus of my education, I have no love for it. I want to conduct.” He moved to the podium and removed the baton. “I want to select a piece from your back room”—he pointed with the stick—“and nurture it to life here.” He turned to the vacant risers and seats, opening his arms wide.

Something about his impassioned tone hit me in the chest. I knew that deep lust, the craving to create, to bring a piece of music to life. But this was my classroom. They were my students. In here, it was my life’s work. Giving it up to someone more skilled hurt.

August turned to me, the look in his eyes begging me not to deny him. The boyish spark of excitement on such a mature man caught me off guard. I could hardly tell him no. I’d seen that same look many times over the years on students, driven by cravings so powerful they believed they might die if their wishes were not fulfilled. It was only for a few months.

“Okay. We can sort that out. Although I’ll not step down as conductor for the upcoming Christmas show. We are too far along. The spring concert, however, is at the beginning of June. If you’re staying that long. I don’t usually focus on fresh material until after the new year. By then, you should have a feel for the students and their skills. Typically, each class performs three pieces. Students are chosen to perform solos or duets based on their midterm performances, which are happening in two weeks. You can sit in and help grade if you’d like. We can select those we want to showcase together.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Since I didn’t want to give up my entire livelihood, I suggested August take responsibility for the senior class and concert band, leaving me the junior levels. “The concert band meets after school a few days a week. You could offer tutelage to those selected for solos. Often, they need an accompanying pianist. We could divide that duty.”

August eagerly agreed, and the rigidity in his shoulders lessened. He seemed more relaxed. With business discussed and pushed aside, the conversation ended, leaving enough white space between us, August shifted his weight, touched his tie, and unbuttoned the top part of his jacket before refastening it.

I checked the time.

What now? The students wouldn’t arrive for twenty-odd minutes. Although I wasn’t keen on comradery, the barrier I’d erected between us needed to be dismantled if we were going to make this work.

“So…” I cleared my throat. “I know nothing about you. I haven’t looked you up.” You aren’t special is what the subtext alleged, but I felt instantly guilty and juvenile, wishing I could take the words back.

“Oh.” August nodded but seemed unsure of what to say. He touched his tie, his buttons. He smoothed a hand down his jacket front—again. A nervous tick perhaps?

“Are you really a maestro?”

“That’s what they tell me. I don’t prefer the title. August or Mr. Castellanos if the informality doesn’t suit you.”

“Isn’t it Dr. Castellanos?”

August nodded. “Technically.”

Another wound.

“Your accent. Where’s it from?”

The man shrugged. “Probably Greece.”

“Probably?”

“I’ve lived everywhere. It may have gotten muddled over the years, but I was born and raised in Evia. My father’s Greek. I’m half Greek. Greek is my first language.”

“Do you speak more than one?”

“Oh, yes.” Chin raised, wearing a smirk, he added, “I speak perfect English.”

I blanched, then laughed, swiping a hand over my face. “My god. That was the stupidest question ever. What I meant was, do you speak others besides Greek and English?”

August’s bashful smile remained, and I hated him more for his natural charm. His handsomeness eclipsed his arrogance and made me forget I’d classified him as an enemy. “I speak a few. My mother’s Italian, so I’m fluent. I also spent four years in Russia with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, so I have a good handle on Russian. I was a guest conductor in Ibiza, so my Spanish is passable. I have decent French and Polish. Oh, and I speak German. Poorly. I conducted in Vienna for six months in 2009. It’s where I met Chloé.

“She’s not my wife,” he blurted when I thought he was done speaking. “We’re not married. We’ve never been… It was just a…” He deflated and winced. “Dear god. You didn’t ask, and I’m oversharing. How embarrassing. Forgive me.”

I smothered a smile. It was the first time I’d seen August flustered, and it looked good on him. It took the starch out of his personality and turned him into a real person—one with imperfections.

“That’s a lot of languages. Are there any you don’t know on a basic level?”

“Yes.” His brows met in the middle, and he frowned at the floor, scuffing the toe of a shoe against a stain in the industrial carpeting. “American Sign Language. Funny, I have an eidetic memory. I can figure out a piece of music on a handful of listens, no sheet music required, but ask me to talk with my hands, and I can’t do it.” He shook his head and quietly mused. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

The admission seemed to unbalance him, and I couldn’t help wondering if we’d touched on a sore subject. His daughter was nonverbal—by choice, I was led to believe—but I had a gut feeling the disturbed tone had to do with her. Instead of wading in troubled waters, I changed courses.

“Is the piano your main instrument?” I motioned to the Steinway. “You said you played with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra?”

“I did, and no. I’m a flutist first, pianist second, composer third, and conductor fourth if we’re numbering them. Trained at Juilliard, although I did a year at the Athens Conservatory before transferring. I have a DMA with a concentration in both theory and composition. I hold—held—first chair with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra before… coming here.”

Juilliard trained. Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I let the acidity of his statement burn my insides. The man had lived my life, or rather, the life I’d wanted and dreamed about since boyhood. Jealous heat filled my belly, and I must have looked sufficiently jaded.

August winced. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

The warning bell rang, marking the end of first period. I glanced at the clock.

“How about you spend the day observing. Get a feel for classroom life. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to. If you have any questions…” I trailed off. What could I possibly have to offer a man like August? This whole situation was a joke.

I was barely a shadow in his bright ray of sunshine.

***

August confiscated my desk and spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon observing the routine as I’d suggested. After a preliminary introduction to each class, where I called him Maestro Castellanos out of spite, he didn’t interrupt or exchange words with the students. He didn’t flaunt his credentials or correct my methods.

Yet I felt judged.

I felt inferior.

I felt like a child with a bully, except the bully was perfectly respectable and doing no harm. The problem, I recognized, was fully mine.

Regardless, I didn’t invite August for lunch or stick around to ensure he felt welcome at Timber Creek. In my indignance, I abandoned him and ate in my car with the heat running. What if a colleague asked about my day? I would be forced to lie and say all was fine.

Technically, all was fine. The only thing not fine was me.

Guilt festered over the hour break, and I begrudgingly brought an extra coffee when I returned to the classroom, unsure if my guest indulged in caffeinated beverages but needing a peace offering, nonetheless.

August was at the piano again.

He stopped when I moved into his line of sight and smiled shyly when I extended an apology in the form of a ceramic mug wafting steam and a bold coffee essence. “Coffee,” I announced. “The staffroom only has milk, no cream. If you need sugar, I keep those individual packets in the top drawer of my desk. If you don’t drink coffee…”

“I do. Thank you.” He stared at it momentarily and sat it beside him on the bench without taking a sip. “Which class is Constance in?”

“Last period.”

He absently nodded, attention drifting to the ivories. “I might take that time to rummage through the available pieces in the back room.”

“Whatever you want.”

Chapter six

August

Fourth period arrived, along with a full dose of anxiety and a classroom full of students my daughter’s age. I couldn’t share my concerns with Niles. Although amicable with one another, undeniable tension rippled the air between us.

Niles didn’t like me. He didn’t want me there.

Worse, he seemed to have put me on a pedestal, convinced I lived an idealistic life because of a top education and career success. Niles didn’t see the darker side of my life, the underbelly, the horror that lived behind curtain number two outside the public eye. My complicated relationship with Chloé and my parents notwithstanding, ten minutes of observing the friction between father and daughter might show him otherwise. The elevated pedestal was undeserved.

Niles would soon realize that one could excel at music and fail at life.

Shame filled me long before Constance graced the classroom. She didn’t want me there either, and our ongoing squabbles might prove disruptive, if not embarrassing.

Before I could make excuses and leave, escape to the back room as planned, Constance appeared among a cluster of students. She frantically scanned the room until our gazes clashed, upon which she gave me a cold-eyed glare, flicked a braid over her shoulder, and took a seat next to three violinists, who prepared their instruments, tightening bowstrings and testing their tuning.

The boy on Constance’s left immediately engaged her with ceaseless chatter, and she smiled in a way I’d never seen. My gut curdled. Any parent understood the queasy sensation born when their child reached puberty and started dating, but I was at a disadvantage. I hadn’t developed a foundational relationship with Constance in her youth. My extended absence meant I’d never been the rule enforcer. That responsibility had rested solely with Chloé.

Until now.

The new position of authority was going down like a sinking ship.

The boy was a fellow violinist with auburn hair and glowing dimples. Constance communicated with nods, shakes, and a few simple hand gestures. No shrugging or eye rolling for him. She used her phone to type messages to the boy, and he read them with wide eyes before responding. I considered taking her phone away but dismissed the notion. It was not a feasible option in this day and age.

With the assembly of instruments came loud honking, sharp screeching, and the shrill whine of tuning. Warmups filled the room. Staccato scales and long-held notes. A boy with a trumpet balanced on his knee blew raspberries into a mouthpiece and formed obscure and purposefully obscene shapes with his lips to exercise his embouchure.

Niles quieted them after a time and motioned me forward. He’d insisted on a proper introduction before I escaped to the back room, as he’d done with the other classes. For whatever reason, Niles felt it prudent to list the handful of accomplishments I’d shared earlier in the day like they alone encompassed me as a person. Little did he know that what I told him barely scratched the surface.

“Starting today, we have a guest teacher among us. Please welcome Maestro Castellanos, a Juilliard-trained musician specializing in flute, piano, composition, and theory. The maestro left the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to join us, so we should be grateful he’s lending us his talent.”

“Mr. Castellanos is fine. It’s nice to be here.”

The mouth-stretching trumpeter raised a hand and waited to be acknowledged before speaking. “I’ve heard of you. My mom saw you perform in London years ago, a private show at the Royal Festival Hall. She talked about it nonstop when she got home. She’s followed your career ever since. She thinks you’re hot.” Students giggled. “She has a poster of you in her office. Drives Dad crazy. I can’t wait to tell her you’re teaching us. You won two World Classical Music Awards, didn’t you?”

I sensed Niles’s gaze boring into the side of my face and reached for the buttons on my jacket, undoing the top one, then doing it back up before clearing my throat. “I won three, actually.” Instead of embellishing, I offered the youth a patent smile and motioned to Constance. “My daughter won the gold WCMA at age six for violin. I think that’s far more notable.”

Constance shrank in her seat as several students glanced in her direction. The toxic glare I earned suggested I’d misspoken. Again.

“Tell your mother I said hi,” I concluded with a wince.

Niles came to the rescue, calling the class to order and allowing me to slip out of the spotlight and into the back room. I hadn’t expected to be recognized and put on the spot. My fame was nuanced. Unless a person was entrenched in the classical music world, I was nobody. Another face in the crowd. I’d declined every offer to publish my work, sticking to private performances to showcase new pieces. I’d refused countless TV interviews and allowed only a few articles to be printed in magazines.

My music was my voice, and if people wanted to hear it, they could find me in an auditorium on stage. They could pay the big bucks and attend a show. Unfortunately, being photographed was part of most contracts. Marketing included printing brochures and posters, double-page spreads in programs listing the dozens of achievements Niles had yet to learn about.

I turned on the light in the music library and absorbed the task as I listened to Niles teach.

The complexity of scale variations he used with the ninth graders for warmup was understandably different from those he used with the seniors. Both verged on rote. The students would benefit from more variety. A bigger challenge. He didn’t correct them as he should when they made mistakes. I would change that.

Standing among thigh-high stacks of compositions, ear cocked, picking out errors and easily distinguishing my daughter’s playing from her auburn-haired suitor, the conductor in me reared with a barely restrained force.

Among a class of twenty-some-odd students, I heard every note, evaluated each individual pitch and reverberation, and concluded that eleven students played with reasonable skill, and the rest were trash. I wanted to be at Niles’s desk, appraising them properly and taking notes for later use.

Constance would have been upset regardless. My mere existence bothered her. Whether I hid in the back room or remained in plain sight, it wouldn’t change our relationship.

Before long, Niles allowed the teens to spread out and work on their midterm solos. A few students gathered in the instrument storage area outside the music library, where I’d lost myself among scores.

I half listened and half explored options for the spring concert, plucking crisper folders from the shelf, knowing, because of their condition, they contained compositions that had likely never been played. Unaware of the skill level of the concert band and having only seen the senior class for the first time earlier that day, I was ill-prepared to choose something appropriate.

Abandoning the task, I slipped out the door and moved silently among the scattered pupils, observing their individual methods of practice, analyzing their choices for their pieces, and smiling at the few who made eye contact.

Although the urge to offer guidance or suggestions was almost too strong to resist, I held my tongue, hearing my daughter call me a show-off and seeing Niles’s face when I’d proposed changes to his playing on the first day we’d met.

Another day, when they were more comfortable with my presence and didn’t see me as a threat, I would correct their errors. Although I rather thought Niles was the only person who felt threatened by me, and I couldn’t fathom why.

The practice rooms contained a few students each, none taking advantage of the provided study time, seemingly more interested in chatting. How did they expect to improve? Again, I held my tongue.

In the main music room, a spread of teenagers occupied every nook and cranny, and the conglomeration of noise was familiar and soothing.

The mouth-stretching trumpet player stood nearby, fingers bouncing with ease on the keys of his instrument. His tone was perfect, and I followed along as he played. When he caught me watching, he stopped and grinned. “I want to go to Juilliard too, so if you have any advice…”

“I do. Practice, practice, practice. Your playing is decent, but decent won’t get you anywhere. It needs to be exceptional. Eat, sleep, and breathe your music. It’s a discipline as much as a skill. Juilliard is beyond competitive. Only the best land there, so you need to be the best.”

“And I’m not yet?”

“Not even close.”

It was a daunting notion for a fourteen-year-old to understand, but I had a hunch this kid got it.

“Fair enough.” He motioned to the sheet music on the stand. “Any feedback? Don’t coddle me. I can take it.”

I chuckled. “All right. I suggest you find something more challenging. This piece is far too easy. You’ll never improve if you don’t take risks.”

His face fell. “But I only have two weeks until testing.”

I slanted a brow at the pink-cheeked youth. “And?”

“Practice, practice, practice,” he said. “Got it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“You have the right attitude, Dean. If you persevere, you’ll go far. I have an ear for these things. You have talent.” I thumbed over my shoulder. “Now go pick something harder. Don’t shy away from a challenge.”

With a boyish smile, he put his instrument down and headed into the back room.

The auburn-haired teen who’d been smitten with my daughter played a short distance away. Unlike Dean, he’d chosen a piece beyond his skill level and was butchering it. I crossed the room and waited for him to finish. Despite my decision not to interfere, I offered the youth the advice I’d given Niles.

“You’re making it harder than it has to be. Slow your tempo. Disregard whatever the recommendation is at the top. Consider allegro a suggestion, not a rule, until you figure out the notes. Trust me. Your dynamics will shine, and you’ll be able to catch all those runs with a modified pace. Better to command the piece than to always feel like you’re stumbling to catch up.”

When I motioned for him to try again, I kept metronomic time by clapping. It was a world better, and the youth smiled.

“How’d that feel?”

“Way easier.”

“Well done…” I quirked a brow. “Your name?”

“It’s Cody.”

“Well done, Cody. Much better. Did you hear the difference?”

“I did.”

“In the future, don’t tackle something far beyond your reach.”

And stay away from my daughter, I wanted to add but didn’t.

“Keep it up. Also, you overlooked the repeat at the end. Missed it both times. That’s a grave error in my books.”

Cody puzzled the sheet music. “Oh shit… shoot.”

I left him alone to practice and scanned for the object of Cody’s affection.

Constance had set up her music stand beside Niles’s desk. He looked over her shoulder, watching as she played a complex piece that far surpassed the level of her peers. Dean might have to battle his way into Juilliard, but Constance was already on their watch list.

A smile touched the corners of Niles’s mouth, and despite my daughter’s impeccable performance, it was the music teacher who stole my focus.

I couldn’t look away. Although he’d pulled his hair back again that day, several shorter strands escaped the elastic and framed his face, curtaining his trimly bearded jaw. Dappled in the afternoon light shining from a high window, Niles was an autumn sunset, aglow with pride, warming the room with his presence. I couldn’t seem to shake the attraction, and it worried me.

So many questions roared through my head. Was he married? Was he single? Was he attracted to men?

None of it mattered. I’d sworn decades ago that I wouldn’t entertain baseless desires. I was an adult with self-control. The appeal was rooted in loneliness and frustration, of which I had ample supply since October. Nothing more.

Constance finished playing and lowered the violin, glancing expectantly at Niles. He spoke, his voice quiet among the cacophony of instruments as he pointed at sections of the sheet music, offering feedback, I presumed. Constance listened and nodded with more attentiveness than she’d ever given me.

Niles spoke again, and she laughed.

When Constance leaned the violin against the side of the desk and reached for a pen and paper—I assumed to respond as she’d done with me at the restaurant—Niles stopped her, clasping her hands between his. His expression changed as he communicated something that looked serious.

Good, I thought. He was addressing the infuriating silent act and informing my daughter she needed to use words.

But when Niles released his grip on her hands, Constance used ASL to respond. My mind stuttered and stalled.

Niles held up a halting hand and said something. Constance repeated the gestures, only slower the second time.

Niles nodded as he carefully watched, brows furrowed.

Was he… Had he just…

No! I’d specifically explained to Dr. McCaine that the staff were to encourage Constance to use her voice. Depending on crutches was unnecessary. She could speak perfectly well but chose not to. Was Niles blatantly ignoring this request?

Without pausing to regulate my emotions, I marched across the room, tugging my suit jacket in place, fighting the urge to loosen my tie so it would stop choking the life out of me.

At Niles’s desk, I startled them both. Their matching smiles turned to matching frowns as I pivoted between them, unsure who to address first. My daughter’s indignance was familiar and hit a nerve, so I aimed my animosity at Niles.

“In my meeting with Dr. McCaine, I made it abundantly clear that faculty were to encourage Constance to use her voice when communicating. Under no circumstance should you be facilitating any other option.”

Constance smacked my arm and stamped a foot. Her face said all she wouldn’t.

“Enough. Take your stand and violin and practice elsewhere. I’m having a word with Mr. Edwidge.”

Her hands flew in a yelling manner. Whatever she signed went over my head. Before I could further reprimand her, she did as she was told, but she did it with all the indignance of a scorned teenager.

The instant she was out of range, I lowered my voice and hissed, “You will not—”

Niles spoke over top of me, and he did not whisper. “No, you will not come in here and tell me how to run my classroom. If you want to be a parent, do it at home. As far as I’m concerned, it’s more important that Constance is comfortable among her peers. Speaking aloud clearly makes her uncomfortable, so if she needs to find another way to communicate, she’s welcome to do that. My classroom, my rules. You don’t like it, Maestro, get out.”

My ears rang with the abruptness of Niles’s speech. The room had gone silent. Not a single instrument sounded. I knew without turning that all the teenagers were watching. My daughter was watching.

I could have stood my ground and fought. I was the parent. I had a right to decide how my daughter was treated, but not a single soul would back me up. Chloé would have agreed with Niles’s sentiment. My parents had told me a dozen times that Constance would outgrow the shame of her prosthesis, and I should let her walk her own path and support her.

Instead of rebuking or taking Constance by the arm—she would have caused a further scene—I departed with what little dignity I had left. In the hallway, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my tie only to discover when I reached the main doors of the academy that I’d left my wool overcoat in Niles’s classroom. Freezing rain fell in sheets and the paltry cottage was a five-minute walk through the forest. I’d be soaked and numb with cold before I got home. Maybe I’d catch pneumonia. It would be fitting.

I set off into the weather, chin down, shoulders hunched. The rain pelted my cheeks like razor blades.

I wanted to go back to Chicago. I wanted to drive to the city, find Chloé, and tell her I couldn’t do this anymore. But then what would happen to Constance?

***

I didn’t change out of my wet clothes when I got home. Sodden and with my teeth chattering, I poured a stiff drink, sat at the piano, and played. Parts of my commissioned work came first, then other unfinished projects. I played popular classical pieces, unpopular arrangements, and tinkered with the strange few bars of music that had become like an earworm, aggravating me all day.

Constance stormed to her room the minute she came home from school, slamming the door in case I didn’t know she was angry.

At dinner, she refused to join me, so I ate alone. Ham, cheese, and mustard sandwiches on gummy white bread that stuck to the roof of my mouth. It punctuated the unpleasantness of the situation. In an effort to be the affable father, I always allowed Constance to pick the groceries. It meant there was rarely anything in the fridge that appealed to me.

Where had affable gotten me? Nowhere.

I added a second stiff drink to wash the gluey mess down, wanting nothing more than to cushion the horrible day and make it more tolerable.

At nine, I knocked on Constance’s bedroom door. No response. I knocked again, offered a warning, and poked my head inside, only to deflate. There would be no conversation that evening. She’d fallen asleep reading a book in bed. I crossed the room, removed the novel from her hands—Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre—and pulled the covers to her shoulders. She was still dressed in her school uniform, but I didn’t have the heart or courage to wake her and see if she wanted to change. Besides, our argument was best left unresolved. I would inevitably say something I shouldn’t and make it worse.

In the main room of the cottage, I peered out the window. The rain had turned to snow at sundown, and it danced and swirled in the air like fairy dust, gathering on tree branches and carpeting the ground.

I’d lived in North America for the past four years. Chicago saw plenty of snow in the winter months, and I was led to believe this part of Ontario was the same, but it seemed soon for such ongoing storms and accumulation.

Mesmerized by the snowfall, my thoughts drifted to the conflict with Niles that afternoon. His words had played on repeat since I left in the middle of class. More than once, I considered breaking the rules and calling Chloé, but unless she had allocated phone time, I wouldn’t get through. Perhaps if I was stubborn and demanding enough, I could…

Could what? It was out of my hands. Nothing could be done at this stage.

Lacking a proper coat, I found a heavy woolen sweater, traded my wrinkled and weather-stained suit for jeans and a long-sleeve turtleneck, layered up, and ventured out into the night. My shoes retained the dampness from earlier, and my socks grew instantly wet.

I followed the path to the school but found the main building locked for the night. Timber Creek campus consisted of several historic buildings. I hadn’t spent much time familiarizing myself, but I recognized the separate dormitories and identified the monolithic structure between them as the dining hall and shared living space where students could spend their recreational time.

Lights shone from a few windows on the main level. When I tried the door, I found it unlocked. Locating a supervisor—in an entertainment room where a dozen or more teens were piled together on three couches watching a movie—I introduced myself as a guest teacher and asked if they knew how I might contact Niles Edwidge.

“His number is on the staff phone list.”

“And how would I go about getting one of those?”

“Give me a second. Keep an eye on this group. You turn your back, and they get up to no good.”

The supervisor—a woman in her midtwenties—vanished down the hall. Shrek played on an oversized TV. The zombie-eyed spectators barely acknowledged my presence. Would Constance survive at a boarding school? Would she fit in and make friends? Would she curl up on a couch with girls her age and watch movies like a normal teenager? She’d lived an isolated life thus far. It was the foundation of my argument when I’d told Chloé she needed to be in regular school.

Or did I only want these things so I could return to my own life? Were my reasons selfish, or was I looking out for Constance’s best interests?

I didn’t have the answers. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

The supervisor returned with a packet of papers stapled together in the corner. “Here you are.”

She angled the page and pointed to an entry where Niles Edwidge’s phone number and home address were listed. I removed my phone, opened the app to create a new contact, and entered both pieces of information.

Thanking the woman, I returned to the snowy outdoors to consider my options.

Chapter seven

Niles

Ireturned home from Koa’s at ten thirty to find a man on my doorstep. My car’s headlights washed over him as I turned into the driveway. August. Christ, I’d spent the entire evening bemoaning his presence in my classroom until Koa insisted I build a bridge and get over it.

I wanted to sleep, not deal with this pompous asshole. No, Dean, I won three World Classical Music Awards, not two. Did he hear himself when he talked?

I cut the engine and exited the car, eyeing my unwanted guest without saying hello, hoping my silence delivered its own message.

Under the porch light, August’s dark hair was disordered, several snowflakes caught in the strands. More clung to his heavy lashes. Creases bracketed his eyes and cut grooves into his forehead. The immaculate suit was gone, replaced with jeans and a heavy woolen sweater, dusted with a decent layer of snow on the shoulders. The tip of his nose shone red and rosy like his cheeks. Teeth chattering, body curled in on itself, the man looked half frozen.

I glanced along the road in both directions, searching for a vehicle, but found none. Had he walked? I lived on the outskirts of Peterborough, but it was still a generous four-and-a-half to five miles to the Timber Creek campus, weather notwithstanding. So far as I understood, he and Constance had been given a cottage near the lake, a stone’s throw from the main building.

Hands buried in his pockets, shivering and sniffling, August broke the ice. “Do you have a tissue?”

A tissue? I’d shouted him out of my classroom that day, and he showed up at my house at close to midnight asking for a tissue?

I nodded and motioned to the door. “Inside. What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Experience tells me we don’t excel at friendly chitchat. Besides, it’s almost eleven. I teach in the morning.” And you don’t, I wanted to add, grateful beyond belief that August was only meant to be present on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

Another sniffle. “A tissue. Please, Niles. My nose is a faucet in this cold.”

My name on his tongue felt too familiar, but I couldn’t refuse the request. The man was clearly suffering from exposure. Unlocking the door, I invited him in even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. I retrieved a Kleenex box from the living room, and he graciously pulled five from the box.

“Thank you.”

“You’re underdressed.”

“I left my only coat in your classroom.”

August blew his nose, pocketed the tissue, and brushed the snow from his shoulders. The flakes on his lashes had melted, leaving them damp and clumped together. His hair hung limp and wet, a finger-combed mess I could hardly associate with the man I’d gotten to know. The stiff maestro was weather-beaten, pomp and ceremony washed away. The refined idol had been replaced by a woefully neglected boy of forty-something who could never pass as a celebrity.

His misfortune softened my edge of anger, and I hesitated to send him back into the storm without hearing what he had to say. I didn’t realize I needed to see a more human side of August. Before this moment, I’d viewed him through museum-quality acrylic glass.

It was like finding out a composer you’d idolized half your life was a barely functioning alcoholic.

“Would you like a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Do you have something harder?” He sniffled again, sneezed, and retrieved the tissue from his pocket. “It’s been a long day.”

I handed him the Kleenex box. “Keep it. I have others. Do you drink wine? I have a bottle of Col D’Orcia. It’s a Tuscan Brunello. A fruity-spicy style with sleek undertones. It’s quite good.”

“It sounds perfect.”

I led the way to the kitchen and found two glasses, the new bottle I’d purchased the other day, and a corkscrew.

August stripped off his sweater, revealing a form-fitting turtleneck underneath in a deep maroon. In the classroom, hidden behind a suit jacket, I hadn’t been able to appreciate his honed form. He was trim, with lightly toned muscles.

He draped the sweater over the back of the chair before sitting.

“Did you walk?” I placed a generous glass of red in front of him.

“Yes. I thought I needed the fresh air to clear my head until I was halfway here and realized five miles was farther than I thought. By then, my brain was half frozen, rational thought eluded me, and there was no sense turning around.”

August aerated his wine by swirling it in the glass, inspected the color by holding it to the light, and sipped the smallest amount. He swished the drink around his mouth before swallowing. “It’s lovely. I would call the undertones more rich than sleek.”

“You’re a wine connoisseur too?”

“My mother’s Italian.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve explored several vineyards in Tuscany. A revolutionary experience. If you haven’t had the pleasure, I recommend it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I take a whimsical holiday to Europe.”

Silence prevailed, be it the sarcastic retort or our natural discomfort with one another.

I didn’t sit, leaning against the kitchen counter instead, kidding myself into thinking it gave me the upper hand. August seemed far away, staring into the burgundy depths of his glass with an expression of dysphoria.

I could hardly distinguish the man at my table from the one in my mind who took to the stage and won awards, who played professionally for audiences of thousands, and who left his job with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to guest-teach at a remote private school in northern Ontario.

As though sensing the heavy weight of my attention, August raised his head. Eyes as deep and dark as a forest met mine. “I want to apologize for earlier. The request…” He stroked his jaw and sighed. “I’m frustrated, Niles.”

My name again, spoken like we’d been friends for years.

“Constance required the surgery. She didn’t want it and knew what it meant for her future. It was a last-ditch effort, as they say, to remove the cancer. The chemo wasn’t working as well as they hoped. She was twelve. I swore to my daughter before they put her under that she would talk again.

“I kept my promise. After they gave her a clean bill of health, Constance and her mother came to Canada because I wanted her to have the best speech therapy money could buy, and after endless research, I discovered a place in Toronto that specialized in children who had undergone the same procedure. Two years in therapy. Three days a week. We are not Canadian. We don’t have your health benefits. You have no idea what I paid so my daughter could learn to talk. Like she wanted. Like she begged me. She can talk, Niles, but she refuses. She doesn’t like how her voice sounds. She’s embarrassed and thinks people will make fun of her. Honestly, I can’t comprehend how… And her mother…”

August scrubbed a tired hand over his face and drank some wine. “Chloé tells me to let it go. She thinks Constance will use her voice when she’s ready. What if she loses the skill? Some people with prostheses never learn to speak. We were told that. Be ready for disappointment. But not Constance. Not if I had anything to say about it. That girl excels at everything, and she learned as I knew she would. Why revolt because of aesthetics? It makes no sense. Now is not the time to be a petulant teenager. She should be happy that the doctors were able to thoroughly remove the cancer. She should be grateful to be done with endless rounds of chemo. She should rejoice that she has a voice because so many don’t after that kind of surgery.

“Constance is in my care full time now. I need people on my side. You. Her instructors. I only want what’s best for my daughter. You can understand that, right?”

August’s pleading tone was that of a father who truly believed their heart was in the right place. I’d seen it before. All parents wore blinders when it came to their kids. Too many failed to see the other side of the coin.

Organizing my thoughts, no longer threatened by his presence, I moved to the table and sat when he finished explaining. “I’m sorry to hear about what Constance has been through. I can’t imagine. Dr. McCaine gave us a short overview before she started at the school. I respect your position and determination to advocate for what you think is best for your daughter, but… I have to side with your wife on this one. I’ve worked with teenagers for a lot of years, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t force them to do something they don’t want to do. I agree with… Chloé, was it?”

“Yes.” Defeat slumped his shoulders. “But she’s not my wife.”

“Sorry. You did say that.” And I had a hundred more nosy questions about the change in custody, but it wasn’t the time or place. “Constance will come around on her own terms, but I promise you, the more you push, the harder she’ll push back, and the more stubborn she’ll be.”

August didn’t get angry. Sullenness weighed his body, and he drank his wine for several long minutes before speaking. “I’m out of my league.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I don’t have the first clue how to be a father, and Constance hates me. No matter what I do, I do it wrong.”

I softly chuckled. “And now, you sound like every frustrated parent I’ve ever known. I wish I could offer advice, but apart from teaching, I don’t have kids. I don’t know what it’s like to be on the other side.”

August glanced around the modestly decorated kitchen. It screamed single man lives here. “No prospects?”

I arched a brow. “Sorry?”

“For the future. No girlfriend? Marriage plans?”

I opened my mouth to say… something but closed it again when the words didn’t follow. After a long string of failures, I was about ready to give up on love and relationships. They weren’t meant for me.

Likely sensing my awkwardness, August blustered. “I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have… Ignore me.”

“No girlfriend. No marriage plans. I’m in my midforties and single. That ship has sailed, and I’ve made peace with it.”

“You sound sad about it.”

I shrugged. “I kind of assumed at fifteen that I would likely never have kids, so…”

Watching August peer mournfully into his empty wine glass, I retrieved the bottle, giving us a refill.

He thanked me and drank deeply, no longer playing wine connoisseur. “Can I tell you something? It’s unpleasant and casts me in a negative light.”

“In that case, sure.”

“I never wanted kids.” The confession brought a pained smile to his face. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Please don’t tell Constance. I love her. I do. It’s just…” He touched the spot where his tie would usually sit. Finding it absent, he lowered his hand to the table.

“I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Chloé. I made every other excuse in the book for why having a baby was a bad idea, but I never told her the truth. Damn. Listen to me ramble. You didn’t ask for this.” August glanced at the time on his phone. “And especially not at almost midnight. I should go.” He moved to stand.

I stilled him with a hand on his arm. “It’s fine. Stay. Help me finish the bottle, at least. Sleep is overrated, and there’s nothing better for a wine hangover than being a high school music teacher. Thank god for aspirin. At least you get to sleep in.”

August’s face fell, eyes widening. “Oh god. Now I feel worse. I never… Shit. I don’t think.”

Chuckling, I held up my glass. “It’s not my first time playing deviant. Relax. Besides, I like hearing about your imperfections. It makes me feel better about myself.”

An unexpected laugh burst from August’s chest, crinkling the sides of his eyes and bringing out a single dimple in his cheek. “Well, if imperfections are what you’re after, get cozy, I have a running list.”

The hour was late, and I’d already had two glasses of wine with Koa, so any hostility I might have felt toward August had been dampened by alcohol. Plus, his down-to-earth side, the boyish dimple and spark of humor, stirred something in my core. It amounted to an attraction I wanted desperately to deny. Without a stage or audience, a spotlight shone down on him, and I couldn’t look away.

“Now you’ve done it. Spill the beans, Maestro.”

Without a second thought about the late hour, August drank wine and shared the story of meeting Chloé, about Constance’s unexpected conception—thankfully without details—and some of what came after.

“I was fresh out of Juilliard, barely three months playing with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, when a contact I’d made at school asked if I’d temporarily replace a conductor in Vienna whose wife was terribly sick. It was an honor I couldn’t refuse. Mariinsky held my spot, and off I went to Austria.

“Chloé is a mezzo-soprano and used to perform regularly at the Graz Opera. She came to Vienna for a special solo performance night, accompanied by the philharmonic. It was a one-night show. Spectacular. We spent the afternoon organizing and rehearsing, and I was mesmerized by this woman. Awestruck. Chloé’s voice is like an angel’s.

“I was twenty-six at the time, the youngest conductor she’d ever worked with. To hear her tell it, she was smitten and wanted to take me out for dinner after the performance. Chloé has eleven years on me, so my comrades teased, reminding me not to call her mama in bed.”

I laughed, and August’s dimple appeared.

“You’re shameless.”

“I am. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Perhaps.” If I was attracted to women, I wanted to add but didn’t.

He paused to drain his wine and slid the glass across the table, motioning to the bottle. “May I?”

I reminded myself that the easy smiles, flushed cheeks, and sideways glances had everything to do with the alcohol, not me. But the more August talked, the more enraptured I became.

Smirking, I refilled both our glasses and slid his back. “I’m not sure how you’re getting home, Maestro. I was drinking with a friend earlier, so I’ve officially gone over my driving limit.”

“I, too, indulged in a few drinks before venturing out. Don’t you have cars out here? Taxis?”

“We do.”

“Then all is good. Bottoms up.” He clinked his glass to mine and gulped the wine. His method had gone from sophisticated sommelier to college-frat-party drink slammer.

If any resentment remained, it was washed away by August’s dissolution in drink.

“Keep going with your story.”

“Where was I?”

“The cougar wanted to take you out for dinner.”

“Ah, yes.” His eye-crinkling smile returned. “Before you assume Constance was the product of a one-night stand, you’re wrong. Our tryst lasted an impressive three weeks.” Said with sarcasm and a grimace. “My time in Vienna was over. The original conductor had returned, so I was heading back to London to reclaim my seat with the Royal Philhar—Wait. No. That was later. I’m confused. I returned to Russia and rejoined Mariinsky—”

“Hold up. You played with the Royal Philharmonic?” Inebriation incapacitated me, and I was unable to hide the shocked tone.

“Yes, for about five years. It was after Constance was born.” August leaned over the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Is that one of those things that supsets you? Supsets… Sup… upsets you.” He glanced at his nearly empty glass. “Gracious. I think I’m drunk.”

Snorting, I walked my fingers across the table and not-so-sneakily dragged the culprit toward me. “I’m cutting you off.”

“Unfortunate, but wise. I’ve never been able to hold my alcohol. Are you angry? Do my accomplishments supset… Goddammit. Upset. Why is that so hard to say?”

I laughed.

August spent a moment repeating the word to himself, getting it wrong more times than he got it right. Witnessing his boyish, unkemptness, sloshy drunkenness, and brutal honesty, I couldn’t help feeling oddly attracted to the man. The August at my kitchen table was not the same person I’d met in the classroom on Monday, and I preferred this one.

“I’m not supset,” I said. “Honestly? I’m jealous, envious, resentful… Pick a synonym. All the above. I’m sorry if I haven’t been welcoming.”

August’s drunken smile faded, and he frowned at the table’s surface. “I don’t live the glamourous life you’re imagining.”

“You don’t know what I’m imagining.”

“No. I guess I don’t, but…” He wet his wine-stained lips and shrugged. “I haven’t been happy for a long time, Niles.”

I wanted him to explain, but before I could formulate a question, he asked, “What was I talking about? I’m muddled with wine.”

“You were telling me about Chloé.”

“No, no. I was telling you about Constance. Her existence started with a brief affair with Chloé, that’s all. We broke ties when I returned to Russia. It wasn’t love. It was… lust? I don’t know. Hormones probably. Opportunistic? Eight weeks passed before I got a phone call. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.”

August blew out his cheeks. “I believe I stupidly asked ‘How?’ and ‘Who’s the father?’ before realizing what she was telling me. Daft, aren’t I?”

August reached across the table for the glass I’d removed, and I shoved his hand away. “No more. You’re sloshy enough as it is, and I don’t have a spare room. My couch is wretchedly uncomfortable, and you don’t want to share my bed. Even the most liberal straight man will wake up with regret when the booze wears off and he realizes he slept beside a gay man. Although I would never tell your friends, it would bother you and likely affect our professional relationship, so no more wine.”

August forgot his quest for the glass. His gaze flickered all over my face with fascination or perplexity, perhaps confusion. I didn’t usually advertise my sexuality—it was no one’s business—but I’d learned the hard way that to conceal the truth when it was so readily attainable was sometimes more dangerous.

“You’re gay?”

“Certified card holder. Will that be a problem? Want to pull your daughter from school now?”

“No.” August continued studying my face as though looking for nuances that he should have picked up. Slowly, he shook his head. “No… it’s… fine.”

“It doesn’t… supset you?”

A dimpled smile. “No… I… No. We’re good.”

For a heartbeat, August’s gaze rested on my mouth before he tore his attention away and reached for the unprotected bottle instead. Only dredges remained, but he upended it into his mouth, taking every last drop before peering mournfully inside the bottle as though it had deceived him.

I shoved the confiscated wine toward him. “My god. Just finish it. No point tossing away a mouthful.”

He polished it off and rotated the stem of his glass with two fingers, turning it this way and that with a furrowed brow.

“I assume the news of Chloé’s pregnancy didn’t go over well.”

“It did not. I was not careless about… prevention. When we first hooked up, she told me she was infertile, so we never used protection.”

“She lied? Or was the pregnancy a surprise to her too?”

“No, she lied. She later shared that she’d wanted a baby for a long time, preferably with someone genetically predisposed to musical genius.”

“You’re bragging again.”

He didn’t smile like I hoped but pushed the empty glass aside. “Before she shared that rather devastating piece of information, I informed her I wasn’t ready to be a father. I told her I didn’t love her and didn’t want to get married. I said we should consider adoption or abortion.” He cringed. “I’m terrible for saying that, aren’t I?”

“No. You were unprepared for that kind of news. It wasn’t the life trajectory you envisioned.”

“Exactly. My career was only just beginning to blossom. You get it.”

“Chloé didn’t?”

“Chloé was not acting rationally or agreeably. Which, in retrospect, isn’t shocking since her method of deception was not entirely ethical. She said she didn’t want marriage, a relationship, or even my help. That’s when she explained about her duplicity. She encouraged me to carry on with life as though the pregnancy had never happened. She’d only called because she felt obliged to inform me.”

“How noble after setting a trap.”

August met my gaze. “Could you have walked away and ignored a child you’d conceived, regardless of circumstances or your feelings?”

“Probably not.”

He blew out his cheeks and threaded fingers through his shock of dark hair. “I told her I didn’t want custody. She was happy about that. But I said I wanted to know my child. I wanted to visit, spend holidays together, celebrate birthdays, and have a voice in their development. I would allow Chloé full parental rights, but I wanted to be part of any major decisions in the child’s life. Those were my terms, and she agreed.”

A painful pause followed. Sensing August needed it, I pushed my nearly empty glass of wine across the table. He took it gratefully and drained the final mouthful. His eyelids sat at half-mast when he said, “Constance was diagnosed with cancer at age seven. Everything changed.”

August shared how he and Chloé had tried to become a proper family for Constance’s sake. Chloé had needed the support and despite his infrequent visits and adamancy about parenthood, August had grown fond of his daughter and wanted to do everything he could to make her life easier.

From there, the story disintegrated. August lost track of the timeline, and like a musician hitting a repeat bar, he detoured back to parts of the tale he’d already told, getting stuck in a drunken, confused loop.

I reached out a hand and laid it gently on his, halting the rambling. “How about I order you an Uber?” It was encroaching on two in the morning, and I was afraid August would pass out at my kitchen table if I didn’t do something soon.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he slurred as I helped him to the door.

“I don’t. You’re a show-off, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mean to be.”

He struggled into his sweater, and when he got an arm caught, I helped. Leaning against the wall as though holding the house up, August’s hooded gaze took me in. “I suppose I’ve shattered the illusion, haven’t I? The highly respectable Maestro”—said with sarcastic emphasis—“is nothing but a drunken sop.”

I smirked. “You have a lot of British slang.”

“Spent a good many years in London. Picked up a thing or two.”

“For the record, shattering the illusion was a good thing.”

“You don’t like me.”

“You’re not so bad.”

He nodded, his gaze slipping south and landing on my mouth. Again. I stilled. We were several feet apart and both intoxicated—him more than me since he’d drunk two glasses for every one I’d consumed—but I saw what I saw. Interest. Even when August jerked his attention to the front window when a car pulled up, he couldn’t erase the lust swimming in his eyes.

“That’s my ride.”

“Get some sleep.”

“I will.” Another long, searching sideways glance.

“Are you okay?”

He made a noise of assent. “I’m going to leave now. Wouldn’t want to wake up with regrets.”

Although I wasn’t positive about his meaning, I had a pretty good idea.

“Good night, Niles.”

“Good night, Mr. Maestro.”

With the door half open and one foot on the threshold, August stopped and turned. He leaned closer as if to impart a secret. “Please don’t call me that. I hate it.”

He was right there, wine on his breath, hints of cologne floating between us. I didn’t move. I wasn’t a stupid man.

“Good night… August.”

His gaze landed on my mouth again, and for a second, I thought…

Then he was gone, stumbling down the path to the awaiting car.

I had just enough alcohol flowing through my veins to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing.

Chapter eight

Niles

“What does it mean when a straight guy can’t stop staring at your mouth?”

Koa lowered his book—Faulkner again—and peered over the top of his cheaters. “That he’s not as straight as he thinks he is.”

I hummed in agreement, distracted by the bare tree limbs rattling outside Koa’s classroom window. The takeout cup of coffee warming my hands wafted a rich, aromatic scent, but I couldn’t find the capacity to raise it to my mouth and sip. I was in no shape to make my own that morning, so I’d hit a drive-through, which I rarely did.

My evening with August and all it entailed lingered. I saw his eye-crinkling smile, the lone dimple, and mussed hair. Worse, I recalled the pooling warmth in my belly when his heavy-lidded gaze landed repeatedly on my mouth.

Wouldn’t want to wake up with regrets. He’d said those words, hadn’t he? I didn’t imagine them, did I?

“Were you on that dating app again?” Koa asked, shaking me from the fog.

“God no. I deleted that damnable thing after the Corey Cokehead catastrophe. I don’t need a man.”

“Right. So, who’s the straight guy staring at your mouth?”

“No one.” I shifted my attention from the winter scenery to my best friend. He’d abandoned the book in lieu of what he likely perceived as interesting gossip. If it involved my love life in any way, Koa was invested. Ever since he and Jersey had moved in together, my best friend had been determined to see me happy with someone else.

My eyes felt full of sand, and a headache lingered despite the two aspirin and gallon of water I’d drunk when the alarm went off. Everything hurt. I was too old to function on three hours of sleep, which was all I’d managed after August left. The thought of heading to my classroom and suffering through a day of listening to teenagers practice their midterm solos about killed me.

“Why do you look hungover?” Koa mused. “I cut you off at two glasses last night so you could drive home.”

“And I arrived home to find company on my doorstep.”

“Company in the form of a straight man who stared at your mouth all night?”

I nodded, lifting the twenty-four-ounce takeout cup to my mouth and sipping the rejuvenating brew.

Koa wrinkled his nose. “Your coffee smells disgusting, by the way. Why subject yourself to that sludge? You always make your own.”

“Koa… shut up. I feel wretched, and this is the nectar of the gods. It’s the only thing keeping me upright.”

“Because you’re hungover.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Must we spell it out?”

“We haven’t established why, how, or with whom this occurred.”

“You’re such an English teacher.”

“I don’t understand.”

Thinking about with whom made my head hurt, and I hadn’t decided how much I wanted to share.

Koa studied me in the analytical way he had before placing a hand on his abandoned book. “May I continue reading, or are we going to discuss the mouth-admiring straight man who showed up at your door last night?”

“Is your book more important than my problems?”

“Considering I’m not abreast of your problems, then yes.”

I groaned and rolled my head from side to side. It creaked and cracked like I was ninety-eight and not forty-four. “Never mind. Maybe I was imagining it.”

“Are you purposefully avoiding naming names, or is it a result of limited brain capacity? I’m not going to lie. I’m losing interest.”

“You’re a shitty friend sometimes.”

“A name, Niles.”

“It was Mr. Maestro,” I spat with indignation and a wrinkled nose.

Koa sat back, brows lifted, no longer interested in his abandoned literature. It wasn’t often I could stun the man. “Maestro Castellanos showed up at your door in the middle of the night?”

I nodded, sipping more coffee. “Correct.”

“How come?”

“He… We had a minor disagreement about his daughter in class, and he wanted to explain his position.”

“So you invited him in for a drink?”

“Yes. It seemed polite since he’d walked from campus.”

“He walked?”

“Yes.”

“That’s almost five miles.”

“Hence the invitation.”

“And he stared at your mouth all night?”

“Once the wine took effect and I announced I was gay, yes. It drifted there several times.”

“Why would you announce that you’re gay?”

“It came up.”

Koa frowned. “I feel like I’m missing something. We’re talking about the same man you have done nothing but incessantly bitch about since his arrival, correct?”

“I may have been wrong about him. There’s… more to him than I thought. He’s… a passable human being.”

“Are you… interested in this man?”

“Did you know he played with the Royal Philharmonic?”

“Yes, but I read his bio, unlike someone else I know. Are you interested?”

“He guest-conducted in Vienna for a time too.”

“Niles.”

Heavy gray clouds moved across the sky, drawing my eye. “August has a lot more layers than I expected.”

“August? You’re on a first-name basis?”

“He insisted.”

“Huh. These are all lovely qualities, but none of them answer my question. Can you focus?”

I scrubbed a hand over my face to get the blood flowing. “No, I’m not interested in him, and it wouldn’t matter if I was. He’s out of my league and probably straight.”

“I refuse to address the first statement, but I can tell you, there is no probably straight. If the man was fixated on your mouth—especially while under the influence of an inhibition-lowering drug—I’d be more apt to say he’s probably bisexual.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. I still don’t like the man.”

“But you find him attractive. You’ve said as much.”

I huffed. “Of course I do. Use your eyes, Koa. The man is gorgeous. One more perfect thing to add to the list. I’m not interested.”

“Only because he has everything you’ve ever dreamed about, and you’re jealous.”

The warning bell rang with a shrill, skull-splitting cry. I winced and pressed a hand to my temple. “On that note. I should go. I think it will be a day of quiet theory study.”

“You won’t get away with that this close to midterm testing.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Burgard.”

Koa smiled. “Goodbye, Master Edwidge. Take it easy today.”

“I’ll try.”

Koa opened his novel before I slipped into the hallway. Students flowed around me in their race to get to class on time. Their hoots and hollers jabbed like knives into my soft brain tissue.

In the empty music room, I absorbed the quiet, taking to my desk to work on upcoming report cards instead of tinkling on the piano as I usually did during my prep time. Halfway through first-period spare, coffee empty and mind clearer, I abandoned paperwork and found the classroom laptop.

Until now, I’d obdurately avoided searching August’s accolades online, knowing that whatever I found would drive a rusty nail into already tender flesh. But curiosity got the better of me after our late-night rendezvous and conversation—or maybe I wasn’t ready to feel better and needed to add insult to injury.

Was it highlights of a prestigious career I was after or evidence of a deviating sexual compass?

What I discovered was the former, and it left me speechless. The maestro had lived the life I’d dreamed. In comparison, my accomplishments were embarrassingly thin.

I discovered the three World Classical Music Awards, given at age fifteen, nineteen, and twenty-seven, for unique interpretation, exquisite piano playing, and composition, respectively. After obtaining a Juilliard degree, August joined the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra in Russia. I knew from our conversation that he’d taken leave of the orchestra for a short time to guest-conduct in Vienna, where he met Chloé. According to my research, he earned first chair in the flute section with the Royal Philharmonic in 2012, and he kept it until 2017.

My hangover-addled brain did the math and discovered that his departure from the Royal Philharmonic coincided with Constance’s cancer diagnosis at age seven.

Between 2017 and 2020, his resume was more sporadic. He conducted short term for several orchestras in several countries. He wrote over two dozen compositions and performed several private shows. None of his compositions had been officially published to date—a grievance in the music industry, but an unwavering decision made by the maestro himself for reasons unknown.

In 2020, August moved to the United States to take first chair with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. He hadn’t elaborated on his stint playing house with Chloé, nor had he sounded thrilled, and I suspected it had been a trying time in his life, considering he’d admitted to never wanting to be a father.

Why he left Chicago and how he wound up with full custody of his daughter, living in Ontario, was a mystery. It seemed I was not going to find those answers online.

I slapped the laptop closed and puzzled the information. Koa was right. August didn’t belong at Timber Creek. With a career like his, a high school teaching job was far beneath him. Why he’d agreed to assist our department made no sense.

My classes passed in agony. As much as I would have liked to assign quiet study, I couldn’t deny my students their practice time this close to midterm. I chewed aspirin, guzzled water, and pushed through the day. By fourth period, my grade nine class, I was ready to fall into bed.

My headache had subsided, but I was wretchedly tired. After having the students warm up with scales, I dismissed them for private practice. Violin in tow, Constance placed a stand beside my desk. We exchanged smiles as she readied her sheet music.

Waves of flaxen hair hung loose over her shoulders, pushed back off her forehead by a wide headband. A patterned scarf circled her neck. It matched the school uniform, cleverly protecting her prosthesis. Did the other students know, or was her disability something she wanted to hide? Teenagers were self-conscious, judgmental creatures, prone to ostracize anyone who didn’t fit an expected mold, and this was Constance’s first experience with school and peers. I kept that in mind.

Enraptured by her professional profile, I sought resemblances between her and August. She didn’t have his coloring. His hair was dark mahogany, and his skin tone much warmer. Constance was pale and nearly blonde, her eyes vibrant green. They shared a similar facial structure, with high cheekbones, straight noses, and thin mouths. Constance wore a splash of freckles under each eye, her face softer and more delicate. August’s lines were more refined and masculine. Her perfect posture reminded me of her father, but that was likely a learned trait and not something inherited.

Did Constance know her father had been with me the previous night? Was she aware of his proclivity to stare at other men’s mouths with interest? I guessed not.

The teen positioned the violin under her chin and lifted her right arm to situate the bow over the strings. She flexed the fingers on her left hand, finding their positioning on the fingerboard. A pause ensued before the most beautiful music flowed through the instrument and filled the noisy room.

Constance had chosen a section of 6 Sonatas, a complex piece by Eugène Ysaӱe written specifically for violin. It required exceptional bow control and intensive fingering, but she managed it effortlessly. She was in a different category than the other students. How was I supposed to grade her on the same curve? Her presence annihilated the curve. I would be forced to reconstruct my grading scale.

Torn between resentment and admiration, I listened to her play. At her age, my skill had far exceeded my fellow students’ as well. However, unlike Constance, my family chose to be unsupportive. Their remarks hindered passion and nurtured shame. Music was not a respectable career choice, not when my siblings were all doctors, lawyers, and engineers. Every step I’d taken to fulfill my dream was against the current. No one had cheered me on.

Constance was a lucky girl in some respects. She likely didn’t think so.

The last note hung in the air as she lowered the violin. I earned another smile, a proud smile, and noted she shared a dimple with her father, too, except Constance had another to match.

“Well done. Simply remarkable. I have no feedback. The class is yours. I quit.”

The smile grew, digging deeper grooves into her cheeks.

“Seriously, though, I could listen to you play all day.”

Resting the instrument at her feet and freeing up her hands, Constance used the ASL alphabet to spell. It makes me happy.

“I can tell. Hold onto that. Music makes me happy too.”

Do you play the violin?

“Not with your skill, but yes. The piano is my primary instrument. The violin is a close second.”

Piano is my primary instrument too.

I smiled through the pain of her statement. She was a prodigy like her father. Constance’s fingers formed more letters, but I shook my head. “Too fast, and I missed the beginning. Start again.”

The previous day, I’d informed Constance of my limited abilities with ASL—I could manage the alphabet and a few simple words. If she spelled her side of the conversation, I understood, provided she didn’t rush.

I made you sad.

“Not at all. I’m in awe of you.”

Will you play for me?

I chuckled. “Not today. My nerves are jangled from lack of sleep, and I don’t want to embarrass myself.” I held a hand flat to show her the slight tremble. It had more to do with skipping lunch than insufficient rest, but it got my point across.

“How’s your dad?” I asked, itching to change the subject and reaching for the first topic at hand.

Constance’s lips formed a tight line before she signed, I haven’t talked to him since yesterday. He’s a… She hesitated and formed the word jerk, although I got the impression it wasn’t what she’d originally thought.

I motioned to the chair I kept near the desk. “Have a seat.”

Constance perched on the edge with a grimace. Are you going to lecture me about talking too?

“No. That I promise you.”

Thank you.

“Your dad came to see me last night, and I told him the same thing.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and after studying my face like she was looking for a lie, her attention fell to her folded hands on her lap. I waited, sensing she had more to say but was processing. Our conversations were slow, but at least we could be productive.

He’s so pushy. He’s not been around for most of my life and now he thinks he can control everything.

Where’s your mother? I wanted to ask but went with “That must be frustrating” instead.

It is. Did he get mad at you? He gets mad at Mom when she won’t take his side.

“No. We talked. I told him my stance on the situation, and that was the end of it.” In retrospect, the conversation about Constance’s speech had been brief. We’d quickly veered to other things. “I think… I don’t assume to understand your circumstances, but I think he only wants what’s best for you.”

What difference does it make if I talk or not? It doesn’t affect him. He needs to leave it alone and let me live my life. I don’t need a voice to play music, and that’s all I care about.

“I agree, but I’m going to let you in on something. I have yet to meet a parent who doesn’t feel the need to stick their nose in their teenager’s life. Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Castellanos, you have a good four or five years to endure before he starts being able to let go.”

I’ll be at Juilliard by then.

“With your skill, I have no doubt.”

Did you go to Juilliard?

I swallowed the painful lump in my throat and smiled. “No. I went to the Toronto Royal Conservatory.” Even if I’d made the cut and Juilliard had opened their doors to me, I would never have been able to afford it, but I didn’t tell Constance that part, nor did I mention how hard I’d needed to fight for scholarships and student assistance when my parents had refused to support what they considered to be an insubstantial career path.

Constance smiled, but it was strained and sad. My dad never cared about me before. Just because I have to live with him doesn’t mean he should get to care now.

“Fair enough.”

As a third party looking in, I didn’t agree. I might have known little about August Castellanos, but after one night, one drunken conversation, I had no doubt he cared about his daughter. His intentions were good, no matter how misguided.

He wouldn’t have quit the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to play house with a woman he barely knew so he could support his daughter through a cancer diagnosis. He wouldn’t have spent four years job bouncing and refusing to commit to long-term work so he could stay rooted. He wouldn’t have abandoned the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to relocate to Ontario to take a job as a guest music teacher at a high school.

No, August Castellanos may not have wanted to be a father, and he might not know his daughter well, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love Constance. Deep down, he wanted what was best for her.

But I also knew the inner workings of a teenage mind, and there was no point explaining it to Constance. She’d made her decision, and fourteen-year-old girls were incredibly strong-willed.

I motioned to the music stand. “How about another run-through?”

Chapter nine

August

Ispent most of Thursday in a hungover haze of partial remembrances, trying and failing to piece together the previous night. Wine gave me a loose tongue, and I distinctly remembered oversharing about Chloé and providing too many details about Constance’s conception.

To a stranger, no less. I knew nothing about Niles or if he was trustworthy, yet I’d spilled my guts like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Worse, while organizing the scattered pieces of my night, I encountered several concerns. Something about sharing his bed and having regrets? Had I said something so damning? Had I given him the wrong idea? Why had he told me he was gay? Why did I remember that part specifically? And why was his mouth so perfectly formed in my mind’s eye? The negative of a photograph burned into my retinas. When my stomach warbled, I blamed the alcohol and hangover.

Shame shadowed me throughout the day when I considered facing Niles again. What had I been thinking? I’d stormed his house to make a point, to fight for my rights as Constance’s father, and tell Niles in no uncertain terms that he should do as I say.

I barely recalled his response, only that his feelings on the issue didn’t align with mine. From there, the rabbit hole divided into too many tunnels, and passageways grew fuzzy.

Oddly, I’d woken with more of that music inside my head. The barely discernible string of notes had further developed into several long passages. I hummed them over and over until I couldn’t help writing them down.

Constance arrived home at four with a boy in tow. Situated at the piano, working on a veiled idea for a new composition, I took a second to register the masculine voice with a distinctive teenage squeak. “Hi, Maestro Castellanos. Good to see you again. Did you write that?”

Startled, I spun on the bench and came face-to-face with Constance and the auburn-haired violinist who’d been so smitten the other day. Cody, if memory served.

My daughter’s caustic glare pinned me in place as she removed her coat and gestured for the boy to do the same.

“We’re going to practice. Constance offered to give me pointers for my solo.” Cody’s grin made him look like he’d won the lottery. He tipped his head at the piano, asking again, “Was that your own creation? You’re a composer, right?”

“Yes, it is… I’m… I’m sorry, but did you say practice?”

Constance rolled her eyes and guided Cody by the arm down the hall, her violin case thumping against her thigh with the hasty retreat.

It took my addled brain a second too long to catch up, so my warning, “Do not close that bedroom door,” came as said door slammed.

Without thought, I stormed after them and flung it wide. “Not a chance, missy. You’re fourteen. The door stays open, or the boy leaves.”

Constance’s cheeks burned brightly, but Cody touched her arm, simmering the flames. “It’s okay. Not a big deal. Your dad’s gonna hear my mistakes anyhow.” Cody chuckled. “The walls aren’t soundproof, I bet.”

Still hot with anger, Constance signed something she knew I wouldn’t understand before performing a sweeping action with both hands. Go away, the gesture said.

I fought the urge to tell her no, to insist on standing under the doorframe to be sure they didn’t get up to no good, but I relented and moved back down the hall to the piano, pacifying my nerves by telling myself they couldn’t be getting busy so long as I heard the violins.

I couldn’t concentrate on writing and played randomly instead, pausing only when the music down the hall stopped. I timed the silent intervals, considering how and when I might have a conversation with my nonverbal daughter about boys and their intentions regarding pretty young girls.

Chloé had given me no guidance when it came to dealing with our teenage daughter and hormones. Had they shared a mother-daughter chat about the important stuff, or was that up to me now that she attended school? It wasn’t like I could call and ask Chloé either. Not without invoking problems. No contact, she’d told me. If she was given permission to chat, she would call. I’d agreed, promising I would be okay.

But I wasn’t okay. I was failing at every turn.

All evening, I listened to Cody and Constance practice their midterm solos. The only voice that emerged from her room was Cody’s. Not even a peer, a lovestruck teenage boy, could convince her to talk. What chance did I have?

When they went too long without playing, I made an excuse to poke my head in, offering to make sandwiches for dinner. Cody informed me he had to be in the dining hall for roll call at seven unless he had permission to be absent, which he didn’t. He thanked me with a toothy smile, but Constance only sneered.

After his departure, my daughter kept her bedroom door closed for the remainder of the evening. No amount of bribery convinced her to come out.

Frustrated, I returned to the piano and the strange composition I’d begun.

***

The commencement of second period had come and gone by the time I arrived at the music room Friday morning. A cacophony of scale variations bled through the door. The same format Niles had used with each class on the previous Wednesday.

I listened, mindlessly adjusting the ill-hung music notes for the third time. If I caught the culprit responsible—and if it was up to me—I’d make them perform a solo in front of their peers. One they had to transpose on sight, converting between major keys with each repetition. If the punishment was good enough for me when I misbehaved in my youth, it was good enough for a miscreant high school student.

And people wondered why I persistently insisted that parenthood wasn’t for me.

Having delayed long enough, I buttoned my jacket, straightened my spine, and wandered into the classroom under the camouflage of a D minor scale, depositing myself at the vacant piano. At the conductor’s podium, Niles had yet to notice me. His arm swung as he conducted what had already become the mundane in my world. Warmups didn’t have to be routine.

Less troubled over my behavior Wednesday evening, I joined the chorus of instruments, giving the scale flair and startling Timber Creek’s music teacher so he whipped around, sunset eyes wide and full of surprise.

My name took shape on his lips, but I didn’t hear it over the noise.

I smirked, winked, and continued into a new variation on the scale’s descent, calling out to the class what we were playing next.

Niles used a familiar progression—C, G, D, A, and E before hitting the minors—but I preferred randomness, wishing to see if the senior class could flawlessly transition on a whim or if they’d been trained in strictly one direction.

“E major,” I said, making the shift.

With a few stumbles and moderate confusion, the students followed my lead. Niles dramatically threw his hands up in surrender and waltzed to his desk in the back corner. “Well,” he intoned jovially, voice raised, “on that note, I’m taking a break.”

“Was your double entendre intentional, Mr. Edwidge?”

Niles flinched and blew a flyaway piece of hair off his face before propping his hands on his hips. “Yes, it was, Maestro.”

I quirked a brow at the students. “He’s fibbing.”

A few kids fumbled the runs as they laughed around mouthpieces. It was utter garbage. They were sloppy and uncoordinated, and it took everything in me not to advise them of their flaws.

“G,” I called when we completed E major. “Accelerando. Come on. I’m bored. Spice it up with me. And good lord, if I see you following sheet music, you fail. You should be long past reading scales on a paper. They should be up here.” I tapped my forehead and picked up the tempo, using new articulation and waiting for the class to catch on before switching notes. It didn’t take long. When I rearranged the flavor and added a flutter of sixteenth notes on each stepping stone up the ladder to the peak, the flutists copied immediately.

The lone tubist laughed and peered around the instrument on his knee. “Who does this guy think I am?” I heard him say to his neighbor.

“Not Arnold Jacobs, I assure you. Don’t make excuses because your instrument’s large. Continue.”

He tried.

I switched and swapped and mixed the pieces on the gameboard enough times the whole class was doing their darndest to keep up. They dropped out one at a time until a steady three remained. A saxophone player, a remarkable French hornist, and a cellist whose grin told me he enjoyed the challenge. Him I liked.

“Let’s end with a chromatic scale, shall we?”

The three remaining students raced to keep up, but by the time I made it back to the bottom, I was playing solo. I ended with a flourish, stood, and bowed. The students whistled and cheered.

A lone man slow-clapped from his desk in the back corner. “Are you done showing off?” Niles asked.

I made the motion of brushing dust off my palms. “I am. Should I see myself out?”

“Don’t tempt me.” To the class, he said, “You have forty-five minutes to practice today. Maestro Castellanos and I will come around to offer advice, pointers, or answer questions. If you’re not working when we come by, you will get to study music history. Something wretchedly boring.”

Niles delivered the statement without taking his eyes off me. The bustle of teenagers rearranging themselves around the room never broke his concentration. Questions reflected on mirrored sunsets. I purposefully did not try to decipher them. I had too many of my own to worry about his.

At best, I owed Niles an apology for storming his house at such a late hour on Wednesday, drinking his wine, and overstaying my welcome. I touched my tie and moved to unbutton my jacket but refrained as I crossed the room.

Arms crossed, ass perched on the corner of his desk, shirtsleeves rolled and exposing lightly furred forearms, hair in a messy bun at his nape, and collar open, exposing his throat, Niles tracked my approach. He looked gloriously relaxed. An untroubled man, comfortable in his environment. Confident, bold, and secure with himself.

I was an imposter in a nice suit, life upside down, career on hold, and with a responsibility beyond my skill level. Also, an ancient, niggling truth I’d long ago buried was trying to resurface.

“How are you feeling, Maestro?” he asked when I was close enough to avoid having to shout.

“I thought we agreed I didn’t like the title.”

Niles shrugged. “It’s required in this building during school hours.”

“Unfortunate.” My fingers twitched toward my tie, but I made a fist and dropped my arm before making contact.

Niles observed me with a quizzical expression. “You know, despite school policy, I’m not stuffy about dress code. You don’t need to wear a jacket and tie if they make you uncomfortable. This isn’t a fine-dining establishment or Roy Thompson Hall. It’s high school. I’m a bit of a nonconformist myself.” He pushed the loose strands of hair from his face with a smirk.

“I noticed. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Niles’s smile mirrored the memories I’d taken home Wednesday night. Warm. Open. Inviting. A thrumming bass note resonated in my chest, humming over my skin. More notes tinkled through my mind. Something undefined passed between us, there and gone before I could fully comprehend what I’d seen. Had Niles felt the chord’s vibration? Did he hear the music as well?

Before I had a chance to worry, Niles stood upright, cleared his throat, and scanned the classroom. “We should get to it.”

“I don’t mind taking this task if you have other things to do.”

But he insisted, and I got the impression my presence stepped on his toes. Although more companionable, he didn’t want to fully hand over the reins. I didn’t argue and spent the rest of the day working one-on-one with students, listening to them play, offering advice, and giving tips to help them improve their performances. More than once, I bit my tongue so as not to offend.

Niles circled the opposite way. I found myself repeatedly watching him instead of doing my duty. The thrum reverberated anew when he caught me staring and slyly smiled and winked before returning his attention to the student he was assisting.

Notes, chords, bar after bar of music floated inside my head. I would need to remember them and write them down. It had been a long time since a composition demanded to be written.

During fourth period, Constance went out of her way to pretend I didn’t exist. Niles turned warmup over to me since I’d had so much fun with it during second period, and my daughter was the only student who didn’t crack a smile at my antics. She was also the only one who managed to keep up the whole time.

When dismissed for self-study, she and Cody claimed a practice room. I wanted to object but held my tongue, fearing I would cause a scene. Niles must have sensed my discomfort and poked his head in to see how the pair of violinists were doing more often than he’d done with any other group.

When the bell rang at the end of the day, Constance and Cody left together, Cody chatting up a storm and my daughter wearing an eye-creasing smile.

Envisioning our secluded homestead in the woods, I scrambled to find my coat and go after them, determined to do my fatherly duty and ensure Constance remained innocent and free from the pressures of hormonal teenage boys, but Niles stopped me before I made it to the door.

“Do you have a minute?”

“No.” I scrambled to get my arm through the sleeve of my coat. “I have to take care of something. I can’t stick around.” I tugged the classroom door, but Niles stopped it from opening with a hand.

“The most valuable thing you can offer a teenager is your trust.”

Halted by his words, affronted by his audacity, I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have rules surrounding boys?”

“Do I have… Yes. The strictest.” I didn’t, but my determination to invent them arose on the spot.

“Has Constance been taught about sexuality, pregnancy, disease, protection, consent?”

I opened my mouth to respond and closed it again, waffling because I had no idea. “How is that your business?”

“Has she?”

“Yes. I assume so. From her mother. We’ve never had those… conversations.”

Niles stubbornly kept his hand on the door. “At Timber Creek, it’s part of the curriculum.”

“Great, I’ll keep that in—”

“Every year in September and January. Every class. Every grade. Education is the best defense you can give a teenager when it comes to sex, drugs, alcohol, and all life’s nasty negatives.”

“And this coming from the man who doesn’t have children. I need to go. Please remove your hand from the door.”

“August…”

“Oh, it’s August now, is it?” An internal clock ticked the passing minutes. Sweat peppered my forehead. How long until they got back to the cottage? “With all due respect, Mr. Edwidge—”

“The bell has rung. It’s Niles now. And what are you planning to do when you find her? Slap her in a chastity belt and homeschool her for the rest of her life? What about when she leaves for Juilliard? Are you going to follow? Are you going to make her wait until she’s eighteen before she’s exposed to boys? Would you prefer she have no experience in dealing with her hormones or navigating someone else’s?”

“I don’t think this has anything to do with you.”

“Walk with me.”

“No. I have to—”

Niles moved his hand to my arm. The heat of his fingers bled through jacket and shirt both. Thrum. My mouth instantly dried.

“Please trust me for five seconds. I know you have good intentions, but I can’t send you off to war without arming you with knowledge first.”

“You don’t know my daughter.”

“Do you?”

That stung, and when I flinched, Niles held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. You told me the other night that your relationship with Constance is tumultuous at best. You said you were new to this. I’m only trying to help. No, I don’t have kids, but I’ve been helping to raise teenagers for well over a decade. Let’s pretend I know a thing or two.”

I hesitated. The urge to run was eclipsed by Niles’s calm demeanor and assuredness. Without a doubt, confronting Constance would lead to war. How many battles would I have to lose before I accepted that she was stronger-willed, and I was powerless?

“Walk with you where?” I asked.

***

Ice crunched under our boots as we followed a cedar path between buildings. Timber Creek Academy occupied an isolated niche by Chemong Lake. Surrounded by woods and far from the city, its ancient, monolithic buildings emitted an eeriness I’d never noticed before, especially with the noise-dampening effects of snow.

Over the course of one week, I’d witnessed a blizzard, rain, sleet, and a deep freeze that had turned the campus into a frosty kingdom. New snow fell from a white sky as we walked. It had to be fifteen or twenty below. Even the winter birds were silent.

Ice-coated tree branches creaked and groaned in the wind. The crisp air stung my nostrils and burned my cheeks. I hugged my wool coat tighter around my middle and watched my breath crystalize with every exhale. “Is it always so cold here in December?”

“No. It’s a mixed bag. Sometimes, we don’t see snow until January. Other times, we’re buried before Christmas. Sometimes it’s eighteen degrees, and there are days like this where you swear the world has tipped on its axis and we’ve become the new Arctic.”

I chuckled. “I suppose it’s similar in Chicago. I didn’t seem to notice it as much there.”

“Were you in the heart of the city?”

“Yes. I have a condo near the Symphony Center.”

“That’s why. It always feels colder in the country. More room for the wind to whip around. Farther to go between destinations.” Spoken as we arrived at a new building.

Niles held the door. “After you.”

Tilting my head, I sized up the exterior of the century-old structure. It was gothic in appearance with its heavy stonework, huge windows, pointed arches, rib-vaults, and flying buttresses. I’d noted the various buildings and had paid half attention when given a preliminary tour of the premises, but I couldn’t remember what each one represented. Knowing Constance would be residing with me for the time being, it hadn’t mattered.

“What is this place?”

“Recreation hall and main library. It underwent extensive restoration over the past two years. It was fully reopened again in September.”

Like the main building, the prolific recreation hall and its architecture mesmerized me. Every part showed an elaborateness not seen in modern structures. Our footfalls echoed in the vast hallway as Niles guided us along. He pointed out several entrances to the library area and explained Timber Creek’s policies about student free time.

“I assume, since Constance hasn’t technically taken up residence in the dorms, that you skipped the portion of the tour where our supervision guidelines were broken down?”

“I was given a brochure.”

“Did you read it?”

“Not yet. It wasn’t relevant.”

“It is relevant unless you want to spend all your free time shadowing your daughter.”

I didn’t want that. The point of putting her in school was to give myself freedom. I wanted her to make friends like a normal teenage girl. It was the hormonal element that concerned me.

“Unless students go home on Fridays—which is permitted, but they must be signed out by a custodial parent—then they have all kinds of options for free time here on campus. We have several vast media rooms.”

Niles stopped outside an oversized, intricately carved wooden door. Voices sounded from within. Hinges creaked as he pushed it open and let me see inside. “Old building, modern technology.” He chuckled. “Computer access, multiple large screen TVs—headphones are available because otherwise it would get noisy. We also have scheduled movie nights with popcorn and junk food, sometimes pizza.”

Niles pointed to a back corner. “Two of the TVs are reserved for the gaming systems. We have everything. Nintendo Wii, Xbox, N64, Atari—”

“No kidding.”

“Yep. We rely a lot on donations. Those shelves with the bins? They’re full of games.”

Six teens occupied two couches, controllers in hand, zombie-like stares glued to the screens. A shot of envy rippled through my veins. As a teenager, I would have loved that kind of freedom.

“Over there”—Niles indicated a cozy collection of beanbag chairs and other plush furniture—“you’ll see a lounge area.” He waved at a woman who appeared to be in her midtwenties. “That’s Olanna. She’s one of the dorm supervisors but does a rotation here as well. The media rooms are open until ten throughout the week and midnights on Fridays and Saturdays.”

“Always supervised?”

“Always.”

Niles took me farther down the hall to a less-defined lounge. “This is a quieter space where the kids can hang out, do homework, chat, and play board games. Whatever they’d like. If they want to get rowdy, the gym is open until eight every night of the week, or they can go outside.”

I glanced about, noting every student while seeking Constance or Cory, but they weren’t there. I was beginning to doubt Niles’s assurance. I didn’t need a tour or a lesson about parenting. I needed to know where my fourteen-year-old daughter had gone with her auburn-haired suitor.

“You’ll notice all the rooms in the recreation hall are open to everyone. The dormitories are restricted to the same sex.” He added air quotes, wearing a less-than-impressed expression. Before I could query something that sounded entirely appropriate to my parental ear, he went on.

“What about genderqueer or transgender students and our acceptance policies, you ask? Well, I don’t have an answer for you. Believe me, I’ve brought it up several times, demanding updated policies, but unless the problem of gender nonconformity presents itself—problem being their word, not mine—then the board is happy with their antiquated guidelines and doesn’t see a need to change.”

“Heated topic for you?”

“Does it show?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It should. It’s almost twenty twenty-five, for god’s sake. If we weren’t a private school running under a private board of directors, this would have been dealt with years ago.” Niles blew out a frustrated breath. “Not the point of the tour. Moving on.”

I followed him down another hallway, itching to make excuses and leave. Had Constance taken Cody home? Were they in her bedroom with the door closed? What would I tell Chloé if her fourteen-year-old daughter ended up pregnant when I’d had her in my custody for less than three months?

As though reading my mind, Niles spun, walking backward as he spoke. “Going crazy yet?”

“Yes. I wish you’d get to the point.”

He smirked and veered into a stairwell. “We’re almost there.”

I had to jog to keep up, and by the time we’d climbed three flights to what appeared to be an abandoned level, I was out of breath. Dusty piles of unused furniture littered the open space, along with mountains of cardboard boxes and several stacks of outdated textbooks. Drop cloths and broken-down scaffolding lay unprotected on the ground, and overflowing carts of building supplies had been shoved wherever there was room.

The overhead lights were off, so the only illumination came from the afternoon sunlight slanting through a bank of far windows. Dust motes stirred as Niles moved stuff out of the way and crossed through the wreckage.

“Watch your step,” he said. “During restoration, they used this space to store stuff they didn’t know what to do with. They still don’t know what to do with it, so here it remains. Broken desks, antique chalkboards, outdated electronics, you name it. Junk.”

“Why not throw it away?”

“Good question.”

Niles stopped at one of the windows and peered over his shoulder as I caught up. I sidestepped and weaved through debris, dodging a spiderweb and climbing over a toppled, rotted beam. Concerned it was meant to support the roof or hold up a wall, I scanned in horror.

Niles chuckled. “We are structurally sound. I promise.”

“Why are we here, Niles?” I moved in beside him, brushing dirt from the sleeve of my jacket.

“I want to show you something.”

“Up here?”

“Out there.” Searching the floor, Niles snagged an abandoned dust cover and used it to wipe a section of the window. It left a greasy film behind, but the view was clearer.

This side of the recreation hall overlooked a snow-covered football field and bleachers. Yellow goalposts marked each end. I would have expected the freezing weather to have driven the students indoors, but at least a dozen or more ran about the field, kicking a ball and jostling one another out of the way. Another dozen or more sat bundled on the sidelines, watching, clapping, and cheering their friends.

Our overhead perspective made it easy to pick out burly Coach Blaine in a leather academy jacket with the Timber Creek wolf mascot emblazoned across the back. He ran alongside the edge of the field, following the kid with the ball. When the teen crossed into the end zone, Coach Blaine blew his whistle and clapped gloved hands.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Every Friday after school, rain or sun, snowy days or clear days, a group of kids come together on the field and play their made-up version of ball hockey. It’s not the typical ball hockey you see the kids play on the street in the summer. It’s a blend of soccer, ice hockey, and baseball. I don’t pretend to understand. I’m not a sports guy. See that man,” he pointed to another adult, high-fiving the kid who’d evidently scored.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Koa Burgard, Constance’s English teacher, that’s his partner. Jersey Reid. He used to play for the NHL. He volunteers with sports-related stuff when he has time. The kids love him. See the teen in the red beanie moving toward the stands?”

I squinted, and the tight knot that had wound around my gut let go. “That’s Cody.”

“Yep. He’s not the greatest musician. I’m sure you’ve noticed. He puts his heart and soul into practicing but will never earn a place on stage like you or Constance. Stardom with the violin is not meant for him. He knows, but let me tell you, he’s driven to be the best mediocre player you’ve ever seen.

“Now, ask him to figure out a complex math equation or explain relativity, and he will blow your socks off. That boy is going to be an engineer someday. He dreams of going to space. Mark my words. He’ll make it.”

Niles leaned a shoulder against the dirt-smeared window, no longer looking outside but focusing on me. “Cody loves sports too, with the same heart that he loves music. He has incredible team spirit. Every Friday afternoon when the bell rings, he’s the first on the field, organizing the teams so they’re as fair as possible. Like music, Coach Blaine says he’s an average player. He’s not going to win any trophies or medals or get drafted to a team, but every kid on the field wants Cody at their back because he’s a fighter, and he won’t give up.”

Constance sat on the sidelines, on the bottom row of the bleachers. When Cody approached, he held out a hand. My stomach dropped when Constance took it and let Cody pull her to her feet. He guided her to a group of nearby students and seemed to make introductions.

Constance waved, and only when Coach Blaine blew the whistle did the knot of teens break up. Cody offered Constance a beaming smile before jogging back onto the field. Constance, no longer alone, joined a group of girls who looked like they’d welcomed her into their fold.

Friendship. Hadn’t I wanted that for her?

“You knew they’d be out here.” I tore my gaze from my daughter and glanced at Niles. His soft expression and warm smile kept plucking that low chord. Thrum.

“Yes. But I also wasn’t worried because I know Cody’s a good kid with strong morals and values. He’s a people pleaser, sometimes to his detriment. He’s also the person who makes sure everyone is included, no matter their differences. I’m not saying he doesn’t have teenage hormones. It’s obvious in the way he looks at Constance that he’s halfway in love, but this is where we have to put trust in kids to make the right decisions, and if not the right decisions, then at least make informed decisions.”

I felt stupid and inadequate. I was supposed to be offering my skills as a musician to the music department, but I’d spent the entire first week listening to parenting advice from a man with no kids of his own.

Unsure what to say, I turned back to the scene out the window, following the ball as the teens chased after it.

“You’re not a bad parent,” Niles said.

“I’m not a good parent.”

“You haven’t had much practice, is all.”

The heat of Niles’s gaze warmed the side of my face. I peered back to find him still watching me. In the low light of the ramshackle storage room, high above the field, and with only the filtered sunlight highlighting his features, it was hard to ignore how alone we were. With seclusion from the world came freedom from the restraints I’d felt bound to for decades.

“You’re staring at my mouth again.” His voice was a husky whisper.

I jerked my attention from Niles’s lips, unsure when I’d become so transfixed. Heart pounding, I focused on the winter scene, on the teenagers playing a made-up version of a game—on my daughter.

I did not focus on my budding desire for the man at my side. I had enough regrets and enough problems without adding more.

Chapter ten

Niles

August toyed with the buttons on his jacket as he peered out the window, but his gaze was as clouded over as the winter sky. He wasn’t seeing the game, his daughter, or the boy who ignited his fatherly fury. August had slipped between realms. Whether evaluating an event from the past or considering future outcomes, I couldn’t be sure, but I’d lost him.

Worry dug crevices into his forehead. The playful, purposefully arrogant side that had taken over warmup scales and shared winks and smiles today was gone.

I’d unintentionally hit a nerve.

Vocalizing my observation had the opposite effect than what I’d intended. August had been staring. It wasn’t up for debate, and Koa was right. Straight men—or rather, someone with no inclination toward the same sex—did not stare at another man’s mouth. Without alcohol to dampen my receptors or blur my memory until I questioned the message delivered from my eyes to my brain, no doubt remained.

But August didn’t seem to want to address it. In fact, the mere mention seemed to prickle his spine.

Silence stretched long and taut like a bowstring tightened to its limit, threatening to break. It thrummed and sang with tension until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I wasn’t staring at your mouth.”

I inadvertently chuckled. “Except you were.”

“I wasn’t.” August’s whip-snap tone shut me up.

A defensive man was generally a guilty man, but I refrained from pointing it out.

Color rose in August’s cheeks. He tugged at his tie more than once, wedging a finger between the crooked knot and his throat as though he couldn’t breathe. Twice, he undid the buttons on his jacket before fitting their tiny heads back through the tight nooses.

Outside, Coach Blaine’s whistle blew. Teenage voices carried on the crisp winter air, shrieks and laughter.

Inside, August’s chest rose and fell as he fidgeted and sweated.

“I’ll leave you be,” I said when more time passed, and August refused to look at me. “I thought it was important you knew more about Cody before judging him. He’s a good kid, and Constance is a smart girl.”

I waited to see if he’d respond.

A slight tick radiated along his jaw, but otherwise nothing.

“Okay. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

I crossed the obstacle course of broken furniture and debris. Why had I opened my mouth? An attraction existed, sure, and returned interest was evident, no matter that he denied it, but even with the kinks smoothed out and our working relationship less hostile than it had been on day one, August was outside my league. What did I hope to accomplish by flirting with a world-renowned musician whose entire career made me feel small?

“Niles.” The strain in August’s voice drew me up short as I approached the door.

I turned back, but his attention remained fixed on the field. “Yes.”

“Thank you for this. I needed it.”

“Anytime.” I waited, but he was done talking.

***

“The Baroque period is said to have laid the groundwork for the next three hundred years of music. It saw the birth of the orchestra, the opera, concertos, sonatas, and cantatas.” Chalk dust rained down as I wrote each on the board.

“Who can give me an example of a Baroque period composer?”

No one enjoyed the days we studied music history, especially when that day landed on a Friday so close to Christmas. Not a single student in my grade nine class showed a spark of life. Their gas tanks were on E, and there wasn’t a filling station in sight. Some struggled to keep their eyelids from drooping, while others doodled in notebooks.

“How about this? Can anyone give me a time frame for the Baroque period?”

It was written on the blackboard and still no one took the bait. I whistled. “Tough crowd. No one?” I pointed at the answer. Blank stares. No reaction. No volunteers.

Sighing, I deposited the hunk of chalk on the ledge and brushed my hands on my trousers. “For the record, I don’t enjoy teaching the history aspect as much as you don’t like learning it.”

“Then why can’t we skip it?” Benjamin Murray, a horn player in the back row, asked as he penned a tattoo on his forearm.

“It’s part of the curriculum, Mr. Murray, and if the design you’re drawing is suggestive in any way, you will spend the rest of the period chatting with Dr. McCaine.” He scribbled it out, dropped the pen, and surreptitiously covered his arm like I hadn’t witnessed the whole thing.

“I’m just doing my job here, folks. Someone, please answer either question, and I promise I’ll wrap it up as fast as I can.”

Constance raised her hand.

“Yes. Miss Castellanos to save the day.”

She signed the letters H-A-N-D-E-L.

“Handel. Good example. Thank you. He was indeed a Baroque composer. Can anyone name another?”

Dean blurted, “Bach?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Townsend?”

A few teens smothered smiles, and one muttered, “Neither. He’s clucking like a chicken. Bach, Bach, Bach.”

More laughter.

I slanted a brow. “Mr. Townsend?”

“Um… telling you?”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, not anymore.”

Titters rolled through the classroom. A few more boys made chicken noises, and I was ready to throw in the towel.

I forced a smile. “You’re correct, Dean. Bach was a late Baroque composer, and the next person who clucks is getting extra theory homework.”

They shut up, but only marginally.

The students were almost too unsettled to teach. I debated getting into the stylistic diversity of the era but took pity instead and let them get their instruments out so they could practice before the bell rang in twenty minutes. It wasn’t a lot of time, and their solo pieces should have been polished and ready to perform, but it was better than pulling my hair out to get them to participate in a lesson. I had a vast supply of patience, but it wasn’t endless.

August sat at my desk in the back corner, stacks of musical scores surrounding him. His lips moved to a tune only he could hear. Be it a time-keeping bass beat, a steady tempo of rhythm, or a fast flurry of sixteenth notes, it no longer surprised me. It was a quirk I’d seen in August a lot this past week. Stress did different things to different people. For August, it made him fidget with the buttons on his jacket and incessantly adjust his ill-knotted tie. It also transformed his thoughts and emotions into symphonies, and those symphonies leaked out of his mouth without him realizing it. Sometimes, he played air piano on the desk or his thighs.

It had been a trying week since our quibble on the top floor of the recreation hall. I had hoped the previous weekend and subsequent five days would repair the damage, but it hadn’t. August, professional to the extreme, assisted wherever needed. He was not a teacher, and his influence tended toward harsh, nitpicky comments he should have swallowed. The man’s personal supply of patience and understanding was slim at best.

He accepted responsibility for warmups and was available during free practice time to lend a hand or offer advice to struggling students, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid being alone with me.

Although I’d caught him staring a few times from across the room, he did his best to evade eye contact and conversation, always showing up at the start of second period, never a minute before the bell. We didn’t discuss Constance or his private life. He spoke no more about Chloé or his struggles with parenthood. Any suggestion of interest had been effectively erased.

One week remained before the Christmas holiday. Students would go home for a much-needed break and to spend time with their families. It marked the middle of term one and the true beginning of winter in Ontario—despite its early onset that year.

Apart from the annual Christmas concert happening the following Thursday evening, solos were scheduled to begin Monday morning. August and I were supposed to collaborate and share our thoughts for grading purposes and choose who we wanted to perform at the spring concert. He’d originally agreed to be present the entire week since there wasn’t enough time to fit everyone into his reduced schedule, but since the mood had shifted, I had no idea if that was still the case.

At this rate, it would be an uncomfortable task. It wasn’t that August outright ignored me—he was too mature for that—but the tension that existed between us would be easily picked up by an observant teen. Someone needed to break the ice, and it wouldn’t be him.

As the students stuffed binders into backpacks and opened instrument cases, I crossed to the desk, unobserved by the man still humming and singing an undefined concerto. The task he’d assigned himself occupied all his attention.

Stopping a few paces away, I strained to pick out notes and catch the tune of his random vocalizations.

“Handel?” I asked, startling him. “I want to say Water Music?”

August stared blank-faced for a moment before his gaze turned inward as though accessing an internal data bank—a man checking what record he’d put on—and nodded. “Yes. That seems to be the case. Second suite. I didn’t realize I was humming. Bad habit.”

He averted his attention to the score he’d been scrutinizing. “I’m considering ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ for the concert band.” He held out a thick folder containing the sheet music for all the sections. “Thoughts? I played it with the Royal Philharmonic. It’s complex, but I can modify parts to fit the parameters of the students’ skill levels.”

“You plan to rewrite it?”

“Not exactly. Modify. Adjust some of the trickier sections. Essentially, it would be a ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ variation.”

“Modify.”

“Yes.”

I glanced at the pristine folder, opening it to peruse the sheet music. Its immaculate condition spoke to its challenge. I’d never felt any class was ready to tackle this particular piece by Gustav Holst. And August planned to modify it? Every part? The idea was preposterous. It would take ages—for me, anyhow. Maybe August could manage it over afternoon tea.

“Um… sure. If you think they can handle it.”

“Some of them. But with discipline, I have hope.” He shifted a few folders around and plucked another from a pile. “And potentially Boléro by Ravel. It needs a strong flutist, but Abby Young can manage. I’ll give her some pointers. I’d like to find a piece to highlight Dean’s trumpeting. He should have first chair. His skills are beyond the girl’s… What’s her name? Gretta?”

“Gina.”

“Dean’s better.”

“He’s in ninth grade.”

“So?”

“I don’t give first chair positions to grade nines, no matter their skill.”

August’s brow furrowed. He didn’t ask why, but the question sat on his tongue. Perhaps he was considering his daughter, who was leaps and bounds beyond anyone in the senior class. He returned to the spread of files. I set Holst on the corner of the desk and pulled up the chair typically used by students. “It’s Friday.”

“Yes.”

August’s movements turned jerky and erratic with the invasion of his space. He shuffled files senselessly, opening and closing them without looking at the contents.

“Would you like to grab… coffee or a drink? Dinner perhaps? We need to discuss how to approach the solos next week and review my grading scale. I can show you the form I use. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

August stilled, gaze locked on a roughened file containing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, a piece the concert band had performed several times over the years. It presented a challenge while also being recognizable. The students always enjoyed it.

August wet his lips and warily scanned the classroom before lowering his voice. “You’ve got the wrong idea about me.”

“The invitation is work-related, August. Nothing more. Teachers do that sort of thing.”

He thumbed the frayed edge of the file and drummed his fingers once, twice, three times before opening it and tapping the cover page. “I always loved this piece. Intensely dramatic. Powerful. It gives me chills when I hear it performed.”

“Tchaikovsky has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Has the concert band played it recently?”

“It’s been about six years, so no.”

August nodded as he flipped through the instrumentation for each section. “We should add it to the list.”

“Sure.”

The disharmony of so many instruments playing at once filled the space between us. Practice sessions had turned to goofing around, and had I not been so focused on getting an answer from August, I might have reprimanded the class for not using their time wisely.

I waited.

August shuffled through scores, vocalizing his opinion on several and disregarding my invitation until I gave up and stood. “Never mind. I’m sure we can sort out grading on the fly.”

I turned to let the students know the bell was about to ring and they should pack up when August spoke. “Is nine too late? Constance usually shuts herself in her bedroom with a book by then, so I’d feel more comfortable leaving her if it was later. We don’t need to eat. A drink would suffice.”

“Nine it is. There’s a jazz bar on George Street called Junction. They usually have live music on Friday nights. It’s not as noisy as it sounds. More serene. Atmospheric. We’ll be able to talk. It’s classy. I like it. They do a nice cocktail.”

I stopped rambling as I considered the intimate setting of Junction and wondered if August would think I’d deceived him when he showed up. My innocent invitation was pure on the surface, but deep down, I couldn’t help casting one last lure into the water.

“I’ll find it.”

The bell rang, and the room exploded into Friday afternoon chaos as students packed up and scattered.

Instead of seeing them out or saying goodbye, I found a notepad and pen buried among the scores and jotted my phone number before tossing it to August. Something told me he was the type who would go home and talk himself out of it, and I would spend half the night drinking alone, waiting futilely for him to show up.

“If you can’t make it, please have the courtesy of letting me know.”

Chapter eleven

August

Ipicked up my phone three times to cancel. All three times, I put it down without texting.

“We’re consulting about work. Nothing more.”

The man reflected in the bathroom mirror wore a charcoal sweater-vest and maroon collared shirt, buttons open at the neck. I’d dismissed the idea of wearing a tie, knowing it would give away my nerves when I couldn’t stop touching it, but the display of skin felt suggestive in a way I didn’t want to suggest.

Or did I?

Ignoring the thrum of my pulse, I splashed cold water on my face and wiped it off with a hand towel. The worried pinch at the corner of my eyes and the fret grooves gouged into my forehead remained. Why had I agreed to this? It wasn’t innocent or pure. Niles was fishing, and I took the bait.

Bracing a hand on either side of the sink, I leaned my weight on the counter, bringing my face closer to the mirror for a quiet pep talk.

“You’re stronger than this. You’ve proven it doesn’t have to be part of your life. Let it go. He’s one nice-looking man in a sea of millions, and you’ve managed fine without—”

A soft rap at the door drew me upright. Heat raced along my neck and burned my cheeks. “Just a minute.”

Constance kicked the door. If she could have growled or yelled, she likely would have.

I wet my face again, hoping to tame the flush before seeing what my daughter wanted.

The moment I opened the door, she yanked me by the arm, forcing me out of the bathroom before shoving her phone in my face with the time displayed. It was after eight. I’d been getting ready for over an hour.

It wasn’t hard to puzzle out what she was trying to tell me.

“I didn’t realize the time,” I said, grimacing. “If you had to pee, you could have said something with words instead of getting angry.”

She rolled her eyes and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. A moment later came the sound of an overfull bladder emptying into the toilet.

“Constance, I’m sorry.”

When she opened the door again, it was with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth and a scowl on her face. She held up a finger, asking for another minute.

“I’m done in there. Take all the time you need. I didn’t mean to be a bathroom hog. You should have spoken up.” As if that would happen.

She scanned my outfit, and her scowl shifted to curious confusion. Sniffing the air, she glanced at the counter where I’d left the bottle of cologne. Was it too strong? Had I overapplied?

Still brushing her teeth, she motioned to my clothing and the cologne.

“What? I’m going out… with a few teachers.”

Her penetrating stare threatened to strip the lie away and reveal the truth. She spat and rinsed before propping her hands on her hips and shaking her head.

“No? What do you mean, no?”

She signed with a flurry of hand movements.

“Constance, stop. You know I don’t understand. Please use words.”

But stubborn was her middle name, and she refused. Using the notes app on her phone, she typed a message instead and flashed the screen. You have a date.

The punctuation implied it wasn’t a question.

“No. It’s a work thing with teachers.”

Teachers? Plural? You know ONE teacher. Mr. Edwidge.

I sighed. “Yes, and we’re going out for a drink to discuss how we’re grading solos next week.”

You’re lying.

A fire burned the lining of my stomach. “I’m not. Why would you say that?”

Because you’ve been primping for over an hour. You’re going on a date. Who is she?

Ignoring the heartbeat pulsing in my throat and my clammy hands, I aimed to look adequately affronted. “There is no she. I’m not going on a date. I’m having a conference with your teacher. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s part of the job I signed up for, and I don’t appreciate the inquisition. I don’t report to you.”

She rolled her eyes, pushed past me, and headed to her bedroom. I expected her to slam the door, but she left it open, returning a second later to shove her phone at me again, a new message typed out.

I took the device but stared at my daughter. “Can you please try, Constance? There’s no one here but me. At least practice.”

She motioned to the phone.

Sighing, I read what she’d written. When can I see Mom?

My shoulder slumped. “End of January at the earliest. You know that. Three months minimum, but they said it would probably be longer, so don’t get your hopes up. The likelihood is it won’t be before March.”

Pouting, she tore the phone from my hand and flung herself into bed, grabbing a book from her nightstand and turning her back as she curled on her side.

Three to five months of minimal to no communication. Ten months to a year before Chloé would be reevaluated for custody.

And somehow, it was all my fault. I was the bad guy.

“I’m heading out.”

No response.

“You’re not to have anyone over while I’m gone.”

No response.

“And you aren’t to leave the house.”

Nothing.

“I’m trusting you, Constance. Don’t disobey me.”

She turned a page in Jane Eyre and kept reading like her ears didn’t work either.

***

The GPS in the rental took me to Junction, a seemingly low-key establishment with dark windows and a calligraphic sign featuring a pair of saxophones with music notes on the end. The parking lot suggested it wasn’t Peterborough’s hottest hangout on a Friday night, for which I was glad.

Inside, a trendy, intimate atmosphere greeted me. Flickering candles decorated the centers of cloth-draped tables and were the main source of illumination. A string of soft white fairy lights highlighted the bar area on the left side of the room. Black was the prevalent color, nothing bright and assaulting. It exuded an air of privacy. Confidentiality.

Seduction.

In the eighties or nineties, I imagined a thin cloud of smoke would hang in the air from peoples’ cigarettes, amplifying the mood. Yes, Junction was sufficiently… intimate.

The focal point of the establishment was the stage. A spotlight shone on a five-piece ensemble. A trombonist caressed a warm melody from deep within his instrument. A bass player added a funky beat in the background. The two were soon joined by a woman on saxophone and a man in a fedora who soulfully took over the melody on trumpet. At the far side of the stage, a person of ambiguous gender let loose on the piano. They wore trousers, suspenders over a white shirt, and a pageboy hat.

Niles was right. The music was ambient and pleasant. The musicians played without amplification, the acoustics in the small nightclub superb, carrying the sound without assaulting a listener or sacrificing clarity.

Intimate. I kept coming back to that word. I couldn’t shake it.

It wasn’t until someone spoke by my ear that I realized I’d stopped in the doorway, blocking traffic.

“Excuse me.”

I shifted aside, allowing a man and woman to pass. They took a table nearby. He helped to remove her jacket and pulled out the chair, offering a soft kiss to her cheek before she sat. A server appeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Regulars.

Intimate.

Pulling myself together, I scanned faces, seeking Niles, but he wasn’t present. Several empty tables remained. I overanalyzed the location of each, not wanting to choose somewhere especially private or suggestive of a clandestine affair. I took a table near the bar, draping my coat over the chair before getting comfortable.

The same server glided over and offered a smile and the drink menu. I scanned the selections of cocktails.

“Cosmocello, please.”

“Excellent choice.”

The ensemble moved into a new piece by the time my drink arrived. I sipped and checked my watch. Ten after nine. No sign of Niles. I turned my phone in circles on the table, debating what to do. I’d input his number into my contact list that afternoon, hearing his warning. But what if something had come up? He would have no way to contact me. I’d never given him my number, and he wouldn’t find it on a staff list.

The cocktail’s tangy zing hit my palate as I sipped again, scanning the room, analyzing and overanalyzing every detail about the bar and the invitation. The occupied tables seemed to consist of couples enjoying date nights. Was that how Niles and I would be viewed? Was it what he wanted?

I checked the time. Twenty after nine.

Spinning, spinning, spinning my phone, I debated calling or texting to see if something had come up. I should not have felt jaded over a business conference, but the longer I waited, the worse the sinking feeling in my gut.

I drained the last of the cocktail. The server appeared to see if I wanted another, and I was about to decline when Niles appeared, tugging out the chair next to me, cheeks flush and breathing elevated. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” To the server, he said, “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”

The woman retreated toward the bar as Niles shed his coat and draped it over the chairback. Wrenching the elastic free from his hair, he spoke. “Christ, my mother called, needing to have a discussion about our family Christmas. She would not be put off, no matter what I said. When I finally got her off the phone, after agreeing to things I will surely regret, I knew I was going to be late, but I had no way to contact you. Forgive me. I came as fast as I could.”

He combed his fingers through the long, variegated strands, tugging them off his face and forming a knot at his nape before resecuring it with the band. The instant he finished, several shorter pieces fell from the tie, brushing his cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice as he glanced at the ensemble on stage.

“Oh, I’ve seen this group before. The Django Dreamers. They’re good.”

Niles had paired dark-washed jeans with a sandstone-colored V-neck sweater and a white collared shirt underneath. The mixture of casual and chic worked for him. He had the unique air of an artist, something I’d never acquired. Something I envied.

The hue of the sweater complemented his coloring, taking the sunset qualities I’d originally noted and giving them an autumn flair.

The server arrived with our drinks, and Niles’s focus returned to the table. “Were you waiting long?”

“I was here at nine as agreed.”

“So you’re, what? One drink ahead of me?”

“I’m not getting intoxicated with you again.”

“Afraid you might be honest?” He quirked a brow.

Ignoring the quip, I sipped the new drink and tuned into the band, admiring the skill and style of the piano player, moving my fingers on the table as I picked out the notes and rhythm.

“Can you play by ear?” Niles asked, indicating my hands.

“Yes.” I made a conscious effort to stop fidgeting as Niles picked up his drink and sniffed. “It’s a cosmocello.”

“What’s in it?” He swished the swirl of lemon rind in the liquid.

“Think cosmopolitan but with limoncello instead of lime juice.”

He tried a sip and whistled. “That’s got zip.”

“It does. I usually have a dry martini, but the limoncello calls to my Italian roots. I haven’t had it in ages.”

Niles held his drink in anticipation of clinking glasses. “Cheers to one last week of school before the holiday.”

I glanced around the bar to see if eyes were on us. Only the server, but that was enough to still my hand. I didn’t raise my glass to join him in celebration, deferring to the conversation we were meant to have. “We have solos to discuss. You have a grading method you want to share. Please explain.”

Niles, far too analytical, followed my gaze to the bartender before correctly deducing my concern. Huffing and shaking his head in a manner I’d seen Constance do far too many times, he set his drink down and leaned back in his seat.

Masking his relaxed look with stiff cordiality, he said, “Might as well hop right to business. We wouldn’t want to enjoy ourselves, and god forbid someone misconstrue our meeting for something nefarious. Wouldn’t want that.”

“It’s… the setting is rather intimate. It doesn’t exactly exude the correct vibe.”

“Koa and I come here all the time. What vibe are you referring to?”

“Isn’t he your ex?”

“It’s funny how you pay attention to the important details. Yes, Koa’s my ex. We’re friends now and manage to come here as friends without it being weird, or should I say, without us exuding a vibe.”

“I’m not saying—”

“Yes you are.” Niles leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “And your defensive behavior is not helping your case. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it’s not me.”

The temperature in the room skyrocketed. I drank deeply from my cocktail and focused on the musicians, afraid to say anything else incriminating. Niles’s attention never veered from my face. It prickled heat up my neck and left a stone in my belly.

The song ended, and still, I kept my gaze averted. With an exasperated sigh, Niles fished inside a jacket pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He flattened it on the table and pushed it toward me. “Have at it. All work and no play. That must be where I went wrong in my career.”

I took the paper and flashed my attention to Niles. “What’s this?”

“The breakdown of my grading scale. Seven categories, each given a score out of ten. The last category is scored out of thirty. Add them up afterward for a final grade out of one hundred.”

I read through the list. “Intonation, tone, rhythm, technique, interpretation, articulation, difficulty, and overall performance.”

“They’re each explained, although I’m sure you don’t require the definitions. The main consideration when evaluating students is reflecting on their progress throughout the semester. That will land on me since you haven’t been with us long enough. If their skills haven’t improved or they select a piece equal to what they performed in September, it will affect their grade. The point is to make progress.”

“Makes sense.”

“If, let’s say, Dean were to choose a piece significantly more difficult than his skill level, I take that into consideration, but it’s a double-edged sword. If he overshoots and the performance is a mess…” Niles shrugged. “It doesn’t generally happen since I spend several weeks working with them one-on-one beforehand.”

I skimmed the breakdown of each category before folding the paper and offering it back. “It seems self-explanatory.”

“I suggest we both use the form while watching the students perform and compare notes afterward to create an agreeable grade.”

“Sounds like you don’t need my insight, or rather, you find it less valuable since I haven’t been with the class for long.”

Niles fingered the edge of the paper, his tongue riding the edge of his upper teeth under his lip. “It’s not…” He sighed and shoved the paper aside. “No. I’m supposed to take advantage of your… superior skill and use it as a learning tool. You are an asset to have at Timber Creek.”

It was my turn to stare and his turn to avoid meeting my gaze. “Those were not your words, and it pains you to admit I’m better trained, doesn’t it?”

Nose wrinkled, Niles hit me with a hostile glare. “No more than it pains you to admit the truth.”

Cutting my gaze to the stage, I drained my drink. A hundred rebuttals ripened my tongue. What truth? You’re wrong. I’m straight. I wasn’t staring at your mouth the other day. I’m not attracted to you.

All lies, and to wage war would be juvenile and damaging.

Niles didn’t chase the attack. We called an unspoken truce and drank in silence, listening to the entertainment, both of us in our own worlds. Twice, I lifted the empty glass to my mouth only to shamefully put it down again, hoping no one noticed. The moody jazz on stage vanished, exchanged for head-roaring “Gewitter und Sturm” from Strauss’s Alpine Symphony. The thunderous effect paralleled my mood. Chaos. Confusion. Nervous tension.

I wanted Niles to talk. I wanted to leave. I wanted to drink him in yet burn the photographic negative it left behind on my brain.

At some point, my attention drifted, and I caught myself observing Niles. Partly turned to enjoy the ensemble, he didn’t notice. His profile conveyed disquiet, irritation, and… resignation. I couldn’t pretend to know what he was thinking.

The number of things I’d learned about Niles could be counted on one hand. His ex taught English at Timber Creek. When commenting about seeing his family at Christmas, his tone of voice suggested tension or drama. When it came to comparing musical talents, his feelings were easily hurt. And Niles knew sign language. He’d conversed better with my daughter in the two short weeks they’d known each other than I’d managed since taking custody in October.

“You’re staring.”

I jerked my attention away, lifting my empty glass to my mouth for the third time. Denial was pointless.

When the server breezed past our table, Niles waved her down and asked for a refill. His sunset eyes, hardened to amber, landed on me questioningly.

“Make it two.” So much for limits. The second drink had already softened the edges of my ire, and I didn’t have it in me to remain combative. Plus, continuously trying to drink from an empty glass was embarrassing.

The jazz ensemble took a break as our drinks arrived. Ambient music drifted from a speaker system in the ceiling. Niles faced me, tugging mindlessly at the curl of lemon rind rimming the glass.

The tension had substance.

“I don’t know you,” I said several minutes into the uncomfortable silence.

Niles arched a brow. “I’m not following.”

“I unloaded a good portion of my history the last time we had drinks. You told me nothing.”

“So you’d like me to get personal now?”

“No, I’d… I mean… It’s awkward. This.” I swung a finger between us.

“Only because you made it awkward.”

“I know. I don’t want…” I mimicked his actions, toying with the lemon curl on my glass. “I apologize. It was not my intent to cause friction.”

Niles dropped the peel into his glass and sipped. “What do you want to know?”

“Whatever you’re willing to share. Tell me about your family. Do you have siblings? Where did you go to school?”

Niles huffed humorlessly. “Sure. Why not? Let’s get personal. My dad, Jeffrey Edwidge, is the head of the cardiac department at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto. My mother is Elizabeth Edwidge from Edwidge and Blaney LLP, three decades of family law. I have two older brothers, Mason and Andrew, and an older sister, Presley.”

“You’re the baby?”

“Yep, and the only one who wasted their potential by studying music instead of attending med school or law school as was expected. My siblings are all doctors or lawyers of one kind or another. I’m the only one in the family without a PhD. A disgrace. Oh, and I’m gay, which is the reason I haven’t settled down and gotten married. Just ask my mother. She’ll tell you. You see, if I was straight, I would be happily wed with a house full of children. But no. Bah, bah, black sheep.” He sardonically pointed at himself. “That’s me.

“I can’t be in my parents’ presence for five minutes without them insinuating how disappointed they are in every aspect of my life, but don’t you worry. They’re not homophobic. So, there you have it. That about sums up all there is to Niles Edwidge.”

He held up his glass in a cheers motion, seemed to remember my previous take on the act, huffed again, and took a long drink instead.

“Happy?” he asked, lowering the glass and swiping a hand over his damp lips. “You’re far superior in every way, Maestro. I can’t compete.”

“I didn’t know we were in competition.”

Niles’s expression changed, features softening to despair. He lowered his head. “I’m sorry. That was spiteful and rude and uncalled for on every level. I’m jealous, is all. You’re ten times the musician I will ever be, and I can’t help feeling like I missed an opportunity because my family didn’t support me. When Dr. McCaine told me you were to be a guest teacher, I was convinced she was looking to replace me.”

“I don’t want your job, Niles.”

“I know. Ignore me. I tell Koa not to be maudlin, but here I am, doing the same.”

We drank the rest of our cocktails in silence. His words poked an infected wound I’d spent a lifetime trying to ignore, but I couldn’t find words to explain, nor did I think Niles wanted to hear it. He’d fabricated an image of my life, what he considered must have been a perfect childhood. I could shatter the illusion or let it go.

I let it go.

When the server appeared and asked if we wanted more to drink, Niles and I stared at one another, neither committing to another round. Alcohol weakened my control, and already, I didn’t want to leave. Any more, and I would require an Uber to take me home.

“One more round,” Niles said when the server shifted her weight, seeming uncomfortable.

The look in his eyes was both resentful and mournful, a combination that shouldn’t have been possible, but I saw it plain. He couldn’t figure me out. Fair enough. I couldn’t figure myself out and feared looking too closely at the man I truly was deep down.

Niles’s bun had loosened. Flyaways escaped and brushed his shoulders in abundance. I wanted to tear the elastic out and let his hair tumble free. Run my fingers through it. Feel the rasp of his beard under my palms. Explore the contours of his lips with…

Niles held up three fingers.

I frowned.

“Three times.”

“What?”

“You’ve gotten lost on my mouth three times tonight, but go ahead and tell me I’m wrong.”

The server appeared with our drinks.

The jazz band came to life on stage.

I had no defense. What could I say? When I didn’t respond, Niles turned toward the musicians, leaving me to absorb the comment and all it implied.

Thirty minutes later, I picked up the tab and followed Niles into the cold winter night. The crisp air sharpened the view of the star-filled sky, and I tipped my head to absorb the endless depths of the universe far above. We were so small and insignificant. Why did it matter? Where had this stubbornness gotten me?

“Did you drive?” Niles asked, bringing me back to earth.

“Yes, but I drank too much… again.”

“We can share an Uber.” He used the app on his phone to arrange a ride. Finished, he popped the collar on his coat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s cold.”

“I lived in Russia. This isn’t cold.”

Niles didn’t respond. I diverted my attention back to the stars, trying and failing to pick out constellations. I felt his attention, his questions, and his frustration. The luring pull, aided by liquor, was too much to resist.

“I’m not in denial. I know who I am, Niles.”

“Oh yeah?”

Not looking—I couldn’t for shame, fear, and a hundred other reasons—I continued staring at the sky.

“And who are you, Maestro?”

The dwarfing stars called for surrender. “Don’t call me that.”

“You can’t even look at me.”

I lowered my gaze and took in Niles’s cold, jaded stare. Even with his hostility, the attraction I felt never wavered. The music from before returned with a vengeance, exploding inside my brain, demanding to be written. It was a symphony.

“Do you believe it’s possible to have nothing in common and everything in common at the same time?” I asked.

“The cryptic language is irritating. Speak English.”

Enough alcohol blanketed my system to numb my nerves and give the impression of bravery where none existed. Complex thoughts were not easily expressed with simple words. Even sober, I struggled with the truth.

No doubt adding to Niles’s confusion, I moved closer and tucked a few flyaway pieces of hair behind his ear, lingering, absorbing its softness. The shell and lobe of his ear were ice cold to touch. I wanted to warm them but didn’t, fearing if I paused to think I would lose courage.

The backs of my fingers grazed his beard as I glided them along the curve of his jaw to his chin, where I ghosted my thumb over the swell of his bottom lip. I could do it. Who would know? Who would care?

I openly stared at his mouth, yearning to lean in for a taste yet fighting the pull of my conscience telling me not to.

Under the stars, concealed by shadows, and blanketed by a warm cushion of vodka, there wouldn’t be a better time. Would he hate me? Would he welcome it?

Would I hate myself when it was over?

I searched his eyes. No longer sunsets. The night had stolen their color. Questions. So many questions.

I edged closer, his moist exhales dampening my thumb. I leaned in, heart a thundering bass line joined by a flurrying chorus of butterflies under my skin.

The sound of an approaching car jarred me from the moment, and I startled, stepping back in a hurry as the Uber pulled into the parking lot beside us.

Niles eyed the car, then me, bewilderment plain on the surface. “Really?” he croaked.

The passenger window powered down, and the driver called, “For Edwidge?”

I couldn’t move or breathe.

Niles acknowledged the ride, but his attention never left my face. “Not in denial, huh? I understand now. I’ve met guys like you before who live in a closet, surrounded by shame, and pretending they’re straight. I don’t have time for this shit. Get your own ride, Maestro.”

He got in the car and slammed the door, leaving me alone under a crushing universe of stars. I’d never felt smaller. No, Niles didn’t have a clue what it was like to be me. The perfection he envisioned was an illusion.

Reality was far from pleasant.

Chapter twelve

Niles

“His type is the reason I uninstalled that infuriating dating app. Do you know how many closeted men I had dinner with? They’re lured by the idea of being out, but when faced with reality, they’re cowards. God, I’m too old for this shit.”

“There is no god.”

“Shut up, Koa. Let me despair about the woes of being a single gay man in peace.”

“More wine?” He drew the bottle forward and uncorked the top.

“Yes. Please.” I pushed my empty glass across the island. The dirty plates from our long-finished dessert remained. I stabbed a finger in the graham cracker crumbs of what had once been a cherry cheesecake piecrust before Jersey admonished me and took it away to be washed.

The hulking ex-hockey player fit surprisingly well into Koa’s life. Although nothing alike, Jersey brought Koa peace, and for that I was grateful.

Koa spoke as he returned my topped-up glass. “The closeted population have their reasons. We live in a controversial society. Not everyone wants to deal with people and their unsolicited opinions day in and day out. Not everyone is as openly affectionate as you.”

“Can I offer an opinion?” Jersey closed the dishwasher, pushed a few buttons to start the load, and slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he helped himself to his refilled glass of wine. “As a bisexual man who spent a good portion of his life in the spotlight, sometimes it’s easier to be who the people want you to be rather than ruffle feathers because, let’s face it, someone’s feathers will always be ruffled if you claim to be anything but heterosexual. I wasn’t closeted, per se, but I was careful not to allow myself to become a walking billboard for equality in the NHL. It would have caused potential conflict with teammates, fans, and sponsors. Harassment was a real concern, so I kept my personal life as personal as possible.”

“But you would flaunt a woman on your arm,” I pointed out.

“Of course. No one balks at that.”

I glanced at Koa. “Doesn’t that sound like a bisexual erasing themselves? Isn’t that the war they fight day in and day out?”

Jersey chuckled. “It absolutely is, and no one does it better, especially if they aren’t confident in their skin. Being straight is easy. Being bi is a lot to explain, and most people don’t understand. I didn’t say it was right. I didn’t say it wasn’t toxic and perpetuating stereotypes. I’m just saying, that’s the reality of fame and being anything but cis het.”

“August is not a hockey star.”

“He’s a world-renowned musician,” Koa said. “In his circles, it could be equally damaging to be out. Think about it. Many European cultures aren’t as accepting as we are on this side of the world, and most of his career has taken place across the ocean. Germany, Greece, Austria, and Russia, to name a few countries. It could be the difference between working or not working. Homosexuality is still criminalized in sixty-four countries.”

“Well, it’s not here, and he’s been in North America for several years, so your argument is faulty.”

“What about his family?” Koa asked.

“What about them? My parents would love it if I was straight, but alas, I live to disappoint them.” I drew a scented candle forward and dug through a wicker bowl of junk that perpetually decorated Koa’s kitchen island until I found a book of matches. I didn’t want to talk about August anymore. I heard the argument and knew I was playing the petty card, unfairly judging someone whose life was not mine.

I lit the candle and stared into its flame as it trembled and grew brighter. The truth was, I was lonely, and it had been a long time since an intelligent man had drawn my attention. Despite the green pallor of envy, I harbored an admiration for August. I wanted to know everything about him and live vicariously through him.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausting all this energy, bitching about a man who will be gone in a few months. What do I care? Why are we even talking about him? Are you two coming to the concert on Thursday?”

The pair took the change of topic with grace, neither one pointing out that it was me who wouldn’t let it go. It was me who was bothered. It was me who was hurt.

***

The week progressed as anticipated. Hours upon hours of August occupying the chair beside me as we listened to students’ solos. For privacy, we confiscated a practice room. The four walls grew especially close between performances when we were left alone to confer over grades.

We did not discuss the jazz club or the near kiss in the parking lot, and although he offered plenty of quality feedback—if not harsh at times—on the solos, I found myself irrationally irritated and arguing for the sheer sake of it.

August touched his tie and shook his head as he scanned the marks I’d given a senior flutist. “No. I disagree. I don’t feel she interpreted the piece correctly. The style of a rondo is not the same as an intermezzo. She didn’t prove she knew the difference. Plus, she ignored the dynamic markings altogether. The slow, melodic sections should have used more air across the embouchure and less tongue. Her attack and release were all wrong.”

“She was giving it her own artistic flare.”

“By destroying what the composer set out to do? Mozart would be insulted.”

“Well, Mozart isn’t here, and Natalie showed guts by taking on a difficult piece and daring to put her own spin on it.”

“Classical music is not meant to be reworked to that degree. Is this the kind of thing you teach?”

“What? Free expression? Yes, in fact, it is. Is that a problem?”

August tossed his pen on the table with a huff. “What do I know?”

“Nothing when it comes to teenagers. Believe me.”

A low blow, and the moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Each subsequent battle grew progressively worse.

On Tuesday, I waved a hand over the aggressively marked form he’d completed on a clarinet player named Rianna. “What is this? We’re not grading poise and posture. It’s not a category.”

“It should be. Humility has no place on stage. The sooner she learns that the better. She must command and control the audience the second she walks out there. She must exude confidence. Arrogance. Plant her feet, lift her chin, and prove herself worthy. A person can’t afford to be meek and mild in this business. You don’t slouch. You don’t tap your toe to keep the beat. You are poised and professional. Both feet rooted to the floor at all times. Firm. Confident. You don’t grimace when you make a mistake. There is no room for flaws when the spotlight is on you.”

I blinked several times in astonishment as August explained his position. He’d lost his mind. “What the hell are you talking about? These are teenagers, and we’re in a high school music room. Do you see a spotlight? Rianna is sixteen. What stage?”

August blanched and glanced at the harshly marked form, then at the practice room surrounding us. He balled the paper in a fist and excused himself.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day.

The worst exchange came on Thursday when it was Constance’s turn to perform. I’d considered how to approach the situation all week.

“You can’t be part of this. Not when she’s your daughter,” I said before Constance appeared. “It would be seen as favoritism.”

“I won’t grade her, but I’d like to watch.”

“She doesn’t need undue pressure.”

“My daughter is a performer. If she can’t operate under the strain of having a parent in the audience, she has no business pursuing a music career.”

“She’s fourteen.”

“And aiming for Juilliard.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The friction between us mounted by degrees. Every exchange turned caustic. Under it all was the ever-present attraction we pretended didn’t exist and the kiss we never shared. In place of lust grew anger, but who were we angry with? Each other or the situation? I was forty-four, far beyond miserly games and quibbles, but there we were, battling it out like we were fresh out of high school. Pointing fingers. Accusing. Name-calling. All because August refused to have an adult conversation.

“We’ll leave it up to Constance. If she asks you to leave, you leave. If she’s okay with you staying, you keep your goddamn mouth shut. You don’t get an opinion on her grade. Period. I will take this to Dr. McCaine if I have to.”

“Yes, go tattle to your boss. Tell her the highly acclaimed professional doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“My god, you’re insufferable. I’m glad you didn’t have the balls to kiss me. That would have been a mistake.”

August’s dark eyes smoldered with rage, but he bit back whatever comment must have been brewing on his tongue when Constance opened the door.

She glanced between us, cold and indifferent toward her father, warm and smiling with me. I smugly enjoyed the contrast.

Constance placed her music on the available stand. Chin high, she acknowledged her readiness with a slight dip of her head. Although I sensed no notable discomfort from the young teen, I wanted to offer her options before she began.

“Your father has asked to remain in the room, but you should know, he won’t be part of the grading process. If you’d prefer that he leave, that’s perfectly acceptable.”

Constance’s expression didn’t change as she dashed a quick glance at her father and back. Since her hands were full and she couldn’t sign, I asked, “Do you want him to leave?”

Constance shook her head, seemingly undisturbed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

As she commenced, I found myself watching August as much as I watched his daughter. I’d seen plenty of parents at concerts, radiating pride as their children performed, but none of them were ever so scrutinous. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know August dissected every note and pitch, analyzed her poise and posture, and critiqued her technique and interpretation.

Constance wasn’t a child. She was a project. She was his personal masterpiece to sculpt and display at will. It curdled my stomach.

When I tuned into her playing, the indigestion got worse, not better. How could I objectively grade this girl?

No mark would suitably match whatever August had already assigned in his head. Too low would be insulting, and I’d suffer his wrath. Too high would justify his claim that I knew nothing about the nuances of classical music. To be critical would suggest superiority, and August would never see me that way. I was a lowly high school teacher. I had never attended Juilliard or any other revered music school. I’d never played with a symphony orchestra or graced the stage as a renowned musician. I was mediocre at best.

The truth was, for a fourteen-year-old, grade-nine student, Constance’s performance was flawless. Stage-worthy. On par or better than anything I could have done. He knew it, and I knew it.

Constance finished and lowered the violin, offering a graceful bow of the head like she’d done weeks ago on the stage at Roy Thompson Hall. A virtuoso at fourteen. Hiding my turmoil—my envy—I smiled. “That was incredible.”

She signed thank you and collected her music, pointing at the door with a quirked brow.

“You may go.”

I waited for August to say something or stop her from exiting. Any regular parent would have at least offered their child a reassuring smile. Praise. He did not. He focused on the blank marking sheet I’d not permitted him to fill out. I had no doubt he was taking notes inside his head.

When the door closed, he shifted to face me, the anticipatory look waiting for feedback.

The only thing I’d written on my page was Constance’s name and the title of the piece she’d performed. I turned it face down, hedging, unsure what to say. “It was perfection. I’ll have to consider the finer details before giving her a grade.”

“Constructive criticism will help her improve.”

“There’s not a lot to criticize.”

“There is always room for criticism. Perfection doesn’t exist.”

“It does when it’s your daughter, and her skill outshines the teacher’s. Anything I say will be wrong. She shouldn’t be in this class. I haven’t managed to teach her a single thing. The joke’s on me, isn’t it? If it’s not you making me feel inferior, it’s her.”

I stood, collecting the stack of marked forms and banging them into a pile. “No more today. I have a concert tonight, and I need to prepare.”

Chapter thirteen

August

Constance’s late start at Timber Creek meant she wasn’t part of Niles’s Christmas concert—although she should have been. Her midterm solo was leaps and bounds beyond her classmates’, and she had stage experience like they would never know. I’d tried to bring it up with my daughter, but she’d yelled with a fast flurry of ASL. I could only assume it meant I should mind my business.

Apart from occasionally observing rehearsals, Niles hadn’t wanted me involved with the Christmas show. It was his baby to nurture, and he’d kept me at a distance. Heaven forbid I suggest ways to improve it. He wore his bruised ego like a second skin. I let it go. After the holiday, the concert band was mine, but I suspected surrendering the reins was the last thing Niles wanted to do.

The final bell rang, and the fourth-period class trickled out much slower than usual. A few students helped Niles gather music stands and percussion instruments, transporting them to the auditorium. Constance approached, backpack slung over one shoulder, violin case clutched in her left hand. She extended the right with a message written on her phone.

In no mood to wage war over words, I took the device and read.

I’m going home. What are you doing?

I scanned the room. “I’ll see if Mr. Edwidge needs help preparing for tonight.” Although I thought he would prefer I scatter with the rest of the students, but setting up for the evening seemed part of my duties as a guest teacher.

Constance took her phone back and typed.

How was my solo? Any feedback?

I eyed Niles across the room and lowered my voice. “Excellent pacing. Watch your bow grip during the flurry of runs near the middle. It grew rigid during the longer passage, choking the sound. You’ll end up with a bounce if you aren’t careful.”

Constance nodded with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. She was as much a perfectionist as her father.

What did Mr. Edwidge think?

I sighed, again seeking Niles, but he wasn’t in the classroom. “I don’t know. We never discussed it.”

Constance left, and when I couldn’t figure out how to inject myself into the flurry of setup duties, I bowed out as well, heading home.

***

Lacy snowflakes danced in the air as I returned to the main building that evening for the annual Timber Creek Christmas concert. They swirled and danced, brushing my cheeks and melting against my warm skin as I hustled along the path, Constance far ahead. The full parking lot bustled with parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends as they filed into the school for the show.

Abandoned by my daughter the second she located a group of girls from her grade who were also there to watch the concert, I sat alone in the back row of the auditorium. Before the lights dimmed, a man with a short beard, mussed brown hair, and a Peterborough hockey jacket took the seat to my left.

I thought he was a parent until he offered his hand to shake. “I’m told you’re the famous maestro. Jersey Reid, nice to meet you.”

The name touched a memory. I’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. I returned the handshake. “Just August, please. Do you teach here?”

“No, no. My partner does.” He hitched his chin toward the stage. “He’s helping Niles wrangle the wild beasts and get things organized. Koa Burgard. I believe he teaches your daughter English.”

The pieces clicked. “Ah, yes. Has her hooked on Jane Eyre.”

Jersey chuckled. “Could be worse. Be glad it isn’t something maudlin like the Russian guy who’s obsessed with writing morally gray characters. I can’t remember or pronounce the author’s name. Something with a D.”

“Dostoevsky?”

“That’d be him. Zero out of ten stars. Do not recommend.”

I chuckled. “I’ll be sure to file a complaint if I see his work on her nightstand.” I indicated his jacket. “You’re a hockey coach.”

“I am. Peterborough minor league. You into sports?”

“Not at all.”

Another smile, accompanied by a head shake. “You creative sort need to get with the program.”

“I played golf once.”

“Doesn’t count. Golf isn’t a sport. It’s a leisurely walk spoiled.” Something caught Jersey’s attention, and I followed his gaze to find Niles at the side of the stage in discussion with a few parents.

“How do you like working with Master Edwidge?” he said with a flair.

“Master?”

“Koa’s nickname. A little on the nose.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “It’s an experience.”

Jersey chuckled. “I hear you’ve got him in quite a knot.”

My stomach dropped until Jersey explained. “Niles is sensitive about his standing among the faculty. Only one without a PhD. He’s never felt good enough and is convinced you’ve come to replace him.”

“Why on earth would I want to teach high school music?”

Jersey slanted a brow, and I heard the ambiguous context of my question. Before I could reorder the wording into something less arrogant, the lights dimmed, and a hush folded over the audience.

Jersey’s partner—Niles’s ex—snuck into our row and took the seat on Jersey’s other side, leaning over to say a quiet hello. I smiled tightly and focused on the stage. Niles had claimed he and Koa had remained friends. How much had Niles shared with his friend? Doubtless nothing positive. Did Koa and his partner know about the jazz club? My admission? The near kiss? Our exchanges over the past week had been hostile. Niles was clearly upset, and I didn’t have the tools or courage to fix the damage I’d done.

A spotlight appeared. Niles came on stage, stopping in its aura, and greeted the parents, explaining the night’s program and thanking them for coming. Instead of introducing the band or a soloist, Niles sat at the worn upright and straightened the sheet music on the rack.

Unexpectedly, the show began with Niles’s own performance.

I hadn’t heard him play with any seriousness since the first day we’d met when he’d fumbled through Gaspard de la Nuit. My comments that day had not been appreciated, and we’d been on a downward slide ever since.

The unfamiliar piece he’d selected for the evening painted a magical landscape of a winter night. Intricate layers gave it depth and wonder. His creative use of dynamics helped build anticipation. Nightingales danced on snow-covered branches, fluffing their feathers in the cold. Cinnamon and spice drifted from beverages swirled with whipped cream toppers. Crystalized breath and rosy cheeks. Heartbeats pattering inside tiny chests with the anticipation of Father Christmas’s arrival.

Closing my eyes, I found the correct key and moved my fingers on my legs, picking out the bassline with my left hand and adding a flair of harmony with my right. I rode the sleigh ride. I tasted the hot cocoa. Pine and sap tickled my nose as I inhaled.

It wasn’t until Niles finished and stood to bow that I returned to myself again, querying why Niles had chosen to open a show intended for students and their parents.

Over the following two hours, I listened to the concert band and several solo performers with the ear of a professional, trying not to cringe. It took time to adjust my ingrained expective nature. I’d spent a lifetime on stage, but never in an amateur capacity. It was unlike anything I’d witnessed. The seriousness I’d anticipated was absent. The discipline was lax, yet it was raw and real and somehow beautiful in its own way. The rough edges and imperfect transitions between performances helped me relax after a time as I observed a quality of life I’d never experienced. Freedom from expectation. A joy in its simplest form.

No pressure. No criticism. No punishment. Just the pure essence of music enjoyed by all.

Niles and I had fought tooth and nail all week over grades. His incessant reminders that these were teenagers had gone over my head. I had been a teenager of a different sort. The scale of comparison was imbalanced. My quality of life was incomparable to those on stage.

The concert ended at nine, and the auditorium bustled with a clash of families and faculty. Koa and Jersey took their leave, wishing me a happy holiday. I remained seated until the crowd thinned, and I spotted my daughter happily engaged with a few other teenagers. The upcoming weeks presented a challenge. It would be Constance’s first Christmas without her mother. I was a poor substitute, and she let me know it every chance she got. I didn’t know how to make her happy.

Many students were heading home that evening, taking an early holiday. I anticipated the final day of class would be lackadaisical. Only a handful of solos remained to be evaluated. Perhaps Niles could conquer them alone, and I could bow out. It wasn’t like I’d provided much in the way of help. He rejected every piece of feedback I delivered. I could stay home, invite Constance to take the day off, and we could get a Christmas tree or buy decorations for the cottage. I hadn’t shopped because I didn’t know what to buy a fourteen-year-old.

When my daughter left the auditorium without saying goodbye and a text landed on my phone a minute later, telling me she was going home, I abandoned the plan as fast as it formed. She wouldn’t want to spend a day with her dad.

Few people remained, and as the last of them trickled out the door, I found myself alone, not wanting to head home when the only thing awaiting me was a hostile teenager.

I missed Chicago. I missed late-night rehearsals and independence. I missed not being the target of teenage dissatisfaction everywhere I turned.

The stage lights clicked off. Clicking footfall sounded from behind the backdrop. The curtains ruffled, and a moment later, Niles parted the flush seam, appearing mid-stage. He aimed for the piano and collected a stack of sheet music from on top. Scanning it, he moved to leave the way he’d come when he noticed me sitting alone at the back of the auditorium.

A long pause ensued where we stared at one another, neither of us speaking.

“Why are you still here?” he asked, his voice filling the vast empty chamber.

“No better place to have a midlife crisis.”

He frowned, so I added, “The show was entertaining.”

“Entertaining?” Niles tossed the music back on the piano and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Interesting word choice.”

“I can’t win with you, can I? It was a compliment. I enjoyed it. It was… perfect in its simplicity.”

Niles huffed and shook his head like he couldn’t figure me out. That made two of us.

He wore a festive hunter-green V-neck with a white shirt and tie underneath. No rolled sleeves, as was his norm. He exuded an appropriate teacher vibe that evening. Long hair tamed in a tight bun at his nape. Flyaways carefully controlled. A clean-shaven jaw, which surprised and disappointed me. I liked the trim beard. It suited him.

He was incredibly attractive, and I couldn’t dismiss the feelings he stirred, no matter how hard I tried. In the back of my mind, the serenade I’d come to associate with Niles resumed. It was always there, under the surface, expanding with each encounter.

We’d barely had a civil conversation all week, and Niles didn’t seem open to one now, but I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to go home to a tension-filled house and a daughter who ignored me. I wanted his music inside me. I wanted to see where it took me. He turned my system upside down, yet I couldn’t pull away. I didn’t want tension. I didn’t want a wall. I wanted to bridge the gap and harmonize.

“Will you play for me?” I motioned to the piano.

Another huff. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It’s humiliating.”

“You have skill, Niles. I never said you didn’t. The piece you opened with. I didn’t recognize it. It was beautiful.”

His guarded expression remained, and he didn’t seem inclined to share the title. Abandoning my seat at the back of the auditorium, I followed the aisle to the stage. Peering up, I met Niles’s wary gaze.

I pressed my lips together, seeking the right phrase, the right notes, the right tone to convey the right message. “I was wrong.” It was a start.

“About what?”

“A lot of things. I grew up in a different world, and you unfairly judge me. I’m trying to adapt to this… situation, but I’m clearly failing.”

I stared at my hands, at my long fingers and trimmed nails. My most precious commodity, yet some days, I wanted to take a hammer to them and smash the bones. I wanted to escape the chains that bound me to this life.

Craning my neck, I met Niles’s gaze. “You resent your parents for not supporting your dream. They wanted something different for you, and when your desires and goals went unrealized, you blamed them.

“You envy me for having lived what you perceive to have been a perfect life. My parents, in contrast, did all they could to ensure I reached my full potential. They didn’t encourage or promote ten hours of practice a day. They insisted on it. It wasn’t an option. I didn’t get a choice. They didn’t commend my accomplishments. They listed errors, and I was punished for them.

“I played piano until my fingers ached, until I saw the passages and notes in nightmares, and I wanted to tear my ears off because I was so tired of hearing them. I was dragged to countless auditions from the time I was six years old. I had tutors who did nothing but shout and scold. I was never allowed to play outside or do things other boys did. My hands were a delicate gift from god, and I needed to care for them.” Displaying them, I made fists in defiance and squeezed them until my knuckles hurt.

I glanced about the stage, at the music stands and chairs lined up on risers, at the lonely timpani and the upright grand that had seen better days and needed to be tuned.

“Music and the stage are the only life I’ve ever known, and I’m not sure it’s the life I would have chosen for myself. If I come across as starchy, rude, or arrogant, if my methods are harsh and my comments are destructive and cause you shame or embarrassment, I apologize. You’re not less than me because you didn’t rise to professionalism, because you didn’t attend Juilliard, because you don’t have a World Classical Music Award on your wall. None of it matters. Not to me.

“I’m sorry you didn’t live your dream as you’d hoped, but let me tell you something. I respect you for having the courage to defy your parents’ wishes and follow your heart. Sometimes, I wish I’d done the same. Maybe I’d have learned to fix automobiles or design houses. Maybe I’d have played tennis for a living, become a farmer, or joined the navy.” I chuckled. The notion was outrageous. “What I’m trying to say is, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”

I reached to adjust my tie and remembered too late I wasn’t wearing one and smoothed my hand down my sweater front instead. “I’ll get out of your hair so you can shut down for the night. I don’t think I’ll be in tomorrow. We’ve had enough conflict this week. Merry Christmas.”

I turned to go, but Niles’s words stopped me. “If all that’s true, why are you doing the same thing with Constance? Why are you shaping and molding her life to reflect yours if you hated it?”

A painful smile touched my lips, and I turned back. “I didn’t raise my daughter, Niles. I was the absent, uninterested father, remember? She’s the product of her mother through and through. Chloé molded and shaped our daughter to reflect the life she loved. She instilled in Constance a passion for music from the time she was a baby, and she guided our daughter down the road to stardom before Constance could hardly walk.

“Since I’ve taken custody, I’ve learned that Constance’s desire to pursue these goals is now her own. She wants Juilliard. She wants the stage. She doesn’t yearn for other things, or if she does, she doesn’t share them with me. She locks herself in her room and plays until she can’t, and there is no stopping her. It’s a self-discipline that comes from in here.” I tapped my chest. “You recognize it because you have it too. Trust me, I’ve tried to sway her elsewhere, but she won’t be pulled off course, and who am I to take her dream away? I enrolled her at Timber Creek to give her a chance to be a normal teenager. It’s the least I could do, and yes, part of it was selfish because it saves me from having to be a parent. I wanted to give her options, Niles. I wanted to show her there was more out there, just in case. Chloé didn’t want her here, but Chloé lost the privilege of having an opinion when she… Well, that’s another story.

“Constance didn’t want to come either, but I think she’d rather be here than at home with me, so she reluctantly agreed.” I shrugged. “Please don’t judge what you don’t understand, and I’ll try to do the same. We have a lot of months together. I hope we can find common ground. Have a good night, Niles.”

I turned and walked up the aisle. He didn’t call me back. At the auditorium doors, I paused and glanced over my shoulder, catching him staring after me. Niles snapped to attention and slinked offstage with his head down.

A moment later, the vacuous room plunged into darkness. Silence swelled. Instead of leaving, I returned to my seat and self-pity, content to remain the auditorium’s lone occupant all night if I had to. It was hard to envision Constance noticing my absence when she was likely locked in her bedroom practicing her music.

Alone with my thoughts, I tried to grasp hold of the drifting notes that occurred in Niles’s presence, arranging them, humming them, and dissecting the central heart of their song. Eyes closed, I envisioned them on staff paper and created chords and harmonies. I played them on the piano of my thighs.

A noise brought me up short.

The symphony stopped. I cocked an ear and strained my eyes, but the void of the windowless room had no beginning and no end. I floated in an abyss, absent of time and space.

But I was no longer alone.

Shuffling.

Someone sat next to me, and my eyes, adjusted enough to the darkness, barely made out Niles’s form. “You startled me.”

“You didn’t leave.” His soft, unthreatening voice filled the space between us.

“No, I…”

“Midlife crisis?”

I chuckled. “Of sorts.”

“You should go home.”

“I’m not ready to face the teenager.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Aren’t you tired of listening to me?”

“Only when you’re contradictory about how I grade students.” Niles shuffled to face me. I could scarcely make out the contours of his face, but I felt every inch that separated us. “When you share about your life and your daughter, I understand you better and forget to hate you.”

I said nothing, encumbered by the weight of despair. Niles didn’t know the half of it. “It goes much deeper than being a child prodigy and having a baby I didn’t…”

“Want?”

“Expect. I wasn’t meant for this task. I never wanted custody. It’s shameful to admit.”

“Where’s Chloé?”

I considered the exhaustive task of translating that story and shook my head, despite the darkness and unlikelihood he would see the gesture. “Another time, Niles. Please. I have enough misery without transferring the mass of her problems onto my shoulders.”

“Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“About you?”

I racked my brain for his meaning. “I’m confused. Does she know what about me?”

Niles chuckled and shifted forward once more. “Never mind. And here I thought you were intelligent.” His thigh brushed mine, but he moved it away before I could exhilarate at the connection.

Encouraged by the shadows and private atmosphere and partly because of aching loneliness and the fatigue of holding myself together, I moved my leg next to his, meeting his thigh once more, telling him without words that I wanted his touch.

Niles’s hand landed on my knee and pushed it away. “Don’t.” A cutting edge to his tone.

“I thought—”

“I make it a point of not getting involved with closeted men. They’re enough to drive you crazy, and I don’t need the drama. I’m too old for that.”

“Okaaay… But I’m not closeted.”

He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Good lord, not closeted? You’re practically living in Narnia. I thought you said you weren’t in denial.”

“I’m not.”

Another satirical snort.

“I’m not gay, Niles.”

“How can you… Let me get this straight. You’re not gay, you’re not in the closet, and you’re not in denial, but you wanted to kiss me Friday night and stopped when the Uber pulled up. What are you then?”

He couldn’t see the shame burning my cheeks, but I squirmed internally, nonetheless. Regulating my voice so the tremble of nerves wouldn’t give me away, I said, “I would consider myself a… repressed bisexual.”

A pause, and Niles laughed. A full, hearty belly laugh that went on for ages. It resonated in the empty auditorium. When I sought to see him in the dark, I found his head tipped back, one hand swiping his face.

“Oh god. I’ve never heard anything like that before. A repressed bisexual. It’s brilliant.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’ve made my day, except I don’t know what to do with that information. I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Considering you find me insufferable, it doesn’t seem there’s much to debate. I’ll keep my leg on my side of the line and continue… repressing my bisexual feelings.”

Niles’s humor wound down, and he tipped his head to the side to face me. I’d been staring at him, so the changed position brought him closer. The only thing separating us was a cavern of darkness and maybe a few inches. It felt safe. Private.

Intimate.

“Are you repressing feelings toward me, Maestro?”

The moment shifted under the quiet weight of his question. The music returned, serenading me down a path that led to an unknown destination. We harmonized. His chords. My melody. The imbued allegro rhythm of my heart. The pianissimo of a held-breath moment. An aria of a journey not yet begun.

“I am,” I croaked. “I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off you since the day we met.”

“The day you insulted my piano playing in my own classroom.”

“I didn’t insult you. I was trying to explain how—”

“August. Shut up.”

A hand on my nape. Accelerando.

The touch of his mouth against mine. Crescendo.

A majestic, symphonic explosion as his tongue breached my lips.

The kiss sang through my veins, “Flight of the Bumblebee,” Ruslan and Ludmila.

I soared on the high, frantic notes, trying to keep up, ability failing for the first time in my life as the pace quickened beyond my skill. I was out of control, out of my depths, but I didn’t care.

Niles took the role of conductor. His soft mouth and confidence became my guide as he orchestrated our music and created new harmonies not yet explored. It had been years. Decades. Centuries. Eons. These feelings were new. Timeless. Infinite. Precious and rare.

He tasted like hazelnuts and apple orchards, like thirty-second notes gone wild. Instinct took over like it did so often when I played, my hands and body knowing what to do without cues from my brain.

I grappled for the elastic holding Niles’s hair secure and pulled it out, letting its length fall over his shoulders in waves. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Sweetness and spice. A crashing cymbal. The thunderous boom of a timpani.

I wrapped my fingers around the thick strands and fisted them like I’d wanted to do the day we met.

He grunted at the aggression, chuckled, and broke the kiss. “Repressed bisexual. Christ.” He laughed against my mouth.

“Shut up.”

I tried to draw him back, but he resisted, breathless. “Hang on.”

Shifting the armrest out of the way, Niles crossed the barrier, moving halfway onto my seat, wedging a leg between mine. Hands on my face, my shoulders, my chest. Lips, tongue, and teeth.

My erection pressed against my pants, and had there been light, I might have been embarrassed by the youthful reaction. From a single kiss. A joyous touch.

By a man.

After years.

Niles’s tongue wrapped around mine, hand wandering lower. He found my shame and pressed his palm against it, pawing and stroking me through my pants. I could barely think. Struggled to breathe and keep up. The shivering, rushing, cascading glissando of a harp touched my spine.

The belt buckle.

My zipper.

Shifting of underwear.

Air against swollen flesh.

A warm, steady hand.

I gasped, breaking from Niles’s mouth as he stroked me, shuddering with unrepressed pleasure. "Se thélo tóso polý."

Chuckling, he nipped my lower lip, the sting of his teeth another shot of pleasure. “Speak English, Maestro. I didn’t understand.”

“It’s…” I couldn’t think straight. “It roughly translates to ‘I want you so badly.’”

“Oh, do you?” His concentrated movements on my cock intensified. “Now tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. Tell me I lack skill.” He increased his pace, and my thoughts scattered into the wind as I tipped my head and arched my back, cursing again in Greek.

“It was never… a competition… oh god.” I tugged him back against my mouth, commanding the kiss. Any notion of shyness or uncertainty dissolved. Niles didn’t slow. He didn’t stop.

Coordination was a thing of the past, and I rode his mouth and hand until an explosion of stars eclipsed the blackened universe of the auditorium, and I came.

Niles took me through every shuddering aftershock, pecking kisses along my jaw to my temple when I couldn’t find the dexterity to make my muscles obey even a simple command. Hazy and boneless, heart still drumming in presto, I let Niles’s music rock me back to earth.

As the coda veered us toward conclusion, Niles removed his hand. Disheveled and covered in release, I chuckled. “I’m a mess.”

“Yes you are.” Hovering over my mouth, I could just make out the shape of Niles’s eyes in the dark. “And you need to pull your shit together if we’re ever doing this again.”

“What?”

Niles moved away, and I scrambled upright, fumbling for his arm to stop him, but he’d moved out of reach. I could no longer see him in the dark but heard his retreat.

“Niles?”

A gentle laugh found my ears. “Repressed bisexual. Meh, I could do worse. Have a good holiday, August. See you in January.”

“But—”

The door to the auditorium slammed, and I was alone.

Chapter fourteen

August

Iknocked once on the closed bedroom door before opening it a crack. Constance stopped playing and lowered the violin to glare over her shoulder like I alone bore the responsibility for putting her in this prison cell. The warden invading her space.

God help me. It was only Monday, the first official day of Christmas break, and the white flag in my pocket screamed to be waved.

“I’m leaving. Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

A head shake.

“There’s a festival of lights in town. I thought we could—”

Another head shake, more adamant. Who was I fooling?

Sighing, I gestured to the music stand. “You should take a break. You’ve been at it all morning. It’s vacation. Don’t you have friends?”

Deadpan. She snagged her phone from a nearby table and wrote a message in her notes app.

Pretty sure you hate all my friends and have forbidden me to be within 100 miles of them.

“I never said… This is about that boy, isn’t it?”

An eye roll. Constance made a shooing motion.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m perfectly within my rights to be concerned over a boy. You’re fourteen. And for god’s sake, use words. Do you know what it cost me for a private speech therapist?”

She stamped a foot and stabbed a finger at the door, her features snarling even when no sound escaped.

“You will not talk to me that way.”

Without uttering a sound, she mocked my speech and took a stance, waiting for me to exit.

“Fine. Be that way.” My voice inched toward hostility. “Should I bother buying a tree? I get the feeling I’m the only one who will enjoy it. Another waste of money.”

Constance petulantly shrugged and faced the stand, reorganizing the sheet music. She did not have the gift of an eidetic memory like her father, so memorizing pieces took time. She had an ear for tone and could listen to a passage once or twice, picking out the notes on the piano or violin with relative efficiency, but she had to work at it. It was a stumbling block, nothing more. She persevered, determined to overcome any obstacle. If I wasn’t so pissed off, I might have been proud.

I tried a new angle, curbing my anger. “You could pick out your own gifts. We could go out for lunch. Whatever you want. The sky is the limit.”

No response. She wouldn’t be bought.

“If you stay home, you’re at the mercy of a father who doesn’t have a clue what to get you for Christmas.”

Nothing.

“Constance, I wish you would—”

She brought the bow to the strings and played, ignoring me altogether.

My phone rang from the kitchen, saving me from asking another redundant question—or shouting because my agitated nerves could only take so much nonsense. I closed the door and jogged down the hallway before the call went to voicemail.

The display read Rock Glen Haven, and I stalled, my finger halfway to answering. “Goddammit. Not now.”

More drama was the last thing I needed, but ignoring the call wasn’t an option since I was Chloé’s only family on this side of the ocean. We weren’t even family, but in October, when she’d asked me to be her emergency contact, I’d reluctantly agreed. What could I say? No? She was my daughter’s mother. Like it or not, I had an obligation.

Steeling myself, I connected the call, muttering a hardened, “Hello?”

“Hello, Augustus.”

Despite our distance, despite how radio waves bounced the cell signal from tower to tower to tower to bring Chloé’s voice into my living room, she sounded the same as always. Smoky, silky, and sexy, Chloé’s talking voice resonated much lower than her singing voice, laced with an Austrian accent that had diminished with her time in North America. It shocked people to learn she sang mezzo-soprano. Chloé’s voice had drawn me in all those years ago. It didn’t have the same effect anymore. If anything, it coursed a chill up my spine.

“What happened to no contact?”

“Relax. I’m not breaking the rules. I got permission. Special circumstances. It’s Christmas in two days. They’re having a social for families that morning. Tea. Snacks. It’s not much, but we’re allowed thirty minutes of visitation.”

Jaw clenched, I asked, “And?”

“And I want to see my daughter, Augustus.”

The muffled sound of a violin traveled from down the hall. I didn’t think Chloé could hear it but moved farther away, cupping a hand around the phone to block excess noise. No rules existed barring her from talking to her daughter, only my stubbornness.

“You’re not supposed to see her. That’s a court order.”

“Unsupervised. You could come too. Even if you don’t, this place is crawling with professionals. We wouldn’t be alone, Augustus, you know that.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m already having a hell of a time with her,” I snapped. “It will make it worse.”

Chloé grew quiet. A muffled voice over an intercom sounded through the phone, reminding me where she was and the reason for our current circumstances. Down the hall, Constance’s bow bounced when she raced over an especially difficult section of ascending and descending sixty-fourth notes. The conductor in me wanted to knock on the door and tell her to mind her grip because it was too tight. The father in me wanted to tear the bow from her hands and crack it in half over my knee, scream at her to go outside and be a child for god’s sake because she was fourteen and had her whole life ahead of her.

Then I remembered Niles and his unrealized dream. I imagined him at Constance’s age, wanting more and wishing his parents would believe in him. Unlike me, Constance hadn’t been tainted by her mother’s pressure. She’d thrived with it. But I knew what this life could do to a person.

“I’m sorry, Augustus. I know you didn’t want this.”

Regulating my temper, I asked, “How’s it going?”

“It’s harder than I expected, but I feel good… now… most days.” The music down the hall stopped, and silence bled through the phone line. “Can I talk to her?”

“She doesn’t talk.”

“She can listen. I have things to say.”

Constance’s bedroom door opened. Like a moth to a flame. Did she know? Could she sense her mother’s presence if only through a phone? She glanced down the hall, made eye contact, and vanished into the bathroom.

Relief flooded my veins.

“She’s not home,” I lied. “She made friends at school. She’s out with them.” I pictured auburn-haired Cody and debated telling Chloé our daughter had a boyfriend, but that would have been another lie since I’d forbidden it.

“Is she practicing?”

“No more than she wants to. I won’t force it.”

A haggard sigh. “Will you tell her I called?”

“No.”

“Will you bring her on Christmas?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry.”

“She’s my daughter, Augustus. Please.”

“You lost your parental rights, so it’s my decision, and I said I’ll think about it.”

With nothing more to say, we got off the phone. Constance emerged from the bathroom and headed to the kitchen, rooting around the fridge. She inspected a bruised apple and put it back.

“Not much in there. I’ll hit the grocery store while I’m out.”

Abandoning the fridge, she checked two cupboards

“We can go grab pizza.” A last-ditch effort to earn her company.

She shook her head, signed something she knew I wouldn’t understand, and returned to her room, slamming the door.

The frayed threads of my control snapped. Anger boiled over. At Constance. At her mother. At my upended life. “For the love of god, use words,” I shouted. “Quit acting like you’re incapable. I’m sick of it. I want to have a normal conversation with my daughter. Is that too much to ask?”

She opened the bedroom door and slammed it a second time to get her point across, an unnecessary measure that infuriated me further.

“I gave up everything for you, you ungrateful brat!” Grabbing the car keys, my phone, and the remaining shreds of my sanity, I left the house before I said something else I regretted. Her skill at poking raw nerves trumped my ability to keep my mouth shut, but I should have bit my tongue. What I’d said was worse than cruel, and I was supposed to be the adult.

Peterborough bustled with Christmas spirit, of which I had none. I wandered a festively decorated street lined with quaint gift shops and cheery patrons carrying packages and sharing greetings. They rushed from shop to shop, merrily preparing for the upcoming holiday.

The scent of woodsmoke hung in the air, emerging from a chimney several blocks over. A charcoal cloud of smoke rose and dissipated in the low gray sky. The weak winter sun strained to heat the city, but the temperatures hovered below freezing.

Cars parallel parked on both sides of the road, windshields cleared of snow in an arc. Most wore thin layers of white on their roofs. An elderly gentleman shoveled outside a hobby shop, his knitted tuque sporting a fluffy pom-pom that bounced and nodded with his movements. Lampposts shimmered with garlands and bobbles. In the distance, the faint notes of Christmas carols. I couldn’t decipher from where they originated.

I wandered aimlessly, defusing, concocting Christmas plans only to dismiss them moments later, knowing Constance would hate each one. In a busy café, I ordered hot cocoa with a whipped cream topper and peppermint stick and took it to an unoccupied wooden bench on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t graced the music room at Timber Creek on Friday, choosing to stay home and work on the new composition instead. The one that wouldn’t let me go. The one that manifested itself only when in Niles’s presence. Meaningful and meaningless all in the same breath. I should ignore it. I had more important work to focus on. Commissioned pieces. But no, it was to be my downfall. The pull to writing it was insatiable.

I hadn’t seen Niles since the concert.

Since the kiss.

Since…

You need to pull your shit together if we’re ever doing this again.

Over and over in my mind. His words. The sensations. The blasted symphony wouldn’t stop.

I sipped the cocoa and licked the cream from my lips while staring at my phone, contemplating and weighing the pros and cons. Anticipatory notes danced in the back of my mind just thinking about him.

Setting my drink aside, I pulled up his name, typed, Now you have my number too, and hit send.

Our first text.

Minutes ticked by. Nerves turned my stomach soupy. Then, a reply. Hello, August. Are you fishing for conversation?

I smiled. Yes. Am I that obvious? Are you busy?

Getting ready to go to my parents’ for Christmas dinner. Joy of joys. What are you up to?

I glanced along the street in both directions. People with high spirits and sparkling energy raced about. A profound weight of loneliness sat on my chest. Inertia kept me rooted to the bench.

Nothing much. Better he thought of me relaxing at home than hiding from responsibility.

Instead of a reply, my phone rang.

“It’s hard to type and get ready at the same time,” he explained when I answered. “Can you chat?”

“I can.” His voice alone lifted my spirits. “Dinner with the family, huh? You don’t sound excited. I sensed sarcasm in your message.”

“It’s the one time of year my avoidance isn’t tolerated.” The buzz of an electric razor sounded over the line.

“You’re shaving again.”

The noise stopped. Niles chuckled. “Yes. Problem?”

Hesitation. “You… The beard was attractive. I liked it. It suited you. It was gone at the concert, and… I missed it.”

“I like it too. January. I shave to appease the masses at this time of year. First, the school and parents. The Christmas concert demands I play the part of a professional educator—or rather, Dr. McCaine does. I represent the whole school, don’t you know?” He huffed. “And second, my mother would have my head if I showed up to dinner looking sloppy. Beards are apparently messy. If it was up to any of them, I’d likely lose the hair too.”

“Don’t you dare.”

More chuckling. “Oh, I caught a vibe that you like it.”

I flushed, remembering the aggressive way I’d fisted it the other day while we were kissing. The memory of the soft strands tangled in my fingers had kept me awake at night, yearning for more. I glanced up and down the street with a nauseating fear that the pedestrians knew my thoughts.

Facing my attraction to Niles unnerved me, so I redirected. “Tell me, what does family Christmas with the Edwidge’s look like?”

Water ran as Niles laughed. “Oh, you don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

The water shut off. “All right. Hold on. I’m putting you on speaker so I can dress.”

The sound changed, and Niles explained. “Lots of wine is required to get through the endless discussions about the latest studies in neurology, or to endure my brothers arguing, tossing around opinions, and debating advances in medicine.

“Dad might regale us about an unprecedented surgery his team performed, how the odds were against them, and how their success would be recorded in textbooks and taught in classrooms. It will no doubt be something Andrew assisted with because he’s Dad’s prodigy and given to being lead surgeon on important cases.

“Mason will chime in with a surgical story or two of his own, trying to one-up Andrew, and Mason’s wife, who works in the same field, will augment that Mason’s accomplishments far exceed Andrew’s. Andrew’s wife, Eileen, will join the battle, and Dad will glorify the accomplishments of both his superior sons and tell them it’s not a competition, even though it’s always been a competition.

“Presley might divert to a medical malpractice case she’s fighting, which will encourage Mom to pitch in her two cents or talk about some law bullshit she’s been entrenched in lately.

“It will go on like this for the entire three-course meal, and by the time the pumpkin pie is served, I’ll be half in the bag from having used wine to bandage my feelings of inadequacy because I’ll have been ignored all night.

“At this point, seeing my inebriation, my father will decide it’s time to humiliate me and ask how school is going and are my little munchkins behaving because I’m a glorified babysitter in his eyes with no worthy education to speak of, and I certainly don’t contribute to society in any meaningful way. Perhaps if I taught at the university level, I would be more respected, but golly gee, that won’t happen unless I get a PhD, and have I considered a career change yet, and when am I going back to university?

“In the end, I won’t defend myself because I’ve already spent the past two decades fighting that war and I have nothing left to give, so I’ll pour myself more wine, smile, and tell him everything is great. He won’t hear me because he was never looking for an answer and will have already moved on to another topic.” Niles dramatically sighed. “The end.”

“Sounds harrowing.”

“The only thing that would make it worse is if I brought a date home, and no, I’m not extending a late invitation. I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

The tone of the connection changed again, and I assumed I was no longer on speaker. “Same scenario except insert disapproving looks and an abundance of pointed referrals to my siblings’ heterosexual relationships and the lovely grandchildren they have produced naturally as god intended it to be done. Also, the aggravating insistence on referring to my date as a ‘friend’ lest the aforementioned grandchildren ask too many questions. We wouldn’t want to confuse them or have to explain anything untoward.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

More than he knew.

Niles chuckled. “Hence why I tend to avoid family functions.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“So, what’s your story, August? What’s the root cause of your… repression? Are we still calling it that?”

I laughed when he failed to finish the sentence without a humorous inflection. “It’s a perfectly good word to describe me.”

“It made my night.”

“Good.”

“So? Nothing you want to share?”

“There’s not a whole lot to tell.”

“Come on. Out with it. I want to hear your story. I need to if we’re… exploring this further.”

“Are we… exploring it further?” A hopeful flutter tickled my ribcage.

“You tell me.”

The old man finished shoveling and went inside his shop. Across the street, a woman and two young teens struggled to rope an evergreen to the roof of their car.

I considered how to explain. “By the time I got to Juilliard, I already knew my interests were… versatile. I hadn’t had an opportunity to explore anything before leaving my country, so I was nineteen before I met someone proper.”

“A man. Say it. You met a man.”

“Before I met a man. Happy?”

“Go on.”

I drank the last of my cold cocoa and tossed the cup in a nearby trash can before continuing. “His name was Lincoln, and he was from New Zealand, studying abroad as well. He played trombone with astounding skill. He was formal. Shy. He, too, had never…” I left the words unsaid, and Niles didn’t insist I fill in the blank.

“This is hard for me.”

“You’re doing great. Keep going.”

“It was February of our second year when things got serious. We’d been secretly dating for a while. I invited him to come to Greece with me over summer break. He agreed. His family didn’t know he was gay, and mine had no clue I was bisexual, so we traveled as friends. We stayed with my parents, naively believing we could hide our relationship. I took him sightseeing every day, so we were rarely home, but we always managed to end up in the same bed at night.

“Our secret was quickly discovered. My parents asked Link to leave, and following his departure, I endured the one and only conversation I’ve ever had with my parents on the subject of my sexuality. They listened, and to their credit, they didn’t disown me, but my father pointed out how career-damaging it could be and implied as politely as possible that I should do my best to ignore these irregular feelings toward men. Being as I had sexual feelings toward women as well, he thought it prudent and more socially acceptable that I didn’t risk mine or the family’s reputation on boyhood silliness.”

“His words, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“So you buried it?”

“No. I repressed it.”

A chuckle. “Right.”

“You have to remember, Niles, I spent my entire life being molded and shaped by my father into the man you see today. The act of free will and choice had been figuratively beaten out of me at age three. Maybe earlier. I’m forty-one years old and still fear disappointing my father.”

“Have you ever outright defied his wishes?”

“Yes. Once. When he insisted I marry Chloé after I got her pregnant.”

“How’d that go over.”

“Not well, but since they wanted a relationship with their grandchild, they got over it quickly.”

“Is Lincoln the only time you’ve been with a guy?”

A group of high school students exited the café, two boys and three girls, giggling and jostling one another, eating sticky donuts. They couldn’t have been much older than Constance. This was what I wanted for her. Carefree youth, not endless hours running scales until her fingers ached. Sugar and laughter and innocence.

“No. I’ve… There’ve been a couple of men, but it’s been a long time, Niles.”

“How long?”

“Since Constance was born. News in the music industry caught wind of Chloé’s and my scandalous affair and Constance’s subsequent birth. Chloé was a prima donna, one of Austria’s finest, filling concert halls and recording albums. My career was beginning to flourish. I was making a name for myself. We were important figures in the industry. Having a child out of wedlock might seem normal here, but in some circles in Europe, it’s frowned upon. My face was everywhere. People knew who I was, where I was going, and the messy headlines associated with me. I was in the spotlight more than I wanted back then. I couldn’t risk being disgraced if the public found out my secret. My father’s warning echoed inside my head, louder than the music I used to try to drown it out. So I decided to let that part of me go… until I saw you.”

“Huh.”

A jingle of keys. A door closing. A car starting.

Apart from the tiny interjection, Niles said nothing.

“Niles?”

“I’m trying to decide what that means for us.”

“Oh.”

Could there be an us? Not long-term. Didn’t he see that? My time here was temporary. I’d never been able to commit to a relationship with a woman, never mind that Niles was a man who’d made it clear he wouldn’t be shoved in a closet.

A car horn blared, startling me from my thoughts. A near fender bender a few dozen feet from where I sat drew people closer. Traffic stopped, but no one had been hurt, so the day quickly returned to normal.

“Are you outside?” Niles asked.

“Yes.”

“I thought you were at home.”

“I never said that. I’m in Peterborough.”

“What are you doing in the city?”

I thought of how I’d yelled at Constance before leaving the house, about the phone call from Chloé, about what should have been a festive day of Christmas shopping with my daughter. “Midlife crisis.”

“Again?”

I chuckled. “Forty-one’s a bitch.”

“Try forty-four. Where’s Constance?”

“At home hating me. She didn’t want to come. We were supposed to get Christmas decorations for the house and do some shopping, but hanging out with her dad is akin to scaphism.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s an ancient Persian torture technique. Truly terrifying. Look it up.”

“I think I’ll pass.” The smile in his tone was evident. “She’s a teenager, Auggie. I’ve told you. You can’t take any of this personally.”

Auggie. I closed my eyes, swept away by a cascading waterfall of singing clarinets. “I’m trying not to.”

“I’d invite you to join me at my parents’, but… Yeah… Please refer to the beginning of this conversation.”

“I’ll pass. You didn’t exactly sell it.”

“No. I wasn’t trying to.” A tension-filled silence engulfed the line. “I’m glad you texted.”

“Me too.” I wanted to see him. I wanted to revisit our moment in the auditorium, only slower.

“I’m going to have to let you go soon,” Niles said. “I’m almost at my destination. Trust me, I’d rather talk for the rest of the day than do this. Pray for me.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You’ll survive. Can I ask a question?”

“Go for it.”

“What does a fourteen-year-old girl want for Christmas?”

“Hmm… What kind of things does she like?”

“Music.”

Niles dramatically sighed. “I know that. Outside of music.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Reading maybe? She might only be doing it for class. I can’t be sure.”

“Does she have her ears pierced?”

“I… umm… I’m not… I’ve never noticed.”

“You’re hopeless.”

We both laughed when I agreed.

“Never mind. There’s an artsy gift shop called Kathleen’s Creations. I can’t remember what street it’s on, but you can ask around or look it up. She sells necklace charms and earrings. All of it’s homemade. She has a selection of musical instruments. Really beautiful. I was shopping for my niece earlier this week, and they caught my eye. I know there was a piano, and I’m sure there was a violin. You could get her a charm bracelet or a necklace.”

I liked the idea. Constance would too. “Thanks, Niles.”

“And as backup, get her a gift card for the movies. There’s a cinema where the teens like to go. She’s made some friends. Matinees are always fun.”

“I’ll do that.”

Getting off the phone proved difficult. We found more things to chat about. Less serious things. But before long, Niles arrived at his parents’, and we said goodbye.

“Good luck,” I said.

“I’ll survive. I always do.”

Chapter fifteen

Niles

August got me through the wretched family dinner I didn’t want to attend. Whether on purpose—recognizing my plight—or because the man’s despair was greater than my own and he needed company, I didn’t know. Regardless, my phone lit up with constant texts from the famed musician I was having a hard time hating.

A picture of six different charms. Which should I choose?

Photographs of various Christmas trees. Douglas fir or white pine?

An image of the one he chose precariously roped to the roof of his rental. Think it will hold?

Can you suggest a good pizza place?

Yowsers. You know it’s Christmas when the wait for takeout is 45 to 60 mins.

Canadians really do say eh a lot.

Holy crap. Look at this dog. The beagle in the photo sported reindeer ears, a red knitted sweater, and black booties.

August’s cultured edge vanished the more we talked, the more I got to know him. His humanity shone. He became a regular person, no longer existing on a different plane, no longer elevated to a higher tier. The revered maestro, it turned out, was someone with as many struggles and flaws as me.

Oh! I was just reminded of a time I was guest-conducting for the Hungarian National Philharmonic and got a paper cut flipping a page in the score. I bled all over the stand and baton. It trailed down my fingers and soaked my white shirt cuff. I couldn’t stop to stanch the flow, and by the end, I looked like I’d killed a man.

I pressed my lips together, holding in a laugh as I responded, keeping my phone out of sight, not that my family would notice my indifference to their conversation. It had been an exhaustingly long meal. From a paper cut?!?

Yep. I chipped a tooth during a solo performance once. Over three hundred and fifty people in the audience, and me center stage.

I cringed. How on earth did you manage that?

The piano accompaniment had a long interlude, and my mind drifted. Almost missed my entrance. Panicked, I brought my flute up too fast and smashed the mouthpiece against both front teeth.

Ouch! Did you stop the show?

Nope. I played through it, tears in my eyes the whole time. It was painful, and the piece that came off changed the airflow and left a sharp edge that sliced my lip, but I compensated for both and soldiered on.

Jesus. I don’t know what to say. That’s insane.

Dinner at my parents’ progressed nearly exactly as I’d described to August in our earlier conversation. Although, I’d failed to paint an accurate picture of the squeals and cries of seven nieces and nephews in the mix. It made for a noisy celebration. The bickering, tattling, and tears turned obnoxious after a couple of hours.

By the time Mom served dessert, a respectable wine buzz had cushioned my irritation. I stopped trying to hide my inattention and texted August openly. It earned an indirect diatribe from my father, as he denounced cell phones for ruining the minds of youth. The preteen boys at the other end of the table argued with their grandfather, and my brother Andrew gave me a pointed look that conveyed disappointment. If I was twenty years younger, I’d have given him the finger.

“Is it true they’ve brought in a maestro to guest-teach at the academy?” Mom asked during a lull.

“Yes, he’s from—”

“Augustus Castellanos from Greece.” Dad bounced Presley’s youngest on his knee, feeding the rosy-cheeked baby ice cream and pie, much to my sister’s horror. “Remarkable accolades. Juilliard graduate.”

“Yes,” I muttered. “In music. Imagine that.” It was baffling that August’s career could be considered remarkable, while I’d spent a lifetime being told music was a hobby, not a profession one aspired to.

Dad frowned, but I didn’t think he’d heard me. “How’s school?” Asked as though I was a student and not a teacher for more than a decade.

“It’s fine.”

“The little ones keeping you on your toes?”

“They’re teenagers, Dad, and it’s a private school. They’re well disciplined. I don’t have too many problems.”

Dad harrumphed but seemed lost for words.

An argument broke out between Andrew’s oldest son and Mason’s middle son, shifting the attention to the other side of the table. I melted once more into the background, checking the newest text from August.

How’s dinner?

I emptied my wine glass before refilling it and typed, Dreadful, but getting better. I’m up to glass #4.

I hit send, reconsidered my math, and added an amendment. Correction, glass #5. Either way, the insults are cushioned by a nice thick layer of wine. They don’t “supset” me anymore.

The children were sent from the table. Dad, Andrew, and Mason renewed their discussion about a medical conference of some sort taking place in Edmonton this coming spring. Presley and Mom cleared the dishes. The bottle of wine I’d claimed for myself—and nearly finished—ended up under inspection. My mother frowned at the remains, announcing to no one in particular her intent to brew coffee.

My phone buzzed. I have a question.

Playfully, I typed, I might have an answer.

Do you have plans for tomorrow night?

No, I responded. It’s Christmas Eve.

Koa had always invited me for dinner in the past, but since Jersey’s hockey team was playing in Sault Ste. Marie on the twenty-sixth, they’d decided to rent a cabin in the area and celebrate the holiday in the wilderness.

I love cooking and plan to make a traditional Greek feast, but I fear I might end up eating alone. You’re welcome to join us… or me. I can’t promise Constance will grace the table. When I got home, she came out long enough to eat two pieces of pizza, then vanished again.

I considered August’s invitation as my mother and sister appeared with coffee paraphernalia. A steaming mug of robust brew replaced my wine glass. I had a hundred reasons to turn him down. Primarily, Constance was my student, and it would be frowned upon, but mostly because August was too hung up on living a straight life. I wasn’t interested in having my heart broken, and the more we connected, the higher the chance of it happening. If I knew anything about myself, it was that I fell in love too easily.

And always with the wrong kind of men.

Besides, I lived in August’s shadow of greatness. I would be inferior.

Yet, the prospect of Christmas alone left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Delaying, I asked, What does a traditional Greek Christmas dinner consist of?

Before August could answer, my mother tsked and expelled air through her teeth in the fashion of someone fed up with a disobedient child. It was a sound she’d made often when I was growing up. I flashed my attention across the table to find her staring, arms crossed, lips pursed.

“You’ve been absent the entire meal, Niles. Really. You’re as bad as the children on that silly device. Put it away and join the conversation.”

I tucked my phone away and proceeded to drink coffee—laced with an Irish cream liqueur my younger brother had tried sneakily to hide from our parents—and listen to the insufferable arguing between my siblings and father. Join the conversation? What exactly was I supposed to contribute when all they ever discussed was surgery and court cases?

I didn’t get a chance to check August’s text until later that evening when the family relocated to the living room so my nieces and nephews could open presents. The ivory-colored piano in my parents’ living room had functioned as a decorative piece of furniture for decades. The only time it saw use was during our family Christmas when, despite the perceived taint cast by my career, I provided the ambiance of holiday tunes.

My third spiked coffee was more Irish than Colombian. I placed it on a coaster within reach as I sat on the bench and read August’s reply to my earlier question.

I’m not sure how adventurous you are with food, but traditionally, we Greeks eat pig at Christmas. I planned to make cabbage rolls using my grandmother’s recipe. They’re covered in an egg-lemon sauce and filled with a mixture of pork and vegetables. For dessert, I’m making diples, which is a Greek honey roll. Basically, deep-fried crispy dough doused in honey lemon syrup. I’m also making melomakarona. A soft cookie dipped in cinnamon and orange syrup. They’re to die for.

I smiled, thinking of all the times when Koa had experimented with strange recipes and enlisted me as his taste tester. I couldn’t deny having a fondness for men who knew their way around a kitchen. The abundance of alcohol I’d consumed vanquished deliberation, and I forgot why sharing dinner with August was a bad idea.

That sounds incredible. I’ll bring wine. What time do we eat?

***

Christmas Eve afternoon, I drove through a winter wonderland to Timber Creek Academy, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and two gift bags on the passenger seat. I’d woken with a mild hangover and a shadow of regret for having agreed to dinner with August. It wasn’t a good idea, and in a sober state, the possible implications reared their ugly heads.

I didn’t date closeted men, and a repressed bisexual sounded like a funky millennial term for the same thing. What was I getting myself into?

Parking in the unplowed teacher’s lot, I stared into the thicket of evergreens separating the school from the handful of cottages on the property. Their sagging branches, laden with snow, showed no signs of wildlife. The weak winter sun sparkled off an untouched landscape, blindingly bright and beautiful.

I could go home, text an excuse, and pretend our feud hadn’t been broken the previous day by sharing a combination of truths and random stories about our lives.

The alternative? An empty house. Loneliness.

I could use the time to work on Gaspard de la Nuit, except the piece had been tainted by August, and every time I sat down to play, I heard the criticism he’d spoken on the day we met. How could the same man draw me in and make me feel small at the same time?

The events in the auditorium came back to me. August’s mouth. His fingers wrapped tightly around my hair, tugging me closer. The heat of his erection in my hand. Swelling. Pulsing. Shivers coursing through his body when he came.

No visual memory existed to revisit. The impenetrable darkness in the auditorium had robbed me of those potential remembrances. It left the experience with surreal undertones. What did a cultured, professional man like August look like when he unraveled? He’d shown me a taste of a playful side in our texts the previous day, but those, too, were once removed, not witnessed in the flesh.

The infuriating man in the classroom, too high on himself and prone to find flaws in everyone, and the man who showed up at my door late at night with stories of youthful mistakes and regrets he feared voicing, was not the same person. Who was the real Augustus Castellanos? Did I want to know?

The quandary I’d woken with remained. Sitting in the empty school parking lot wouldn’t bring answers. Action might.

Stay or go?

I grabbed the wine and gift bags and exited the car, finding the unblemished path through the trees to August’s cabin, treading languidly along, preparing for the unknown.

“You came.” A boyish smile creased the sides of August’s eyes when he opened the door, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. He wore trendy slacks and a Christmas-inspired Fair Isle sweater vest with a collared shirt underneath, open and revealing a touch of skin.

“And I brought wine.” I presented the gifts as well. “These can go under your tree.”

“You didn’t have to bring wine, and you certainly didn’t need to bring presents.”

“It’s Christmas. It would be rude otherwise.”

August thanked me again and inspected the bottle, reading the label.

“My wine connoisseur best friend told me it pairs nicely with pork. I texted and interrupted his holiday to be sure.”

“Koa?” he asked, not looking up. Did I imagine the frost in his tone?

“Yes.”

A nod. “It’s perfect. Please, come in.”

The cottage was warm and scented with a mixture of savory spices and pine. Soft piano filled the house, dainty and magical, fairies dancing in a fictitious winter wonderland. Not a recording. Constance.

August took my coat and hung it on a rack. We stood awkwardly in the front hall, two weeks of conflicting emotions colliding. Neither of us seemed sure how to act with the other. Questions and no answers. Thick lust and thin restraint. We hadn’t seen each other since the mythical night in the auditorium when I’d left August with a straightforward message about repeating what we’d shared. Maybe I no longer cared. Maybe sacrificing rules would be a nice change of pace. If I could keep my heart out of it.

“Constance doesn’t know…” August glanced over his shoulder, and reality returned with a slap. “She doesn’t know I invited you… or why.”

Meaning she didn’t know a turbulent ocean of feelings was getting in our way. What else didn’t Constance know? How repressed was repressed? Did Chloé know? Did anyone outside his parents?

He didn’t deserve to be rescued, but my altruistic nature said, “I was alone on Christmas, and you extended charity.” It was the truth of sorts.

August smiled. “Thank you, Niles. I need to check dinner.”

“Open that wine and let it breathe, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I will. Please, make yourself at home.”

He set off to the kitchen, and I followed the music, familiar with the layout of the cottage since I’d lived in one myself for a time. Constance caught sight of me when I entered the living room and stopped playing, a querying look on her young face.

What are you doing here? she signed. My ASL was slowly returning, requiring her to spell fewer words when we talked.

“Your dad invited me. I had nowhere else to go for Christmas.”

She frowned, but I motioned to the piano before she could investigate the subject further. “That was lovely. What was it?”

She shrugged. Dad wrote it. It was a piece I was supposed to perform two years ago in a youth competition in Madrid. My mom signed me up, but I got sick and had to back out.

I didn’t know the exact timeline of when Constance’s cancer had returned or when she’d had surgery, but two years ago sounded about right. “You would have done fabulously. Will you play it again? I missed the beginning.”

Smiling, she nodded and turned back to the bench, rearranging the handwritten sheet music. I approached as her long fingers caressed the opening harmonies from the ivories. The title etched across the top of the page read, “Nothing but Winter” by Augustus Castellanos.

Sour envy returned. The man had an entire catalog of unpublished compositions. According to Koa, he was particular about his work and only performed it for special audiences. Never in his career had he approved any of them for publication or made recordings.

Meanwhile, I had a drawer of half-realized ideas gathering dust in my office, an ever-growing pile of frustration. Beginnings were easy, but somewhere in the middle, I lost confidence and gave up, convinced it was junk. I didn’t have a single finished product on which to write my name, of which to be proud.

Constance’s playing was as exemplary as her father’s writing. If I’d thought she was a superb violinist, she rose to another level on the piano. Her astute attention to detail, the careful way she approached transitions and tackled articulation, and the flair she infused into every long sentence made the piece extraordinary.

I followed along, admiring her skill and mesmerized by August’s creation. An award-winning composer, pianist, conductor, and more. If the man cooked as well as he wrote and played music—the smells emanating from the kitchen suggested he might—I was out the door. A person could only take so much humiliation.

Constance finished with a flair and flashed a shining smile over her shoulder before gesturing for me to join her on the bench.

“Oh, no. I can’t.” My gaze inevitably shifted to the kitchen, giving away the reason for my apprehension.

The teen scowled and insistently tapped the spot at her side before signing, Sit. He’s busy.

I sat, knowing better than to argue with a teenager.

Constance leafed through a stack of music and propped new pages on the rack before swinging a finger between us. She wanted to perform a duet. Pachelbel’s Canon in D was familiar to all musicians. Simple enough for a beginner but open to unlimited variations, restricted only by the player’s creativity.

Since my position on the bench put me with the notes below middle C, I took the bassline, letting Constance flourish and have fun with the melodies. When she nudged me, I understood she wanted me to stop playing it safe and inject a dash of vibrance and imagination into my part as well.

We didn’t need sheet music. It was a piece open to endless interpretation. I followed her lead, quickly learning the girl was dangerously competitive. Eyeing me from time to time, grinning wickedly, she played increasingly complex variations as though to test my skill and see how I would react. I met the challenge and offered her my own.

I laughed as she grew progressively more aggressive but kept up easily. Only once did I manage to steal control and take the spotlight. Constance’s fingers moved devilishly fast. The more assertive we became, the more mistakes we made trying to outshine one another.

Somehow, despite the game, the essence of the composition remained.

In the end, Constance bailed, but only because her silent joy made it impossible for her to continue.

You’re good, she signed.

“You’re evil.”

She stuck out her tongue, eyes still creased with happiness. It was the first time I’d seen her smile this much. In class, Constance wore her melancholy like a comfortable sweater. Her superior musical skill set her apart from her peers, and her disability added another layer of distance. I was gratified to see the teen express joy.

“Have you ever performed a duet?”

Constance shook her head. Only solos or spotlighting with an orchestra behind me.

“We should plan something for the spring concert. I have ideas.”

She swung a finger between us with a quizzical expression.

“Yes, you and me. Why not?”

Constance turned introspective a moment before signing, I have ideas too. She motioned to the piano. Let’s switch sides and go again.

As I shuffled off the bench and Constance slid over, I caught sight of August watching from the doorway. His daughter didn’t seem to notice. The boyish smile he’d worn upon my arrival was gone. Sadness strained the corners of his eyes, making him look older and worn out. Before I could exchange a questioning glance, he ducked his head and returned to the kitchen. I considered going after him, asking what was wrong, but Constance tugged my sleeve, so I returned to the piano.

The second rendition was a bigger catastrophe than the first and ended far sooner with a clash of fingers.

“You’re a worthy opponent.”

Constance shifted on the bench to face me. Do you have kids?

“I… No. Being a teacher is enough.”

But you must have a family. Why don’t you see them at Christmas? Why are you alone?

“I have a family. I saw them last night. My mom and dad, brothers and sister, nieces and nephews. We had dinner and exchanged presents.”

Aren’t you married?

I displayed my left hand, fingers bare of rings. “Nope. Just me at home.”

No girlfriend?

I pointedly glared. “You’re turning into Lil’ Miss Nosy.”

She shrugged but let it go. Dad said I can see my mom tomorrow.

My brows rose, and I didn’t know how to respond. August had been vague about Chloé’s whereabouts and the reason he’d ended up with custody. “Oh yeah?”

She’s allowed a short visit. Thirty minutes. Dad has to come too. She rolled her eyes.

“You must be excited.”

A sad smile eclipsed the radiant sunshine I’d been privy to since my arrival. It mirrored her father’s from a moment ago. I miss her, she signed. I haven’t seen her since October.

“Big change in your life.”

She nodded.

“This new living arrangement must be taking some getting used to, huh?”

Her gaze drifted to the kitchen as she silently agreed. Along with the clang of pots and pans came the faint sound of August humming a random concerto.

He doesn’t like me, Constance signed.

“That’s not true. I don’t believe it for a second. He talks about you all the time. He’s doing his best with a difficult situation.” It was a pep talk I couldn’t validate. What did I know about August’s home life with Constance? Nothing, except his feelings, and they were admittedly negative.

Don’t lie.

“I’m not lying. This is new for him too, Constance. He’s learning as he goes. Parenting is tough.”

He’s always mad at me because I won’t talk.

“Do you give him a hard time?”

A shrug. Sometimes. Constance’s expression turned serious. Did he tell you about my mom?

“No. He’s been… elusive.” Another eye roll. “Do you want to talk about your mom?”

Vehemently shaking her head, Constance tinkled a few keys on the piano, troubled mind on display. She might have had the frame of a child, but she had the tenacity of an adolescent, and teenagers tended to be complex and confusing to read. I sensed this was one of those times when Constance’s words and body language said she didn’t want to talk about her mom, but her heart desperately needed to unload something troubling.

I didn’t know what to say. Pushing a girl her age risked resistance. It risked losing her trust. It was better to wait her out and let her decide to come to me when she was ready.

“My door is always open if you need to chat.”

She turned a grateful smile in my direction and signed, Thank you.

“Dinner is served,” August called from the other room.

“Shall we? I hear your dad made quite the feast, and I’m starving.”

Constance nodded but touched my arm before I could get up. I’m glad you’re here.

Chapter sixteen

Niles

The tension between August and his daughter was masked in a classroom full of students. With only the three of us at the dinner table, static rippled the air. Constance’s smiles vanished. She focused on her plate, eating tiny bites of food between sips of a thickened beverage. A cloud hung over her head.

I cut into a cabbage roll, juices spilling from inside, fragrant steam billowing. “This looks incredible.” The filling consisted of minced pork, carrots, rice, and onions. “Not like the traditional cabbage rolls I’ve had in the past.”

“The Greek version is much better.” August watched as I brought a forkful to my mouth, blew the heat away, and tried it. An array of bold spices danced along my palate. “Oh, wow. That’s good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, it’s… Honestly, though. Is there anything you can’t do?”

A lot, Constance signed, and I chuckled.

I tapped her foot under the table. “Be nice.”

August shot his daughter a confused look that morphed into a frown. His pride seemed to prevent him from asking what he missed, but his perturbation glowed.

Instead of promoting what August perceived as petulant behavior, I filled him in. “She claims there’s a lot you can’t do.”

“I see.” He cut into his meal.

The strain between father and daughter brought the four walls of the already tiny cottage closer. “So, what standout Greek Christmas traditions should I know about?” I asked, hoping to stir conversation.

“Food.” August displayed his fork with a meaty cut of cabbage roll skewered on the tines. His smile was back, a faint spark emanating in the dark forest of his irises.

“And?”

August considered as he chewed. “In Greece, the big cities are lit with tens of thousands of lights for the holiday. In the smaller villages, markets sell all kinds of local foods and wares.” He tapped his wine glass. “We’re big fans of wine, in case you didn’t notice my fondness for the beverage.”

“Oh, I noticed. We have that in common.”

“Well, you’d fit in. You won’t find a Greek who doesn’t celebrate the holiday with at least a few bottles.”

Boat decorating, Constance signed, interrupting August’s and my shared moment. It’s more popular than decorating trees.

“Oh really?”

It’s done to honor St. Nicholas because he’s the protector of fishermen and sailors.

“Ah, and Greece is surrounded by water. That makes sense.”

“Constance.” August injected an edge of warning into his daughter’s name. “Could you please—”

She ignored him and continued to sign. Yiayaka and pappoúlsi have a boat. I used to help them decorate it when I visited for the holiday. Mom took me. Did you know, in Greece, you don’t get presents on Christmas day? It sucks. They make you wait until New Year’s Day. There was this one time when—

August smacked the table, leering at his daughter as he silently fumed. “You’re being rude.”

Constance glared right back. How? she signed, but even that simple gesture went over August’s head.

She rolled her eyes and resumed eating, stabbing her food with the fury of a killer out for blood.

August offered a tight, apologetic smile and focused on his meal as well.

Not wanting to come between the feuding pair, I didn’t ask follow-up questions about boats and grandparents, changing the subject, aiming to draw August away from the ledge. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No. Only child.”

I’m an only child, too, except my dad didn’t want me, Constance signed, nose in the air.

I didn’t translate for August and veered in a new direction.

My efforts made little difference. Dinner progressed the same. Every time I initiated a topic of conversation, Constance interjected, smiling and signing, purposefully excluding her father or taking a stab at him when she knew he didn’t understand her nonverbal words.

By dessert, August had retreated into his wine, cheeks flush from either anger or drink. Maybe both. He stopped engaging, and Constance, merrier than ever at winning my attention, took over.

We could play Rossini’s “Overture Barbier de Seville.” It would be so much fun. Do you know it?

“Of course. It’s definitely an option. I’ll have to check the back room and see if we have it.”

Dad might have the score.

“You could ask him.” I eyed August, who was turning a cookie into crumbs instead of eating it.

Constance refused, eating a third biscuit from the plate as though nothing was amiss.

When she launched into another story, busily signing, August pushed back from the table and grabbed his empty glass, motioning to mine. “More wine?”

Constance sneered at the interruption.

I glanced between the pair. “Sure.”

August aimed for the kitchen. The moment he was gone and before Constance could continue, I lowered my voice. “Just an observation from an outsider’s standpoint. He’s right. You’re being very rude. Your father invited me for a festive gathering, and it’s been nothing but miserable.”

She went to sign, but I held up a staying hand. “No. Stop. I see both sides, Constance. I do. But tell me. Is he upset right now because you won’t use your voice or because you have purposefully excluded him from conversation all evening?”

Her face fell.

I left her with her thoughts as I followed August. I found him leaning against the kitchen counter, peering into the depths of his freshly poured wine. Every surface remained soiled from dinner preparation. Sink full of dirty dishes. Leftovers cooling in pots and pans. An excellent chef usually left a trail of destruction, and August stood at ground zero.

“How about I give you a hand cleaning up?”

Eyes full of anguish and regret met mine. He scanned the disaster and shook his head, dismissing it. “I’m so sorry, Niles.”

“For what? For having a teenager who acts like a teenager? Believe me, I’m used to it.”

He motioned with the wine into the other room. “That was… utterly embarrassing.”

I chuckled. “She knows how to get under your skin. A master of the art.”

“It’s exhausting, and I don’t know how to make it better. If I get angry, I make it worse. But all the pleading and begging in the world gets me nowhere. She blames me for everything. Her cancer, her mother, her surgery, probably the pimple she got last week.”

Chuckling, I crossed the kitchen and relieved August of his wine, helping myself to a mouthful from his glass.

Piano playing commenced in the front room. I set the glass among the mess and moved between August’s legs, pressing him back against the counter, invading his space.

A fleeting moment of panic flared in August’s pupils. He flashed his attention to the kitchen door before realizing his daughter was occupied.

Planting my hands on his hips, I leaned in and brushed our noses together. “Relax. She’s busy.” His fright should have annoyed me, and it did on some level, but compassion and sympathy outweighed my frustration and canceled the stubbornness I felt over my rules.

Questions swam in August’s dark eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering affection. It’s my thing, and you look like you need it.”

“I…”

“If it’s too much, I can back off.”

“No. Stay.”

“Gladly.” I touched his face and smoothed the creases from his brow.

August melted at the contact, closing his eyes and exhaling. “You’re incredibly attractive,” I whispered.

“You’re kind.”

I chuckled. “I’m honest. Have you thought about this?” I pressed my lower body against his, grinding once.

He sucked in air. “Niles… shit.” He snagged my waist, keeping me in place and jutting his hips for more.

“Have you?”

“Yes… Kind of. I… Oh god…” He moved in for a kiss.

I held him back, smirking at his eagerness. “Hang on. Don’t get wild yet. I want to say something concerning Constance, and I need you to listen.”

“I don’t want to talk about her right now.”

“It needs to be said, and maybe I shouldn’t be offering advice, but… Listen.” I moved my mouth to his ear and lowered my voice. “Choose your battles. She’s a good girl. She could be doing drugs. She could be sneaking out at night to drink or have sex. She could be self-destructive, a delinquent, skipping class, or getting in trouble with the law. If her worst crime is using sign language instead of the modified voice the doctors gave her, maybe you should consider yourself lucky.” I took his earlobe into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.

August grunted, then responded breathlessly, “But… I don’t know sign language. It’s frustrating.”

“What’s stopping you from learning?”

“I…” His breathing hitched when I sucked again. “Jesus… I… I don’t know… I can’t think right now.”

I pulled back, finding lust and confusion staring back at me. “Problem?”

“Yes. You’re scrambling my brain.”

The lively tinkle of “Music Box Dancer” made me smile. “I’ve always loved this piece.”

“For the love of god, Niles…” He snagged my face between his hands, injecting me with a full dose of yearning and impatience. August wet his lips, gaze flicking to my mouth, my eyes, my mouth again. “Can I kiss you now?”

I kissed him first, long and hard and deep. He met me with the same passion, reservation all but gone. I wasn’t sure he’d heard a single thing I’d said. Tugging me against his chest, he claimed my mouth with the desperation of a man stealing a moment he’d chanced upon by accident. One he knew wouldn’t last. A moment he intended to suck the marrow out of until there was nothing left, hunger satisfied.

August tasted like wine, orange glaze, and cinnamon. Cookies, winter nights, and Christmas magic.

We came apart when the song stopped, panting, occupying the same space, buzzing with want and need but listening intently to be sure Constance wasn’t about to barge into the kitchen.

Hearts knocking, the silence stretched. When another song rang out, August exhaled relief.

“Later?” I whispered against his mouth.

August nodded. “Please. She goes to bed early. I don’t force it. It’s her thing.”

The music continued, another whimsical piece full of holiday magic. It injected a dreamlike quality to the moment. Was I making a mistake? Maybe. Time would tell.

Body humming and alive with desire, I regretfully stepped back, putting much-needed space between us. August adjusted himself and glanced around the kitchen, cheeks high with color.

“How about I help you clean up?”

Chapter seventeen

Niles

We gathered in August’s living room once the kitchen was clean. Constance entertained us—her mood sulkier since dinner. Pointing out her poor behavior had clearly hurt her feelings. Once her ally, I’d now been demoted.

August watched his daughter play with the focus of a world-class musician. He heard the notes and everything in between, fingers moving over his thighs as he subconsciously played along. The advanced piece illustrated Constance’s talent. When finished, she spun and regarded her father with a wrinkle in her nose.

He stared back like a man with a lot to say but whose exhaustion from constant battle prevented him from opening his mouth.

Eyeing me once, Constance pressed her lips together and used her phone to type a message, passing it to August when she finished.

August glanced at the device, clearly scorned as he read the text, then refocused on his daughter. “I thought it was much better.”

She rolled a hand, encouraging him to go on.

“The transition you stumbled over last week was spot on. Watch you don’t lean too heavily on the bassline during the second movement. It smothers the delicacy of the melody and takes away from the overall effect.”

When I expected Constance to sneer or balk at the criticism, she nodded thoughtfully and retrieved the sheet music from the rack. After studying it for a moment, she turned it around and pointed to a section, peering questioningly at her dad.

August examined where she indicated and nodded. “Yes. These dozen or so measures.” He dragged a finger over the bars. “From here to about here. You want the bassline to carry the harmony, not suffocate it.”

Constance moved from the bench and motioned for her father to sit. August did and demonstrated—stunningly and without the need to reference the score—as Constance followed along.

“Do you hear the difference?” he asked.

She nodded, scrutinizing the sheet music.

August played the section several more times before giving Constance another turn. As she performed, he stood over her, talking her through it, suggesting tweaks to her fingering or adjustments to the style. Constance listened and modified her playing accordingly.

This was where the two connected. It was a world different than dinner.

When August had scrutinized my playing, I’d become instantly offended, my nose out of joint. But Constance thrived under his tutelage. It was the first time I’d witnessed a somewhat positive interaction between the pair. Oddly, it was a moment that could have easily unleashed animosity. Both were in their element. With common ground, they flourished.

After the exchange, Constance glanced around her father, smiling in my direction, and motioned to the piano, silently asking if I’d like a turn.

“No thank you.”

She pressed her hands together in prayer formation. Please.

I shook my head. “Another time.”

August’s attention warmed my face, but I refused to meet his eyes or give in to Constance’s request. Of the three of us, I was the least talented and wasn’t in the mood to be humiliated.

Constance submitted and closed the fallboard, moving to sit beside the Christmas tree. Handling the delicate ornaments strung on the branches, Constance twisted and turned them, admiring their painted designs. So far as I understood, she’d refused to accompany her father to shop for a tree or decorations. It was how he’d ended up in the city by himself. It was why he’d texted me while I was at dinner with my family. It was the reason I was sitting in August’s living room on Christmas Eve, entertaining the idea of a clandestine affair.

August rejoined me on the couch, leaving a respectable distance. He motioned to the piano. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

I hitched a brow, feigning confusion.

“You won’t play because of me. Because I constructively criticized your playing on the day we met.”

“I don’t feel like it is all.”

Creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You’re a fantastic musician, Niles. I’m sorry I ever made you feel differently. The piece, ‘Gaspard de la Nuit,’ it’s astoundingly difficult. I was amazed that—”

“Please save the attempts at flattery. It’s not coming across like you hope.”

August sighed but let it go. I’d given up drinking wine with the conclusion of dinner. Christmas Eve was not a night to rely on an Uber to get home, and we’d already polished off a full bottle between us. August had made coffee instead, but it wasn’t nearly as effective at numbing the pain of a bruised ego. It needed something harder.

Constance caught her father’s attention. Using simple, obvious hand gestures—for his benefit—she asked if she could open the presents.

“In the morning,” August said. “Or maybe New Year’s Day, as is tradition.”

She shook her head, profusely rejecting the suggestion.

August chuckled.

Constance pointed to the gift bags I’d brought, querying without words.

“No,” I said. “Save them. You and your dad can open them when you wake up.”

She pouted, but I refused to back down. Throughout dinner, I’d lost confidence in the gift I’d bought for August. Initially thinking myself clever when I’d found it shopping earlier in the day, I no longer wanted to be present at its unveiling, sensing it might cause upset.

Submitting, Constance occupied herself with a book, reading under the lights of the Christmas tree, while August and I compared notes on the Christmas concert since we hadn’t had the chance before now. Before long, we were entrenched in a discussion about the spring concert and who deserved to play solos or duets.

Around nine, Constance announced in simple signs that she was going to bed. August wished her a good night.

We listened as she used the bathroom, wandered to the kitchen for a drink, and closed herself in her bedroom.

Finally alone, a shift occurred. Anticipation thrummed like a plucked string. I knew where the night was going and how it would end. The outcome lacked longevity and promise, but it was Christmas, and I loathed the idea of spending it alone.

We faced each other on the couch—had for most of the night—angled so we both rested an arm on the backrest. We both had a leg drawn up and one on the ground. A mirror image of one another. A reflection. But that was where the similarities ended. August’s poised and refined qualities clashed with my free-spirited ways. He was the real deal. I was a fake.

But August’s caution betrayed him. In the few short weeks of our acquaintance, I’d discovered his fatal flaw, the single character trait that would be responsible for our eventual demise. A profound fear of discovery. And because of it, we were doomed from the start.

Closeted men couldn’t give you their hearts. Not fully. Not honestly. They remained guarded and distant. They gave you enough sustenance to keep you coming back for more, but you remained perpetually unfulfilled. Hungry. Alone.

I shouldn’t have cared. Even if August was out and proud, I would ruin us the same. Fixating, overthinking, and comparison were my fatal flaws, and in August’s presence, they flared and burned, devouring any pride or confidence I’d managed to acquire.

For that reason and multitudes of others, I let August initiate contact. If he couldn’t do that much, I was out the door.

But he could, and he did.

It started with a simple touch. He moved his hand to my knee, caressing and watching. Questioning. “I would very much like to take you to bed, Niles.” His usually refined voice came out husky.

“Oh?”

His hand moved up and down my thigh, thumb pressing along the inseam of my pants, dark eyes full of need, lust, and longing.

Accepting August’s offer meant accepting his position and secrecy. I couldn’t get mad when it all turned to shit.

And it would. He was the wrong man. Protecting my heart would be the key to survival. Koa had broken it time and time again. Had I learned nothing? Loving a man who couldn’t love you back was hell. So I decided, then and there, that I would not, under any circumstance, fall in love with August Castellanos.

“Niles?”

I covered his hand with my own, steeling my resolve. “Lead the way.”

Behind the closed bedroom door, bravado fortified, August faced me. Tall, dark, and handsome. Like the living embodiment of a bloody Greek god. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry at the irony.

I took in the room, the queen-size bed, the dresser, and the covered window, noting the simple décor and neutral color tone. It didn’t scream glorified musician. Nothing about it shouted August’s wealth or superiority. In fact, it whispered, I’m a normal man with normal problems, same as you.

Yet I couldn’t stop comparing our lives.

August closed the distance. We stood about the same height, yet he always seemed taller. Was it the pedestal in my mind where I’d placed him on the day we met, or was it his sudden confidence now that we were safely hidden away from the world?

August knew what he wanted, and he didn’t hold back.

He removed the tie from my hair, dropping the elastic on the bedside table. Long, variegated golden strands tumbled over my shoulders, framing my face.

For a long time, he simply admired them with awe and wonder. “You are uniquely you, Niles, and I admire that.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He combed his fingers through my hair, tucking it gently behind my ear and caressing my jaw. “You don’t pretend to be anything more than you are. You don’t let others dictate what it means to be professional or steer you away from your passion. You follow your heart and stay true to yourself.”

And look where it’s gotten me, I wanted to say. Forty-four years old, single, and teaching high school music.

These weren’t admirable qualities. Not only had I failed my parents, but I’d failed myself. I’d reached too high and missed the mark. I’d had my eye on the biggest prize I could imagine. It was no wonder I’d lost.

I didn’t want to talk about me or us or any of it. If we spent too much time inert, I would find a reason to leave. Descending on August’s mouth, I kissed him like I’d done in the kitchen, like I’d done in the dark auditorium, using the power of persuasion to get us past our crippling differences onto safer ground.

It worked like a charm.

August went with the flow, fisting my hair and securing me in place as his fervor matched my own. Tongues, teeth, and lips clashed. The temperature rose in an instant.

Coming up for air, I chuckled. “Repressed certainly doesn’t mean shy, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Backing me toward the bed, August shoved me down on the mattress. He removed his sweater vest before joining me, bracketing his hands on either side of my head, hovering a few inches above. “All I ask is that we’re quiet.”

“Obviously.”

“She’s a nosy girl.”

“She’s a teenager.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a free pass to act petulant.”

“Shut up, August. I don’t want to talk about your daughter right now.”

He laughed as I snagged his shirt in a fist and dragged him down on top of me. His weight and the warm, aggressive press of his mouth were my undoing. Blood surged through my veins. It had been a while since I’d found myself in bed with anyone. A plodding venture through the world of online dating had proven fruitless.

I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as he tangled his fingers ever deeper into my hair.

“You’re obsessed,” I said against his mouth.

He hummed. “Love your hair.”

Freeing a hand, he helped remove his shirt. Mine required August to haul me upright since I’d worn a sweater that needed to go over my head. An entwined mess of clothing found its way to the floor. Hot skin connected with hot skin. The hard press of August’s arousal rubbed against my inner thigh with the rock of his hips. I thrust against him, seeking similar friction, stoking the fire I’d built on the night of the concert when I’d decided to seek August in the darkness.

All the while, our mouths remained fused, tongues knotted as we explored.

I couldn’t stop touching him, blindly mapping every inch of his body. The higher the intensity of our make-out session, the more assertive August got. It was not the neat and tidy affair I’d expected from a professional classical musician. It was rough and demanding. Desperate in a way. Like a lifesaving breath of air after having been underwater too long. This was what happened when you repressed something.

Taking hold of his ass, I used it for leverage as I pushed against him. The taut globes clenched and moved with me. Grinding. Taking us to new heights.

But it wasn’t enough.

A new lover meant a path of unknown pleasures to discover. August seemed bold, but was he daring? How much experience had his self-proclaimed repression allowed him? Did he suck cock? Was he vers? I needed to find out soon before he drove me out of my mind.

Afraid we’d get stuck in an unending teenage make-out session and rut our way to completion, I used my weight to roll us and take the advantage. Short of breath and with bruised lips, August looked drunk on lust.

“Do you have condoms? Lube?” I asked.

A flash of panic. He glanced at the dresser and cursed. “No. I didn’t think… Shit. No.”

“Didn’t expect to show up at your daughter’s boarding school and end up in bed with her music teacher, huh?”

He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

“We can make do.”

My hair hung on either side of August’s face as I kissed him gently and passionately before moving down his body. August was not overweight, nor was he especially trim and muscular like the profile pics I’d seen on those apps when I’d browsed men in their twenties who spent half their lives at the gym. He was lean but soft with the onset of middle age. Dark hair covered his chest and stomach, and I took my time, venturing lower, tracing a path with the tip of my nose and planting kisses on a journey leading south.

When I checked in, his parted lips and heavily lidded eyes spoke of enjoyment, of desire. When I took him into my mouth, he cursed and arched his back. My name had never sounded so pure rolling off a lover’s tongue. August turned it into an aria.

Every word that proceeded was not English, but it didn’t matter. Their sentiment fueled me onward. They gave me the confidence and power I lacked, having August’s bold presence in my classroom and life. He outshone me in every way. Maybe here, in the bedroom, we could find common ground.

I stroked his thighs, the coarse hair rasping against my palms. I fondled his balls, tugging once, eliciting a moan. Taking my time, I drew out August’s pleasure until it was so taut his entire body sang with the need for release.

His fingers found their way to my hair again, knotting, tugging, guiding my movements as he thrust into my mouth, chasing a pleasure he’d denied himself for far too long.

When he came, smothering cries into a pillow, his whole body shivered and rippled.

I reversed course, kissing his skin on a return journey north to his mouth, stopping momentarily to inhale midchest. The lingering hints of cologne remained, but it was August’s natural essence that captivated me.

We ended up kissing again. Tamer and satiated, August explored with languid appeal, like he could linger on my mouth the rest of the night until our saliva dried up or our lips chapped. His hand found my length, and he lazily stroked, keeping me engorged and on edge.

“I want your mouth on me,” I said when I came up for air. “Do you do that?”

“Yes. Roll over.”

I obeyed, and August didn’t bother with preliminaries. He settled between my thighs and got to work. The hot glide of his tongue along my already stimulated cock was too much and not enough. I chased the pleasure, driving up into his mouth over and over until I came without mercy, holding him in place as the disorienting pleasure commanded my senses.

August didn’t shy away like I feared he might. He took it all. Eagerly. Hungrily.

After, we lay side by side, facing one another, legs and feet entwined. He traced a finger down the length of my forearm. “I’ll have condoms next time.”

“Will there be a next time?”

A divot appeared between his brows. “I hope so. It wasn’t disappointing, was it?”

“God no.”

August found my hand, and our fingers naturally wove together.

“I should head home.”

“Stay a bit longer. Let me lie with you a while.” He moved so we shared a pillow, noses touching. “I don’t want it to end. Not yet.”

“This won’t work. You and me. Not like this.”

“I know.”

“I refuse to fall in love with you, Auggie. So don’t you dare think differently. You’re heartbreak waiting to happen.”

Sadness pulled creases at the corners of his eyes. Quieter, he said, “I know.” Then he pulled me into his arms and held me.

Chapter eighteen

Niles

Iwoke sometime in the night, disoriented, with a warm body pressed against my back and an arm draped around my waist, securing me in place. Moist exhalation from my bed partner fanned my nape.

“Shit.” What time was it?

Carefully disengaging from August’s hold, I slipped out of bed and stumbled around the unfamiliar bedroom in search of my clothing. The illuminated numbers on the bedside clock announced it was close to six in the morning. I was supposed to be long gone by now.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Dressed, I glanced at the man who’d somehow become a reluctant lover and considered waking him to say goodbye, but getting tangled in an awkward conversation wasn’t high on my list of things to do on Christmas morning. Besides, I did not want to revisit the embarrassing remark I’d expressed after our exchange—rather, the pointed statement I’d declared in defense of my fragile heart.

I left August to slumber and crept out the door and down the hall to the living room. Rounding the corner, I stumbled to a stop. Constance sat on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders, a book on her lap, and a reading light clipped to the pages. It cast a yellow glow over the words, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

She looked up at my sudden appearance and flinched.

I did the same.

Two deer caught in the headlights. Two matching expressions of shock.

Too late to retreat. Too obvious for excuses.

Besides, Constance was a smart girl who quickly deduced the unexpected plot twist in the story that was her life. Glancing beyond me down the hall and back, she seemed uncertain what to say or ask.

It wasn’t every day you caught your music teacher sneaking out of your father’s bedroom. Double damn.

My attempt at an explanation failed when the only words I managed to conjure were ones stating the obvious. “You’re up early.”

A nod. I’m always get up at five.

“Oh. Didn’t know that. I, um… was heading home.”

Another glance down the hall. When her hands moved, they conveyed hesitation. Were you… in Dad’s room?

My shoulders fell. Defeat and acceptance abated the urgency to flee. What was the point? Either I explained the truth, or she came to her own conclusions. Lying would be pointless. She knew.

“I didn’t intend to stay the night. I… fell asleep.” Cringing internally at the crass undertones, I motioned to the couch. “May I sit?”

She nodded and shuffled her feet out of the way, setting her book aside. My state of undress stirred discomfort. I’d put on pants, sure, but I hadn’t secured the belt. My rumpled shirt and sweater announced my urgency to flee. The elastic I’d used to tie my hair back was lost somewhere in August’s bedroom. I’d given up trying to locate it in the dark.

It was an odd turn of events. I, the guilty-looking adult, squaring off with the far more responsible teenager.

And like I’d done a thousand times in my youth to avoid facing upset parents, I diverted, motioning to the book she’d set aside. “What are you reading?”

She handed me the novel. Father and Sons.

“Ah yes. Ivan Turgenev.” I chuckled. “Koa shoved this one down my throat more than once. He goes on tangents, and the only way to appease the man is by giving in.”

Constance smiled. Dr. Burgard assigned it for class. An introduction to nihilism or something. I don’t know. He gave us a list of book options. We had to pick one and read it over the holiday. It’s not so bad.

“You want to win over Dr. Burgard and earn yourself an A? Read Dostoevsky. He’s his favorite.”

She shrugged. They were all super long. I picked a shorter one. I’m a slow reader when it comes to classics, and I’m still working through my first book report.

“What did you choose for that?”

Jane Eyre. My mom likes Charlotte Brontë, and I’d never read anything by her. Dr. Burgard suggested it.

“Jane Eyre. I’ve read that one too. That girl is a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?”

Constance nodded. You’re friends with Dr. Burgard?

I considered the paperback in my hands, fanning the pages as I chose my words, knowing I couldn’t avoid the conversation forever. “Koa and I used to date.”

A long pause. Constance chewed her lip, then signed, I didn’t know you were gay.

I hitched a brow. “Really? How is that possible? Has the Timber Creek rumor mill broken down?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. Okay, I heard, but when I asked if you had a girlfriend last night, you didn’t correct me, so I thought maybe my friends were wrong.

“Not wrong.”

Constance raised her hands more than once like she was going to speak but put them on her lap. Twice, her attention moved to the hallway.

“Just ask. I’ll be as honest as is appropriate.”

She pressed her lips together and signed, Are you and Dad… dating?

“Not exactly. Not officially.”

But?

I sighed. “But there are… feelings involved.”

I didn’t know… I’ve never seen… Dad’s had a lot of girlfriends.

“Oh really?” I chuckled, and she punched my shoulder, sneering.

Maybe not a lot. Maybe they weren’t girlfriends. I don’t know. Women like him, and he seems to… like them too. I mean, I didn’t know he… She waved a hand, letting the gesture encompass what she couldn’t put into words.

“It’s not always cut and dried for some people.”

Is he bisexual?

At that exact moment, as though summoned, August appeared in the shadowed entrance to the living room, wearing only underwear and an open robe. Hair mussed, he took in the scene with an expression of muted horror as though wondering if this was real or if he was stuck in a nightmare.

Our gazes locked, and Constance switched her attention between us.

“That’s a question you should ask your dad.”

“Shit,” August muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

I stood from the couch and did my best to appear put together. “Merry Christmas, Auggie. How about I make coffee while you chat with your daughter.”

I left the pair alone and rooted around August’s kitchen until I found coffee beans, an antiquated hand grinder, and a percolator of all things. Although not a coffee snob like Koa, I appreciated a decent cup of joe in the morning. I had not, however, learned to use a proper percolator, and what was up with the hand grinder? Koa owned several fancy machines and multiple moka pots, but he never let me touch them. At home, I used a basic drip pot. It offended Koa, but I didn’t care. Some of us preferred simple over extravagant.

I studied the contraption until I thought I’d sorted the mechanics, and I set to work hand-grinding beans like I lived in the Stone Age. It required more spunk than I usually employed at six in the morning and on holiday, no less.

August appeared long before I’d made a dent in the beans. “That was fast.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did she—”

“Niles, please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

I held my tongue and passed him the grinder. “Fine. Make yourself useful. They have machines to grind beans now, you know? Had I known this was what you owned, I’d have bought you one for Christmas.”

“It’s the Italian way. My mother wouldn’t hear of owning an electric grinder.”

Your mother’s not here, I almost said.

August fully displayed his annoyance as he aggressively churned the beans to grounds, checking their coarseness occasionally until he was satisfied. “I thought you were leaving last night.”

“I thought so too, but someone asked me to stick around a bit longer, and I fell asleep. I tried to sneak out, but she was already awake and reading on the couch. I got caught.”

Lips pinched, August prepared the percolator in silence, stinking the air with repressed fury.

“Is it such a big deal?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t seem overly offended by the idea. Surprised, yes, but not—”

August spun to face me. “And if she tells her friends? Her mother?”

“So what? Who cares?”

“I care.” He huffed and resumed making coffee. The gas stove took a second to catch, and the igniter’s click, click, click pierced the air.

“You know what? I gotta go. This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this in the first place.”

The flame caught with a whoosh. August spun. “Then why did you?”

“Don’t put this on me. You weren’t exactly saying no. If anything, you were throwing vibes of interest all over the damn place. I should have stopped it.”

“You started it. In the auditorium.”

“You’re right. I did. Clearly a mistake.”

I aimed for the door, but August’s softer tone called me back. “Niles, wait. Please stop.”

Like an idiot, I turned back, body hot with anger and rejection.

August scrubbed his face, pressing fingers into his tired eyes. “I’m sorry. I was caught off guard and… It’s fine. Everything will be fine.”

“I have no idea what that means. From my perspective, it’s not fine, and it won’t ever be fine unless—”

“It’s Christmas. Can we table it? Stay. Have coffee. Eat breakfast. Constance enjoys your company and—”

“To what end?”

August looked at me, truly, honestly looked at me. Sorrow and indecision filled his eyes. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing, I wanted to scream. Everything.

He extended his hand. “Can we at least have today before you decide I’m not worth the effort? One more day. I immensely enjoyed last night.”

It was an illusion, but I had too.

I should have run out the door. I should have firmed my resolve. I should have listened to my head because my heart was unreliable and vulnerable. It conjured fantasies like a wishful child believing they could come true. It listened to sweet words and turned them into something they weren’t.

But instead, I took the offered hand and let August drag me into the comforting embrace of his arms. His warm skin and scent enveloped me. I closed my eyes and let go of frustration.

For now.

For today.

It was Christmas.

***

The morning progressed with a hearty breakfast—poached eggs, crusty homemade bread, pastries, fruit galore, nuts, and yogurt—an abundance of delicious coffee that put Koa’s to shame, and presents.

We didn’t speak of the previous night, and when Constance surreptitiously eyed us from time to time, August ignored her. I offered a commiserative shrug, unwilling to play his it-never-happened game.

Constance loved the bracelet and charms August had carefully boxed and wrapped, and when she uncovered the gift card for the cinema, she held it questioningly.

“I thought maybe you’d like to go with school friends. There’s enough there that you could treat them to a show. Niles tells me the kids spend a lot of time at the movies in the winter months during free time. If they request a pass, they can go into the city.”

Constance studied me for a long minute and nodded. That sounds fun, she signed, then, for her father’s benefit, she offered a simple thumbs up and a smile.

Constance might not have shone a light on her dad’s revelation, but when August wasn’t paying attention, she studied him through a new lens. The affection August and I had shared the previous night remained locked away. No more touching. No more secret smiles and expressions of mutual longing.

Constance opened the gift bag from me, uncovering a handmade fabric makeup bag decorated in a musical theme. A tiny violin attached to the zipper aided in its opening and closing. Inside, she found a gift card for the salon in Peterborough, one geared to teens where I knew many of Timber Creek’s female population ventured, returning to class with colored hair, freshly painted nails, or lash extensions.

Constance beamed and thanked me, zipping and unzipping the pouch, admiring the design and the pamphlet I’d grab from the salon to go with it. August was new at parenting, and without a mom around, I thought Constance might enjoy some girl time with her friends.

One gift remained under the tree. Constance brought it to August, showing him the tag with his name.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he said, untying the curly ribbon.

“Oh, believe me. You’re right. I’m regretting all my decisions at this point.”

He stopped and studied my face, likely thinking I was solely referring to our faltering connection as lovers, but I wasn’t. The gift was bound to go down like a sinking ship.

Inside, he found a book. For a long time, he stared at the title, expression unreadable. I sensed his silent fury reigniting. Constance grabbed the hardcover and read the title, immediately darting her attention to me, a wide smile forming. A Comprehensive Beginners Guide to ASL.

August took the book from his daughter and set it aside on the end table. With a tight smile, he thanked me, then swiftly changed the subject, speaking to Constance. “We have about three hours before we have to be in Toronto, and it’s about an hour and a half drive. How about you shower and get ready.”

Excitement sparkled in Constance’s eyes. She glanced at the discarded book again, then to me, signing, Thank you.

I winked as she ran off.

Alone, the air in the room shifted and changed. Tension bled through the walls and settled around us.

“Chloé’s in Toronto?” It was none of my business, but at that point, jaded and uncaring, I figured, why not?

“She told you?”

“Only that she was visiting her mom today.”

“Yes.” August got up and collected the discarded wrapping paper strewn about. He didn’t offer more information.

“I guess I’ll take off. Let you get ready.”

He saw me to the door and waited as I tied my boots and buttoned my coat. Face-to-face on the threshold, August wore the expression of a man in anguish.

“I don’t expect to hear from you,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you in class after the holiday.”

Before I could turn and open the door, August crushed me against it and kissed me. The previous night, lust prevailed. Lust drove us into bed and fueled the entire encounter. It was not lust in control that morning. It was desperation. It was fear. It was something far greater and stronger, delivered with aching tenderness.

By the time it ended, I didn’t know up from down. August stroked my cheek and pressed his forehead to mine. “Give me a minute to sort myself out. Please.”

“You know where to find me.”

Chapter nineteen

August

The drive to Rock Glen Haven passed in silence. The weight of every one of Constance’s unasked questions filled the cab. I’d confirmed— under duress—that, yes, Niles had spent the night in my room, and yes, I sometimes enjoyed the company of men. Then, I’d promptly shut down the conversation, refusing to discuss it further.

Chloé didn’t know, and I had no sway with our daughter to convince her to keep her mouth shut. If I thought for one second I could bribe or influence secrecy, I would. As Constance’s least favorite person on the planet, I didn’t try.

We arrived ten minutes early. Parked and with the engine shut off, we sat, staring at the monolithic building that rose above the trees into the gloomy winter sky. It didn’t look like a treatment center. The Victorian mansion, located on a vast wooded property, could have passed for the home of an aristocrat had it not been for the high privacy fence circling the rear yard and decorative sign announcing its purpose.

In October, when I’d helped Chloé check in, the abundance of autumn leaves turned the landscape picturesque. Stone pathways wound around voluptuous gardens. Benches and gazebos provided quaint areas of rest. Wildlife ran among trimmed hedges and hid amid the tall branches of ancient oak and poplar.

Today, on the cold, naked side of winter, the estate’s bleakness reigned. Snow swept across lawns and accumulated on bare trees. A howling wind rattled the rusty eaves. Icicles glimmered on the porch railing. Frosted windowpanes made it impossible to see inside. No sign of birds or animals today. Not even a curious squirrel seeking a long-lost nut.

The full parking area seemed to indicate a busy event. I still wasn’t sure why I’d agreed to Chloé’s wishes.

Constance handed me her phone, a message typed out.

I won’t tell her. It’s not my place. But I don’t know why you’re ashamed.

Emotions clogged my throat. My cheeks flushed. “It’s a long story. I’m working on it.”

She took her phone back and typed. I like Mr. Edwidge.

“Me too.”

Minutes ticked by. Neither of us moved. I motioned to the building. “Shall we?”

Constance nodded, but her enthusiasm appeared to have waned. She didn’t move to get out of the vehicle, instead peering into the distance as though lost in thought. Troubled. Of course she was. Here was where fantasy and reality clashed, the latter prevailing, the former a childhood whimsy.

I played dumb. “What’s up?”

For all her bravado, for all the time she’d spent feigning unaffectedness, I could have sworn Constance didn’t want to go in. Two months moaning about not getting to see her mom. I knew it was a bad idea.

“You can change your mind. We can go home.”

She shook her head.

“It’s okay to be angry.” The last time she’d seen her mother, Chloé was in handcuffs, being loaded into the back of a police car.

Constance wouldn’t look at me.

“None of this is your fault. You know that. I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I can call that doctor again. The therapist you were seeing. If you want to—”

Constance cut a hand in the air and scowled. Without another word, she exited the car and headed toward the building.

This was a mistake, and I was going to pay. With a steadying breath, I got out of the car and followed.

The festivities took place in a common area. With its shiny decorations, enormous Christmas tree, and treat-laden tables, it presented a joyous atmosphere free from strain. It masked the true nature of the facility, letting guests pretend they were visiting relatives in a homelike setting. Rock Glen patients, in their plain clothes, geared for comfort and not celebration, stood out among mingling family members. No amount of glimmer and baubles erased the truth. If you looked closely, the illusion was surface deep.

Smoke and mirrors. It did not affect me, but I hoped it helped Constance settle.

I spotted Chloé near the Christmas tree, sipping juice from a paper cup and nibbling a cookie. She waved upon seeing us, offering a heartfelt smile I didn’t return.

“Go ahead.” I nudged Constance, who seemed hesitant. “You have about thirty minutes. I’m going to check in with a doctor and see how things are going.”

Mother and daughter greeted each other with long, emotion-drenched hugs, tears, and smiles. Where was Constance’s anger now? Why did I get the attitude Chloé deserved? Why was I being punished for someone else’s mistakes? I stuck around long enough to be sure Constance didn’t change her mind, then backed out the door into the grand hallway, disgusted and in no mood to witness their happy reunion.

The interior of the mansion was as striking as the exterior. Clients paid a lot of money for comfort, care, and rehabilitation. It could have passed for a high-class B&B or a shared vacation home. The main difference was that the guests couldn’t freely come and go, and their mental and physical health was closely monitored.

The door to the office, located near the main entrance, stood open. I poked my head inside, finding Ruth Christie at a desk, chatting with a male nurse. Since Constance and I had signed in less than ten minutes ago, she queried, “Is everything all right, Mr. Castellanos?”

“Everything is fine. My daughter is visiting. Is Dr. Pembrook or one of the other physicians available?”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Dr. Duchess is on call for emergencies. Otherwise, we have minimal staff around with the holiday. Is there something I can help with?”

Chloé had given me medical power of attorney in the event she became incapable of making decisions, and since I was also her sole emergency contact, I was privy to regular updates should I request them.

“I wondered how things are going.” Taking a recovering addict’s word for truth was foolish. Chloé had spent almost a decade deceiving everyone until she put our daughter’s life at risk and wound up being arrested. A lifetime of lying made her untrustworthy.

Ruth couldn’t communicate as much as a doctor, but she found Chloé’s file and translated what she could. “Dr. Pembrook has marked a significant change in the past few weeks. I would guess the worst of the withdrawal symptoms have calmed, and Chloé is working the program rather than fighting against it, but addiction is a lifelong disease, Augustus, so…”

“I know. Time will tell.”

“Yes, and although we only want what’s best for our patients, some end up back here multiple times before they find their feet. I don’t say this to be discouraging, but I know how hurtful it can be if you get your hopes up.”

I was well aware. It was Constance I worried about. “Is she still scheduled to be released at the end of January?”

“Um… No. There’s a note here that says March first. Is that not what you were told?”

“I was told the doctor would make the final decision.”

“Looks like March first is the anticipated date unless things don’t go as planned.”

I thanked Ruth and wandered back to the common room. Chloé and Constance were seated near a window, involved in an infuriating ASL conversation—both of them—even though Constance’s hearing was perfectly fine. Acts like this convinced me that Chloé was not on my side. She coddled our daughter rather than promoting healthier habits.

It reminded me of the book Niles had gifted, the stained morning, and the euphoria of the previous night. How easily I’d caved to my suppressed desires. How incredible and freeing it had felt.

I’d asked Niles to give me time, but time for what?

The visit ended, and Constance and Chloé approached arm in arm. Other families, in the midst of saying goodbye, hugged loved ones and wished them well.

“Hello, Augustus.” Chloé’s emerald eyes were clear and bright, a marked difference from the last time I’d seen her. Our daughter shared more of Chloé’s genes than mine. Side by side, as Constance moved into womanhood, their similarities were startling. How deep did they go? How much of her mother had she inherited? It was why I refused to push Constance into a life of competition. The pressure and stress were part of her mother’s downfall.

“Merry Christmas, Chloé.”

“You didn’t visit.”

“We have nothing to talk about. I’m here for Constantina.”

She turned to our daughter, rubbing her arms. “Take care.” Chloé kissed Constance’s cheek and drew her into an embrace. As they rocked side to side, hugging, she said, “I’d like to chat with your father for a moment in private.”

Released from her mother’s arms, Constance glanced at me and nodded. I handed her the keys to the car. “Turn the heat on so you don’t freeze to death. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Once she was gone, Chloé sighed and crossed her arms over her thin chest. She’d always been petite, as angelic in appearance as her voice when she sang, but the beauty who had captivated me fifteen years ago was not this woman.

“How is she adjusting to school?”

“No issues.”

“That’s all? No issues? You can’t elaborate? Give me something, Augustus. Don’t be stubborn.”

I shrugged. “It’s been less than a month. What do you want?”

“She tells me Jonas isn’t coming for lessons.”

“No. She has a music teacher, and whatever he can’t teach her, I will.”

“I don’t agree with this.”

I stared, perplexed.

She met the challenge.

“Do I need to say it?” I asked.

“No. I gave up the right to opinions. Yes, I realize that. What about when you leave her and go back to Chicago? That is your plan, isn’t it? Timber Creek is a boarding school. You chose it for that reason.”

“I’ll make decisions when the time comes.”

“Call Jonas. Please. He’s what she needs.”

What Constance needed was a goddamned therapist to help her process all the changes in her life so she could come to terms with what had happened.

“Was there anything else?”

Chloé pressed her lips together and scanned the fast-emptying room. “What about you? Are you managing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“You were forced to become a father overnight. That can’t have been easy.”

I huffed. “It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

“I’ll sort this out. It’s temporary. Maybe by the time the school year is over, I’ll be able to—”

“No. I don’t think so.” Despite the trials and struggles I’d encountered, a flare of anger ignited in my core. I lowered my voice so I wouldn’t draw attention. “If you think for one minute I’ll sit by and happily hand over custody again, you’re wrong. I might not have wanted this. I might be utterly failing at every aspect of fatherhood, but I will be damned if I put Constance back in your care.”

“Augustus—”

“No. You did this. You ruined your own life and almost hers in the process. That’s not on me. Your career is over because of the choices you made. And the one thing you wanted desperately enough to lie and deceive to get—our daughter—is too precious to risk. Try me, Chloé. I will raise the fires of hell. I don’t care if she hates me forever. The best you can hope for is unsupervised visits, but you’re a long way from that. I gotta go.”

It took half the drive to feel calm enough to ask Constance if she had a good visit. She nodded, peering out the passenger window. Her thoughts were loud but indiscernible, and since conversation between us was stilted on a good day, never mind in a car, I didn’t push. Lately, the more I said, the worse our relationship.

By the time we hit Peterborough, I’d made myself sick contemplating the trajectory of my life. Announcing that I planned to keep Constance in my care indefinitely had been spontaneous. It meant never fully going back to the life I knew. It meant several more years of being responsible for her education, care, and well-being. It set me on a path I hadn’t planned, and again, I felt like I needed to revisit my career and future goals and figure out what I was doing.

The roving lights on the marquee above the cinema drew my attention. I pulled over and put the car in Park, admiring the sign. Constance tapped my shoulder and questioned me with a raised brow.

“Wanna catch a movie? It’s probably the only place open today, and there’s not much to do at home.” Except ignore each other and get lost in unpleasant thoughts.

For the first time in ages, my daughter’s smile was directed at me. She nodded. We got out of the car and headed inside. I bought butter-glazed popcorn and soft drinks big enough to swim in. Constance picked a fluffy rom-com, and we settled in two seats midway up from the front of the theater.

As the previews began, Constance handed me her phone with a message displayed. Do you think Mr. Edwidge is all alone right now?

I weighed my words, taking a second to respond. “I don’t know.”

She took her phone back and wrote, That would be sad. We should have invited him to join us.

“To a rom-com?”

She batted her lashes and nudged me coyly as she made kissy faces.

“Stop.” I chuckled, the tension of the morning draining away. “Maybe next time.”

Promise?

“I’m not making promises I can’t keep. He’s not happy with me right now.”

Then fix it.

***

Two days later, planted at the piano, unable to hear the symphony inside my head no matter how hard I strained, the three words that had been emblazed on Constance’s phone at the theater returned to me. Then fix it. Spoken with the naivety of youth, from the mind of a teenager who had yet to discover the harsh realities of the world.

Fix it. Would the music come back? Was this blockage created by stubbornness? Fear?

Oddly enough, Niles was the one thing Constance and I agreed on. We both liked him. Without realizing it, the man had formed a bridge between us. Instead of existing on separate islands, Constance and I shared a common interest. She in a music teacher she’d grown to adore who’d promised to perform a duet with her at the spring concert and bought her gift cards to the salon, and I in the eccentric man who couldn’t see his worth. Who boldly outshone me in personality alone. In everyday life, Niles’s confidence put mine to shame, and I hated that my career and success took any of that away or made him feel like less of a person.

We hadn’t been in contact since Christmas morning. I didn’t expect a call or text, not when the issue resided with my insecurities. Not when he’d bluntly stated his position on repressed—closeted—individuals. If I wanted to prove myself, I needed to step out of my comfort zone and fix it.

The temperature had turned mild. Any residual snow from before Christmas had melted, leaving mucky puddles and uncovering sodden piles of rotting leaves along the paths. The world beyond the window left much to be desired, but locked inside the cottage was making me stir-crazy.

Constance had been practicing violin for half a day when I abandoned the piano and my failing composition to announce I was going out.

Where? she asked, using one of the few signs I understood.

“Just… out. I don’t know. I might grab groceries, stop at a library, or wander about and see what’s open. Do we need anything?”

She studied me for a long moment and formed a shape with her hand I didn’t understand.

Sighing, I shook my head. “With words, Constance. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Rolling her eyes, she used a finger to draw the letters of Niles’s name in the air.

“Oh. Maybe… Um, yes, I guess that’s the plan. I don’t know if he’ll be home or want to talk to me, but…”

She smiled and snagged her phone, fingers flying as she typed. I wanted to reprimand her indignance toward speaking, but exhaustion over the ongoing feud had worn me out. The sign language book Niles had gifted lived on my bedside table. Stubbornness kept the spine uncracked and the pages unblemished. Giving in meant giving up. All I wanted was for Constance to lead as normal a life as possible. Why couldn’t she see that? What was the point of this war? Why did she persistently refuse?

He’ll talk to you. I know he will. Don’t be stupid. Ask him on a date. Go see that movie again. Take him out for dinner.

“So you’re a matchmaker now,” I said after reading the message.

She made a shooing motion, sweeping me up and shoving me to the door. Her beaming smile was contagious, and when she handed me a coat and straightened my collar, I warned, “My absence is not a free ticket to get out of chores. You promised you’d do the dishes.”

She helped tie a winter scarf around my neck and positioned it just so, tucking the ends in my coat front and smoothing it down. “Good grief, girl. Since when do you care about me?”

I earned a teenage sneer, and she took out her phone. Bring wine. Say you’re sorry. Do better!

Realization dawned. It wasn’t me she cared about but Niles.

Feelings bruised, I forced a smile. “I’ll be home in a bit.”

Chapter twenty

August

Idrove to Peterborough, thoughts in a blender, no more settled on a decision or direction than I’d been Christmas morning. Life turned chaotic without music emanating from my soul, and Niles’s absence had left an uncomfortable quietude. In his presence, a symphony unlike any I’d heard before exploded within me, igniting synapses and captivating my attention. I’d done my best to write it down, listening as it evolved into something I’d never imagined. But for the past two days, I’d mourned its loss.

It was Niles who conjured the music. What it meant, I didn’t know. Was there a chance for us? Could I take this step? Between the Niles conundrum and my stance with Chloé, I wasn’t sure what was up and down or where life was headed. This road where I’d wound up had no signs and offered no directions. Part of me sought a cutoff so I could escape the uncertainty of the destination.

Continuous vacillating was bound to piss Niles off, but I hoped seeing him again would realign my brain and make something clearer. I wanted answers. Enlightenment. A guidebook.

I didn’t stop for wine as Constance had suggested or venture to the grocery store, library, or other shops. I had no pressing need for anything in the city.

Determined to face Niles before I chickened out, I drove directly to his house, only to find the driveway empty and the windows dark.

“Damn.”

Knocking several times confirmed he wasn’t home.

Scanning the quiet street, unsure what to do next, I considered leaving. Defeat waited inside the cottage. Frustrating silence lingered by the piano. And the moody teenager residing down the hall wouldn’t provide the answers I sought.

Niles could be shopping. He could be driving down the street right now, returning home as I stood dumbfounded on the stoop. He could be at his ex’s, telling him about my insecurities and failures.

I found his number in my phone and hit Call.

“Well, well, Mr. Maestro. Two days. I’ll be honest. I expected the silence to last longer.” His voice, a plucked string, hummed pleasantly through the line, seeping under my skin.

There. There it was.

I closed my eyes, smiling for the first time in days. “You’re not home, Mr. Edwidge.”

“Nope. The four walls of the house were too much today, so I decided to take advantage of an empty school and organize the music room.”

“You’re at work?”

“Guilty.”

“I didn’t see your car in the lot when I left.”

“I’m parked around front. I don’t have a key to the rear entrance.”

A brisk wind fluttered and lifted my hair, tickling my cheeks with its icy fingers. I turned my back on it as I considered what to do.

Niles came to the rescue. “Care to join me? You saw the state of the library. I’m literally buried under a score of scores.”

Chuckling, I aimed for the car, each step lighter than the last until the soles of my shoes, like my spirit, floated on air. “I’m on my way.”

***

“It’s daunting, but if we can make a dent, it’s something.” Niles handed me a squat stool as he stood outside the closet-sized library in the back section of the music room. Its contents spilled from inside, landing in neat, seemingly random piles of folders containing full symphonies, solos, duets, concertos, and everything in between.

“I’ve started arranging them in alphabetical order by composer.” He pointed from stack to stack. “A’s. Haven’t found many of those yet. B’s. We’ve got Bach, Beethoven, Bernstein, Bennett, Bizet, Brahms, Byrd, etcetera, and so forth. C’s, D’s, no E’s, F’s over here, G’s—”

“Niles.”

He glanced up, adorably frazzled.

“I learned the alphabet when I was yay high.” I indicated with a hand.

“Right.” He blew a chunk of stray hair from his face and propped his hands on his hips. “Not rocket science, I guess.” He wore a buttoned shirt with rolled sleeves—as was his norm—paired with dark jeans and a leather belt. His facial hair was growing in again, and I couldn’t help staring at the cut angle of his covered jaw. It was hard to believe he’d been in my bed less than seventy-two hours ago.

When Niles lifted his gaze from the mountain of files and our eyes locked, I immediately diverted my attention to the room behind him. “Where do you want me to start?”

Adopting a smug tone and motioning with a flourish, he said, “Please, join me in the closet. I think you’ll find it rather comfortable and… familiar.”

I deadpanned. “You’re not funny.”

He shrugged and smirked. “Too on the nose?”

“Do you want to do this yourself?”

My mock irritation didn’t fool Niles. He cocked a brow. “It took you two days to make that phone call, Mr. Maestro. Are you leaving already?”

“No. Constance would kill me.” I nodded at the closet. “Lead the way.”

We squished into the tiny room and tackled the piles of music accumulated on the floor. With so many teens in and out, removing pieces and parts from the shelves and not replacing them in the right spot when they were done, it meant not only were the files out of order but an abundance of stray sheet music belonging to those scores had been crammed into every nook and cranny available. Upon opening a few compositions and finding instrument sections from other pieces of music within, I realized the truth of Niles’s original statement.

Daunting.

We worked in companionable silence for the first twenty minutes, discussions limited to the task at hand. If nothing more, I was happy to be in his presence again. I couldn’t read Niles’s mind, but I got the sense it would be up to me to break the ice where our private affairs were concerned.

Except I didn’t know how.

A thousand conversation entry points came and went. Should I dive into the thick of it or tiptoe cautiously around, inching ever closer if he proved agreeable? Christmas Eve and morning played out over and over as I grasped at straws, unsure how to begin. Clouds of embarrassment and shame stuffed up the room and elevated my internal temperature until I shed my sweater vest and rolled my sleeves like Niles always did. If I’d worn a tie, I would be obsessively touching and rearranging it.

I caught him watching from the corner of his eye and eventually sputtered the first thing that came to mind. “Where did you learn sign language?”

He glanced up from the score he was fixing, wisps of wheat-colored hair brushing his temples and dancing along his cheeks. The golden sunsets of his eyes lit me up, further warming the room. He studied me for a moment before resuming his task.

“Every year in elementary school, we got to choose what they called an elective. Not course-covered material, but a fun little extra like baking, knitting, or woodwork. We attended our elective for an hour every other Friday. I chose sign language, enthralled by learning to speak with my hands. A few of my friends chose it as well, and we quickly discovered its nefarious benefits. We could talk to one another in class while the teacher wasn’t looking. Thought ourselves truly devious when we discovered this workaround. We selected it every year for three or four years and became quite proficient.”

I chuckled.

“I borrowed books on the subject from the school library and taught myself as much as I could, progressing beyond my friends’ abilities. Kids are sponges, and I absorbed it easily. Of course, it was a childhood fascination. It entertained me from about age eight or nine to thirteen. Once we got to high school, we forgot all about it.

“In uni, I was required to pick a few general interest courses. When scanning options, I came across an ASL class. I only took the one, and intro-level at that, but it came back to me surprisingly fast, like it had been stored in my memory, waiting for use. It needed dusting off, but my recall proved profound.”

“So you haven’t used it since university?”

“Nope. Not once.”

“And you fully understand Constance?”

“Not fully, and not at first. She spelled most words for me in the beginning since the alphabet is simpler, but in the few weeks I’ve had her in class, it’s coming back to me again.”

“Incredible.”

ASL was an entire language like any other, yet Niles didn’t see the gift he’d been given. He constantly downplayed his intelligence, but here existed a prime example of a man who was brilliant in his own right.

“You were angry I bought you that book.” He met my gaze.

I couldn’t lie. “Yes. It’s a crutch for her. She doesn’t require it.”

“Is it, though? Maybe it’s a comfort. Maybe using sign language eliminates a world of stress in her teenage world, and it sounds like she’s had a hard go lately.”

I considered. “True. Choose my battles, huh?”

Niles shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a lowly high school music teacher with no kids of my own.”

“Don’t do that.”

“How’s Chloé?”

The sudden diversion caught me off guard. I faltered and stammered. “I… What?”

“I’m sorry.” Niles set a folder aside. “It’s none of my business.”

“You’re fishing. You want to know what happened.”

“I’m curious, but only if you’re willing to share.”

I slid the file I’d been working through into its correct spot on the shelf before facing the messy, bomb pitted field that was my daughter’s mother. “The condensed version… Chloé’s an addict and almost killed our daughter three months ago. She lost custody and is currently spending time in a rehabilitation facility in Toronto.”

Fresh anger, hot and sizzling, blistered my skin. I clenched my fists and glanced at Niles, who watched cautiously from a stool less than two feet away.

“And the long version?” he asked.

Was I going there? Was I further shattering the illusion? Would Niles understand then how imperfect my life was under the surface? Could we be equals?

“I think the addiction started when Constance was first diagnosed. Chloé and I have never been close, so I can’t say for sure. Knowing what I know now and looking back, it makes sense. I see it, and I don’t know how I missed it. What’s the saying?”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty?”

“Yes. That’s it. She was good at hiding the truth.”

“Addicts usually are.”

I nodded. “It’s not unusual with musicians. Addiction. Anyone in show business, I suppose. The pressure is astounding. The expectations are brutal. Add a cancer diagnosis, endless doctor’s appointments, and treatments to the mix, all while trying not to let your career implode, and you have the perfect concoction of stressors to facilitate a problem.”

I opened another file, not seeing the staff or notes, barely registering the composer’s name at the top. “As a result, Chloé had ongoing problems with work and on a few occasions with the authorities. I didn’t know any of this at the time. Didn’t know Chloé was sliding. Didn’t know Constance was suffering. We lived together briefly, but it wasn’t a healthy relationship, and we did our best to stay out of each other’s way. I left when Constance’s health improved, and things looked better. Any time I checked in, which was unfortunately rare, I got the beautiful illusion. The lies.

“In September, they got in a traffic accident. Chloé was drunk and high. I was told her purse contained a veritable pharmacy of pills. Constance was with her, and the only reason either of them is alive is because when Chloé drifted into oncoming traffic, facing off with an eighteen-wheeler, my daughter wrenched the wheel from her hands and steered them into a guardrail instead.

“No one was hurt. Thank god. Bumps and bruises. The police took Chloé away from the scene in cuffs. After having her assessed at the hospital, they charged her with reckless driving, among several other things. It was child services who contacted me and told me what happened. It was then I learned of Chloé’s long history with the authorities. They said my daughter needed somewhere to live. They said, in all likelihood, Chloé would lose custody, and unless I wanted my daughter in the system, I needed to collect her immediately. So here we are.”

I did all I could to bring the score into focus, but the past, present, and future had caused such a blinding fog I couldn’t see to save my life. The paths in and out of this mess remained obscured from view. If I could have found a way out, I’d have run.

Niles removed the folder from my lap and took my hand. The offered assurance and warmth of his skin provided much-needed steadiness. I closed my eyes as the symphony that belonged to this unexpected man came to life inside my head. Every note wrapped me in comfort and held me together.

I basked in its glory, hearing each stanza, understanding the arrangement like I’d been unable to do for the past two days at the piano bench. I paid attention for once, committing it to memory.

All the while, Niles stroked his thumb over my hand.

“Don’t let go.” I squeezed him tighter. “If I can hold onto it… If I can… I understand now. You’re the conduit.”

“What?” Niles asked.

I opened my eyes and met two setting suns; their shades nearly drawn. Us, I wanted to say. You and me. The symphony derives from this connection. I see it now. I hear it.

“Nothing. I’m lost in my head. Ignore me.”

“Lost in music?”

I frowned. “How did you…”

“I’m getting to know you, August. When stressed, you hum and play the piano on your legs. You touch your tie and toy with the buttons on your jacket. You have no tie or jacket today, so the music has taken you hostage. Am I right?”

“Yes, but this music is different.”

“How so?”

I stared at our joined hands, drawing Niles’s warmth and strength. “It… It’s not from stress this time. The opposite. This music is rooted in serenity. It comes at me when… It’s only there if… Niles?”

“August?” His hushed voice matched my trepid tone.

“Can we get out of here?”

The minute he took to consider stretched long and foreboding. I feared he would say no or tell me it wasn’t a good idea. I deserved no less. No promises had been made. No questions had been answered. We hadn’t discussed a single thing about the other night, and Niles’s position on secrecy was clear and inarguable. He would have been within his rights to ask for clarification or refuse, but he didn’t.

He squeezed my hand and got to his feet, tugging me up as well. In the closet-sized room, where any extra space had been taken up by Niles’s scores of scores, we ended up chest to chest. I could have kissed him then and there. The want in his sunset eyes matched my own. The longing. The lust.

But I didn’t. Instead, hoping to regain a fraction of the points I’d lost, I asked, “Can I take you to dinner?”

Niles tipped his head to the side, conveying skepticism. “Sounds awfully public and datish.”

I floundered before somehow finding the ability to nod. “It is. Constance suggested… I mean… I would love to…”

Humor danced in Niles’s eyes. “Am I allowed to call it a date then?”

“That would be wise. I’d hate to further upset her, and she seems to think this… us… we are a good match.”

“She’s a smart girl. Ask me properly.”

“Can I take you on a date, Niles?”

“I’d love that.”

He flicked off the light, and we stepped over multiple stacks of music as we made our way out of the closet and into the chilly late afternoon.

Dinner was a quiet Mediterranean spot Niles suggested. I did my best to hide the discomfort brought on by such a public affair. Unfortunately, attuned to every sideways glance I cast on neighbors or how I went to great lengths to have the meal appear as a friendly engagement, Niles grew visibly irritated. It was not the date he’d envisioned.

If I didn’t get over myself soon, he would have every right to send me packing, but a person didn’t change their ways overnight. I’d never learned to be comfortable in my own skin.

“Can I make an observation?” Niles asked after the waiter removed our plates at the end of the meal.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

He sipped a glass of ice water, quirking a brow.

“Go on.”

“You masquerade through life as though you are this whole and complete man. Powerful and confident and perfect. It’s bullshit. You don’t know who the hell you are half the time. You blow hot and cold. You want this date but don’t want to be seen with me. You chase me down, then push me away. You want intimacy but cower in fear when it’s delivered. Your face betrays you, August. It’s expressive to a fault. It gives you away. There’s heat in your eyes but hate in your heart. Which is it? I’m too old for games.”

He was right on so many levels, yet his observation had flaws. I was not powerful or confident. I was weak and scared. But I did hide my true self from the world, showcased one side, and concealed another.

A woman at a nearby table laughed at something her dinner companion said. A clatter of dishes arose from the distant kitchen. The front doors opened, admitting a cold breeze and a family of four. In the corner, a group of men, who looked to be celebrating, lifted their glasses in a toast. The waiter bustled about, filling drinks, delivering food, and seating the newcomers. From the overhead speakers, Tony Bennett crooned about leaving his heart in San Francisco.

I absorbed the pace and pleasure of regular people enjoying regular lives as Niles’s words hit like bullets, cracking the mask and splintering the illusion.

“Too blunt?” he asked.

“No. But for the record, the hate is for me, not you. Everything about my life derives from someone else’s choosing, and in all fairness, Niles, it’s you who puts me on a pedestal. I’ve never claimed to be any of those things. It’s you who sees me as this superhuman figure to be revered. It’s you who compares himself to me, although I can’t understand why. Can’t you see my flaws?

“I’m at the whim of everyone else. I’m forty-one years old and still live at the mercy of my father. I didn’t get to choose my career. I didn’t get to choose if I wanted a child—and yes, I understand I was involved in the act, but I was unfairly deceived. I did my due diligence as a twenty-seven-year-old and asked all the right questions. The problem was believing the lies.

“Have you not listened to the disorder that is my life?” I laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “I’m going to go prematurely gray at this point. I’m not qualified to raise a teenage girl. And you wonder why I struggle with this.” I motioned between us. “It goes against the grain of what’s expected of me, and Christ, do you know how often I’ve defied people’s expectations and done something for myself? Never. Not once in all my life. So yes, I’m off balance. I’m giving you mixed signals. I’m drawing you in and pushing you away. I’m trying to figure out how to fit romance with a man into my life, and at present, my life is upside down.”

Niles cut his gaze to the table, folding and unfolding a stray napkin.

“I’m trying, Niles. If it means anything, I want to see where this goes.”

In the back of my mind, a voice whispered, Where can it go? Once Constance is settled, you return to Chicago. Then what?

“Okay.” Niles lifted his chin, eyes full of compassion. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. If we’re being transparent, you should know I spent nearly two years with a man who kept me at arm’s length. He rarely showed affection and couldn’t return my love. Our relationship was never a secret, but all the same, I suffered from being kept outside a closed door. I told myself I would never go there again.”

“Koa?”

He nodded and scanned the restaurant, his pain on the surface. I’d had minimal run-ins with Constance’s English teacher, but Niles’s feelings for him were evident.

A twist of jealousy stirred my gut. I vowed then and there to do my best to ensure Niles didn’t feel that way again. But to do that, I needed to step it up.

When the waiter arrived to see if we needed anything else, I asked for the bill. “Together,” I told him. “I’m paying for this date.”

It was a simple word, a simple act of defiance against a parent who lived an ocean away, but it was enough to draw a smile to Niles’s face.

I still couldn’t find the strength to take his hand as we left the restaurant, but I kissed him in the parking lot, shrouded by early nightfall.

When we came apart, Niles studied the depths of my eyes as though trying to see the future and determine if I would one day break his heart. I feared I would. I feared it was inevitable.

“Come home with me,” he said.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I have to prove myself first. I don’t want you to think I’m flaky.”

He leaned into me, chest to chest, our frosty breaths mingling. “Prove yourself tomorrow. Fuck me tonight.”

Brows darting up, I chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word.”

“Then I guess you know how serious I am.”

And what could I say?

Chapter twenty-one

Niles

Did caving make me a masochist? I wanted so badly to believe in August and for this to mean something. Did it stem from desperation or loneliness? We didn’t click. We clashed. For two people who’d only met a few short weeks ago, we argued like a married couple. None of this boded well for the future, but did I care? Of course I did. I’d been looking for Mr. Right since my university days.

Maybe this was dating in your forties. Giving in. Giving up. Taking what you could get.

I drove home, August’s headlights shining blindingly in the rearview mirror. The star-speckled sky made the night seem later than the glowing numbers on the dash claimed. 6:27.

I parked, and August pulled in behind me. He spent a minute texting before getting out of the vehicle. Even then, he regarded his phone for several long seconds before pocketing it. His hands followed the device, stuffed deep within, shoulders raised in apprehension, body a taut bowstring.

“Is everything all right?” I motioned to where he’d tucked the phone.

“Yes. I wanted to be sure Constance was okay,” he explained. “She’s suddenly far too interested in her father’s affairs.”

I smirked. “Sounds about right. Teenage girls are whimsical. They have yet to learn that romance in real life does not reflect what they read in fiction.”

August seemed to consider as he glanced along the darkened street. “I won’t spoil it for her. She’s already growing up too fast. I’d rather she believe in fairy tales.”

“Unfortunately, she’ll learn the truth someday.” I located my house key on the ring and turned to the door. “We all do.”

Inside, I offered August a drink, which he readily accepted. We lingered in the kitchen, sipping red wine and silently staring across the room at one another, neither choosing to sit. August leaned in the doorframe, visibly on edge, while I relaxed against the counter, waiting for a sign.

“You’re jaded,” he observed.

“Meaning?”

“Your comment outside. You don’t believe in fairy-tale love?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’ve been burned.”

“Haven’t we all at some point?”

August shrugged noncommittally. “Do you still love him?”

I didn’t have to ask who. I’d only spoken of one past relationship, and my feelings toward Koa had never been masked. “I do, but I’m not in love with him anymore. Being in love with Koa was a lesson in futility, and it took finally letting those feelings go for me to walk away.”

“His partner, the hockey coach—”

“Jersey.”

“Yes. He seems like a decent guy.”

“He is, and Koa’s different with him, but that’s a whole other story, and I’d rather not chat about exes if it’s all the same.”

But August wasn’t done with the inquisition. “Were there others?”

“Other men? Of course.”

“No, others you loved. Others who contributed to this… vexed viewpoint.”

“Oh.” A sad, quiet laugh tightened my chest. “Yes. I loved almost all of them, but that’s a me problem. I’m sentimental to a fault.”

August’s furrowed brow said he didn’t understand.

“I have a knack for falling head over heels with every guy I date. It’s a character flaw. Hence the extreme caution here.” I swung a finger between us. “I’d like to think I’m learning to hold back as I get older, but…” I shrugged. “Fret not, Maestro. I don’t love you yet. You annoy me too much, for starters. I’m not even sure I like you half the time.”

August smiled, unaffected by the stab at his person. “No offense taken.”

“How about you? Any wildly romantic love stories in your past?”

“No.”

“None? I can’t believe that.”

“Music is the only thing I love… and Constance, but my love for her is uncontested, unchallenged, and unchanging. I wouldn’t know how to not love her.”

“But no one else?”

“None so far. I’ve always been… coldhearted, I suppose. Closed off. I don’t open myself up to the possibility of love. Or rather, I haven’t to date.” He stared into the burgundy depths of his wine, creased forehead betraying serious contemplation. “But…”

“But?”

A wistful smile softened his features as he glanced up and sipped the wine. “You never know. If I’ve learned anything in the past couple of months, it’s that life is unpredictable. If tragedy can befall people out of the blue, why not love? I’ve heard it can blindside you when you least expect it. My only fear is, I’m so unfamiliar with the concept, I might miss it even if it’s staring me in the face.”

The concentration and devotion in August’s eyes spoke of those fairy tales I was still gullible enough to believe in. The hairs on my nape and along my forearms prickled.

He advanced, setting his wine glass on the counter before depositing himself between my legs. He didn’t stop there and boldly kissed me, cupping my face between his palms. No compunction. No hesitation. No questioning, contemplating, or ruminating over consequences. For every confidence, August possessed an equally grave weakness. He was perfection and destruction. He called to something deep within me, yet I feared the ace up his sleeve. Somedays, I was no different than nineteen-year-old Niles, who’d gone off to university with his bags packed full of ambition and dreams.

I could handle August, this, so long as I reminded myself daily, hourly, not to fall in love.

August had left his shame at the restaurant, transforming into someone else entirely. He dominated the kiss, hands roving, mouth claiming. Without pause, he relieved me of my shirt one button at a time, grazing the flat of his palms over my chest once revealed. The touch lit a path of fire over my abdomen, tingling the blood in my veins.

“I’m so incredibly attracted to you,” he said against my mouth. “Every part of you… since the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

His mouth landed on my neck, licking, sucking, and marking. I didn’t have the wherewithal to request he didn’t leave bruises where I couldn’t hide them. I fumbled with his belt, worried his sweater over his head, and tore at the confining clothes remaining as I sought skin.

“You’ve been with other men?” I asked, half question, half concern.

“I told you I have.”

“How?”

“What?” His tongue scored a path along the length of my collarbone as he tilted my head back and lapped over the swell of my Adam’s apple. His teeth caught my chin, grating the dense scruff as he nipped and tasted along my jaw.

“How have you been with them?”

August chuckled. “Ah. I see. Every way possible, Niles. Don’t fret. I know what I’m doing.”

I clasped his face and forced his head up. His lips shimmered with saliva. Humor shone like moonbeams from the dark forests of his irises. “Clarify, Maestro. I need to be sure I thoroughly understand you.”

He tried to move in for another kiss, but I stopped him, brow raised. “Explain.”

“I can give, receive, or play any dirty game you’d like. Happy?” He stroked my hardening length through my pants. “You might think me a stiff on stage, but I’m not a slouch in the sack.”

“Fuuuck.”

More laughter. “That mouth on you.” He kissed it, bruising and deep and claiming.

Wedging a hand down the front of my underwear, August’s warm fingers brushed against the sensitive line of my cock before securing hold and stroking, flesh to flesh.

Cross-eyed with pleasure, insides vibrating, I pulled free from his mouth and removed the assaulting hand before shoving him toward the kitchen door. “Bedroom’s upstairs. So are the condoms and lube. We are not exchanging hand jobs in the kitchen.”

August backed out the door, determined not to stop exploring. Tongue, teeth, nails. Hands everywhere. Stroking, fondling, aching for more.

We crashed into a wall and remained there, letting it hold us upright as things escalated. Skin on fire. Mouths fused. August found the elastic band holding my hair back. It stood no chance, snapping and flinging somewhere into the room. He combed the long strands from my face and wrapped them around his fingers, securing me in a tight grip. There, he held me.

“And how about you? How have you been with other men?”

“Six ways to Sunday.”

“Adventurous.”

“Somewhat.”

“I have a lot to live up to, don’t I?”

“Is your whole world a competition? Can’t you enjoy something without being the best?”

He wedged a thigh between my legs, pressing against my erection. “When it comes to you, I need to prove myself. I can’t lose this time.”

I did not read too much into that statement and rocked against his leg. “How about this? Tonight, I want you on your hands and knees.”

“You still think I’m nothing but starch.”

“Are you denying me?”

“Heavens no. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Kissing replaced conversation. We fumbled our way upstairs and into the bedroom. I located supplies before letting August roll me onto the bed. From there, we became a tangle of limbs. I didn’t know where I ended and August began.

If I’d doubted his assertion of not being a slouch in bed, he proved himself in less than a few minutes. He was everywhere at once. When he swallowed my cock, I almost came off the bed.

When I returned the favor, he nearly tore my hair from the roots as he arched his back and drove into my mouth. I stretched his pleasure to the tautest edge of snapping, nearly drawing him beyond his senses before pulling back. I teased until he growled in frustration.

“Hands and knees.” I slapped his thigh and found a condom and lube as August flipped over.

“Keeping it impersonal, I see.” He glanced over his shoulder with an edge of humor dancing in his eyes.

I pressed him to the bed, lying across his back and holding him down with my weight as I nipped his ear. “Yes. Problem?”

“No. However you want it. Get to it, Niles.”

“I will. This is good too.” I rocked my hips, riding his ass crack as I angled his face for a kiss.

He reached around and ran a hand along the back of my thigh, guiding the motion and moving with me. My attempt at impersonal turned a corner, becoming personal. The frantic race toward an invisible finish line slowed.

August rolled me off his back, and we were once again face-to-face, him on top, kissing, touching, and sharing a cloud above Paradise Island, far from the rest of humanity.

Before I knew what was happening, August was in control. August was prepping me. August was inside me.

I could have protested all of it.

The intimacy.

The reversal of expectation.

The quiet words he spoke in my ear that weren’t English but carried weight.

The slow and gentle way he took me. No longer rushed. No longer hectic or feverish.

But I didn’t.

For a man who claimed to have never been in love, when it came to sex, romance flowed through August’s veins. He swept me up and took me away.

After, we lay among the tangled sheets, peering at each other in the dark. A thousand unasked and unanswered questions passed between us. August couldn’t keep his hands to himself, tracing patterns over my bare skin, tucking loose strands of hair around my ear, and brushing the pad of a thumb over my lips.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. To me it does.”

“Then no.” But the answer had more layers than I cared to explain while lying in bed after sex.

August seemed to see what remained unsaid.

“Let’s try,” he said after a long silence.

“You and me?”

“Yes.” He shuffled closer, lips lingering near mine as he whispered, “Écho tyflotheí.”

“You’re doing it again.”

His mischievous grin glowed in the dark.

“You hate it when Constance speaks ASL because you don’t understand her.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

He kissed me, drawing me against his body. A new blaze burned in my core, and I wanted him again. I wanted the slow way he’d made love. I wanted to feel worshiped.

“Auggie,” I said against his mouth. “Tell me what you said.”

“Another day.”

“You’re aggravating.”

Unaffected, August kneaded the globe of my ass cheek, hiking my leg higher so it sat on his thigh. “Tell me something random.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Fine. Like what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Surprise me. It can be anything at all. A funny story, something personal, an anecdote from your childhood. The first thing that comes to mind. I want to know you, Niles.”

“All right.” I considered for half a beat, then smiled. “During my first year of university, I was meant to accompany a female vocal student doing a term-end performance, a gorgeous German aria. I can’t remember the name of the piece, but it doesn’t matter. We practiced a handful of times before she had to take to the stage, so I was relatively familiar with the lyrics despite not having a lick of German in my repertoire.

“Midway through the performance, she starts singing words that are completely unfamiliar. I panicked thinking I’d missed a cue or messed up, but as the piece progressed, she made no indication anything was wrong, but I knew we weren’t on the same page. Anyhow, we finished, and the second we’re offstage, I turned to her and said, ‘What the hell happened?’ and she explained that she had lost her place and her mind went blank, so she conjured every German word she knew and sang them as though they belonged there.”

August howled. “Oh my god. You’re kidding.”

“Nope, and she aced the exam.”

“The faculty grading her didn’t know the difference?”

“Apparently not.”

“Wow.”

“Her name was Analise. We stayed friends for a long time after that. She ended up on the West Coast, so I don’t see her anymore, but we text occasionally. She swore me to secrecy, so you can’t tell anyone.”

“Meine lippen sind versiegelt.”

“German?”

“Yes.”

“You need to stop showing off.”

“I said, my lips are sealed.”

I regarded August for a long time. His lazy, relaxed smile. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re a flutist, but I have yet to see you play. You spend an awful lot of time at the piano.”

Strain pulled at the edges of August’s smile. “You noticed that.”

“I did. Is there a reason?”

“I guess… I’ve been focusing more on composition lately. I don’t know when I’ll return to Chicago and if my chair will still be there when I get back. In the meantime, I can take commissions and work from home. I still play the flute a few times a week, but I’m enjoying the break. You’ve heard of embouchure overuse syndrome?”

“Of course.”

“Before signing on with the Chicago Symphony, I suffered what they call embouchure collapse. Almost had to revoke my contract. It took several months to recover. It’s more common in brass players, but don’t underestimate the tenacity of a world-renowned flutist who is determined to outplay and outshine everyone in the world.”

“Doesn’t proving yourself get tiresome?”

“Yes.” It was meant as a joke, but August wasn’t laughing. “I’m careful now. The break has been nice.”

“What are you writing at the moment?”

He appeared to hesitate and look away. “I’m supposed to be focusing on an assignment for an artist in France, but I’ve been uninspired, so I’ve taken on a personal composition as of late.”

“So you’re procrastinating.”

“Yes. Have you ever written anything?”

It felt like a diversion, like he didn’t want to talk about whatever masterpiece was in the works, but shining a light on my failed accomplishments stung. “Never finished anything. I’m great at beginnings but lose confidence halfway through and give up.”

“I’d love to hear some of your work.”

“That’s probably never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Tell you what. You translate those whispered sweet nothings from earlier, and I’ll think about sharing a piece with you.”

He didn’t and wouldn’t, so the conversation drifted elsewhere. It was long past midnight before August said he should get home. Reluctantly, we got up and dressed.

Lingering at the front door, we shared enough unspoken words to fill a book. The subtext was glaring.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Niles,” he cupped my face, “I’ll call you.” Our parting kiss was enough to make me forget my pledge.

Chapter twenty-two

August

Niles possessed an uncanny ability to manage a classroom of twenty-four teenagers without earning a single caustic glare or eye roll. Meanwhile, I netted both multiple times a day while at home with a single fourteen-year-old. Whatever supernatural powers he’d developed in teacher’s college that made him impervious to adolescent angst was a gift he took for granted. The few times I’d taken over instruction in the classroom, my frustration mounted in under five minutes, requiring restraint so I didn’t yell at the nonstop talkers to shut up and pay attention.

Niles made learning enjoyable. Be it theory, music history, or tackling a tough concerto he’d pulled from the back room. He gave each student undivided attention, encouraging those who struggled by pointing out strengths and using those strengths as building blocks for growth. During daily warmups, Niles modified the methods I’d used before Christmas, taking scales to a new level, a fanfare that bolstered creativity and persuaded everyone to participate.

The students loved and respected him even on days they weren’t in the mood to perform. Niles may not have fit Timber Creek’s perceived vision for their faculty—Dr. McCaine had spoken unkindly concerning Niles’s more relaxed means of dressing—but he was exceptional, and the school was lucky to have someone so dedicated.

After Christmas break, the classroom rippled with vibrant energy. Everyone, particularly Niles, had extra pep in their engines, eager to learn and grow. It could have been the commencement of a new year, but I wasn’t convinced. The break might have revitalized the students, but the man who instructed them was another matter.

If I was truly the egotistical person Niles accused me of being, I might have said the glow arising from Timber Creek’s music teacher, the one that contagiously spread to his students, was a direct result of the effort I’d put in over the holiday.

Our budding romance had Niles walking on a cloud. Pride swelled my chest and inflated my ego. I had the power to conduct an entire orchestra, holding upwards of a hundred musicians in the palm of my hand, yet securing Niles’s heart elevated me to heights unimaginable. I soared every time he smiled.

The week following Christmas, I kept my promise, calling and texting numerous times, injecting myself into Niles’s life every chance I got. We spent hours in the stuffy back room of Timber Creek’s music library, organizing the scores of scores, as Niles liked to put it. We chatted about our mutual love for one composer or another and shared gripes about specific pieces we’d been assigned to play in the past. Niles had an inflated opinion about me. Shattering the illusion remained a constant goal.

I shared stories about my travels and the symphonies I’d joined. Niles reminisced about his university days at the Toronto Conservatory and specific musical events in which he’d partaken. Our lives were different but the same. A few times, during one of my stories, I caught ripples of envy and did all I could to calm the waters of his soul.

We shared a handful of lunches and several snowy walks around the Timber Creek campus, nattering about our imperfect families, comparing my stricter upbringing to his outcasted one.

He spoke of siblings. I had none.

He spoke of friends, university adversaries, and reluctantly, his time dating Koa. Niles was a man who loved deeply, and the bruise left behind by their broken relationship seemed permanent. Because of Koa, Niles had built walls around his heart and was reluctant to let me in.

I shared more about Chloé and our disastrous time trying to be a couple when Constance was first diagnosed. When Niles asked about my dating history, I told him about the random women I’d shared time with over the years. No one had stuck. Nothing was ever permanent or serious. Perhaps I, too, had walls.

On the Friday before school commenced, we returned to the jazz club and enjoyed numerous cocktails and laughs before winding up at Niles’s. His bed was familiar territory, and we’d landed there often. Stumbling home on the cusp of dawn, I found Constance waiting for me on the sofa, engaged in reading an assigned classic from English class. Her know-it-all smirk was both embarrassing and rejuvenating. Getting myself a life seemed to have calmed our feud.

But she still wouldn’t speak with words. She still wanted her mother.

On the Saturday before school went back, at Constance’s suggestion, I cooked an extravagant Italian-style dinner my mother would have been proud of. Niles and Constance embarked on a string of potential duets they were considering for the spring concert, filling the house with music and laughter. It was the only time Niles played the piano in my presence. Until then, no matter how many times I insisted, he refused.

Two weeks of holiday time passed in a flash—in a dream. When I wasn’t spending time with Niles, I worked on the symphony borne from his presence in my life. It flowed like water onto the page, every nuance perfection, every sentence a soothing balm on my soul.

Between creating one of the best pieces of music I’d ever written and exploring the unexpected connection I’d discovered with Niles, I didn’t have time to consider the future or what it all meant. Or perhaps I avoided those thoughts. Imagining the same freedom existing outside the secret nook we’d carved for ourselves at Timber Creek and in Peterborough was juvenile. Unrealistic. Life would be different when I returned to the spotlight. How could I be the same person with so many dissecting eyes upon me?

At present, everything was on hold. I existed in limbo. In the fairy tale Niles didn’t believe in. As far as my agent and anyone involved in my career were concerned, I was dealing with a family crisis and would return to work midspring or early summer.

Then what? Could I let Niles go when I went back to Chicago? Did I have a choice? Our career paths were not the same despite being rooted in common soil. Mine took me all over the world, to grand halls, theaters, and opera houses, to perform for refined audiences and aristocrats, while his kept him stowed away at a boarding school on a tranquil lake in Ontario.

As determined as I was to win Niles’s heart, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it once it was in the palm of my hand.

The bell rang, startling me from disquiet thoughts of single life, bustle, and loneliness. The students fled for lunch while I scanned the mess of sheet music covering Niles’s desk. I’d intended to reconstruct certain parts of “Chorale from Jupiter” for the spring concert but had gotten distracted watching Niles teach and had barely made a dent.

One student remained, an unremarkable clarinet player named Carly. Niles pulled a chair in front of the downtrodden girl and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and his chin on his arms. The relaxed, nonthreatening stance and the way he brought himself to her level seemed to help the teen.

They chatted too quietly for me to hear until Carly’s gloomy expression shifted to a tentative smile and a laugh. She nodded along with whatever Niles said, and when he snagged sheet music from her stand and pointed to sections, she took up her instrument and played as Niles listened and coached, tapping along to help her keep the proper rhythm. Her drying reed squeaked, and she needed to tighten her embouchure. I cringed, but Niles smiled and told her she’d done well.

Before long, Carly’s demeanor reflected confidence, and although I found a thousand and one faults in her playing, Niles discovered an equal number of positives, which he relayed, erasing her timidity. That was where we differed. Not all students were like Constance, thick-skinned and seeking the harshest feedback available to improve. Some needed a delicate touch and to hear they were on the right track. My instincts weren’t attuned to sorting out which category fit which student. Niles seemed to intuit the difference without thought.

Soon, Carly collected her belongings and followed her classmates off for a lunch break.

Niles glanced over his shoulder and shared a bashful smile. Loose strands of hair framed his face, skating along his jaw. He was gorgeous.

“You’ve been staring all day, Maestro.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Hmm… Your ego doesn’t.”

“You’re incredible, you know that? You have a gift.”

Niles dismissed the compliment with a shrug as he returned the chair to its proper place. “Do you want to grab lunch?”

“I’d love to.”

We hadn’t discussed the implication of Timber Creek’s administration discovering our relationship, but in fairness, we hadn’t called it a relationship at all, nor had we discussed limits, rules, or boundaries as such. In fact, we hadn’t clarified how open we planned to be or not be, as it were.

That was on me, and every day with Niles was a silent test. He observed my reactions in public, noting every instance of willing contact and every ounce of restraint. Was I in or out of that supposed closet? Was I repressing my true self or opening the door to possibilities?

I didn’t know. So far, I’d been playing it by ear, the nattering voice of reason reminding me that one day soon, I would have to wake up and return to Chicago.

We landed at a kitschy soup and sandwich restaurant a short drive from the school. No sooner had we sat with our meals my phone chimed with an incoming text from Constance asking if she could go to the movies that night with friends.

On a Monday? I asked after relaying the inquiry to Niles, who smirked.

“She’s a hard worker, August. Cut her some slack. Let her go out with friends. Otherwise, she’ll lock herself in her room and practice all night.”

True. She would.

My phone chimed. Please!

“Would you like to come over if she goes out?”

Niles mock gasped, touching fingers to his breastbone. “On a school night? I’m not sure I’m allowed.”

I playfully scowled. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Just let her go.”

Still frowning, I typed, What friends?

It earned me a line of eye-rolling emojis. I tossed my phone on the table and took up my sandwich. “I hate teenagers.”

Niles read her response and laughed. “They’re not so bad.”

“Says you. I think teaching them and living with one is tremendously different.”

“She’s always seemed fine when I’m over.”

“And when you aren’t, it’s like I no longer exist.”

Five minutes passed with no response. Irritated, I typed, Names, Constance, or you can’t go.

Niles blew on a spoonful of soup. “Will you cook dinner if I come over?”

“Anything your heart desires.”

“Something Greek?”

“You’ve made it easy on me. Lamb?”

“Moussaka?”

“My specialty.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“Will you spend the night?” We hadn’t done that. Not at the cottage. Not fully or completely. Escaping at three and four a.m. didn’t count. The Christmas morning accident didn’t count.

“And Constance?”

I shrugged. My daughter wasn’t stupid, and I’d rather have Niles at my house than leave her alone.

“I think I can do that.”

We shared a smile as my phone vibrated.

If I tell you, you’re going to say no.

I stared at the words for a long moment before spinning the phone so Niles could see.

“Uh oh, Daddio. Sounds like someone wants to go on a date.”

Groaning, I wrote, Tell me anyway.

“Ten bucks says it’s Cody.”

“I can’t handle this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t. I’m not equipped to chat about sex with my daughter. I thought I was, but I was wrong. The fact she comprehends the extent of our relationship already makes me squirm.”

Another text landed, and I closed my eyes, mouthing a useless prayer before reading it. Cody. Please, Dad. It’s just a movie. You can even drive us there. Don’t say no. I will hate you forever.

Whimpering, I showed Niles the message. “She makes it sound like a privilege. I can even drive them there. Lucky me.”

“Cody’s a good kid.”

“So you’ve said.”

“If he wasn’t, I would tell you.”

“She’s fourteen.”

“Which is about the age most kids start dating.”

“Is it? It seems young.”

“It’s not. You wanted her in school with other teenagers so she could have proper life experiences and make her own decisions about the future, right?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t include—”

Niles held up a staying hand. “Isn’t this a prime example of making one of those choices? If you tell her no, you’re invalidating what you set out to do. Plus…” Niles removed the pickle from his sandwich, setting it aside, “You bought her those gift cards.”

“On your suggestion. This was a trap. I can’t allow it.”

“Then tell her no. I’ll reheat leftovers and eat alone in front of the TV.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He would, and he didn’t have to say it.

Sighing, I texted my daughter. Fine, but we are having a long talk before you leave. What time is the show?

***

My lecture was met with hostility and a slammed door in my face. I should have reneged on my agreement out of spite, but I didn’t need to give her more reason to hate me. It turned out that Niles’s opinion was the only one that mattered. Niles was the cool music teacher. Niles understood her. Niles spoke sign language and made her laugh.

I was the overbearing parent.

Niles arrived at the house shortly before Cody, and Constance instantly relegated me to back-burner status. She begged him to drive them to the theater and sought his feedback on her outfit, her hair, and the scarf she’d chosen. I’d complained her clothing fit too snugly and revealed too much, and since when did she wear makeup? Since when did she own makeup?

Niles had two modes with my daughter. Teacher mode when in the classroom, and Dad’s “Friend” mode while at the house—the latter in which the two conspired, often teasing and joking, at my expense. Constance had a better relationship with Niles than me, but instead of feeling jealous, I absorbed the joy he brought to my once miserable teen’s face. If he talked, she listened, and I appreciated his insight when I reached the end of my rope and knew he wouldn’t steer me wrong if the situation proved serious enough for him to intervene and take my side.

Cody arrived wearing a coat of nerves, his hot pink cheeks likely a combination of the cold January air and humiliation since I wouldn’t let him cross the threshold until he’d incurred a proper inquisition. The boy shivered in a puffy bomber jacket, hugging himself and making every attempt to peer around me, likely looking to be rescued.

“You signed out with the school?”

“Yes, sir, Maestro, sir.”

“Properly?”

“Of course. I always follow regulations.” A bead of sweat trickled from under his knitted tuque, skating the slope of his nose before he swiped it away.

“And what time does your excursion expire?”

“Ten forty-five, sir. The movie ends at ten fifteen. They give us half an hour to get back to campus and sign in.”

“Mr. Edwidge will be outside the theater at exactly ten fifteen. I expect you in the vehicle no later than ten eighteen. Is that understood?”

Cody appeared momentarily unsure. “Mr. Edwidge, sir?”

“Yes. He’s taking you and picking you up.”

“Oh.” The boy frowned. “Okay.”

“Ten eighteen. Sharp.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No bathroom breaks.”

“No, sir.”

“On the drive back, you’ll provide Mr. Edwidge with a full summary of the movie, as extensive if not more than a book report. No detail spared, so pay attention to the plot and not my daughter, understand?”

“Yes, sir, Maestro, sir.”

Cody’s eyes bugged wide as I considered more warnings. Behind me, Constance stamped a foot and yanked my shirt.

I ignored her, leaning forward, invading Cody’s space, and lowering my voice. “If you so much as touch her inappropriately, I will—” Constance jumped on my back and slapped a hand over my mouth. I stumbled with the sudden weight change, almost losing my footing. “Good grief, child,” I said from behind her hand.

Niles, who’d appeared in the doorway, chuckled.

I shed my daughter and pointed a finger at Cody, who trembled.

“Auggie,” Niles breathed the nickname so close to my ear I stalled. I leaned back, steadying myself against him. His hand caught my hip and squeezed. “Let her go. It will be fine.”

Cody’s gaze slipped from me to Niles and back. The coat of prickling nerves transferred hands. It was I who wore a sheen of anxious sweat. Before Cody could surmise the reason for Niles’s presence and ask questions, Constance slipped around us and dragged Cody away from the house and toward the parking lot by the school where Niles had left his car.

Cody glanced back once, and I wondered what my daughter might have shared.

Niles brushed a kiss on my tensed shoulder, spinning me to face him. “Relax, Maestro. It’s just a date.”

Cody knows, I wanted to say, but the damning words would cause a riff. Niles would ask why it mattered, and I’d gone out of my way to hide insecurities and portray myself as someone I wasn’t. Would the entire student body know by morning? How fast and far would news travel?

Niles kissed me, and whatever concerns I held melted away. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Cooking dinner provided a distraction from perilous thoughts of teenage pregnancy and the implications of a world discovering what lived beneath my façade. I toed the line between elation and fear. A revelation could provide freedom and destruction both. Inviting strangers to view my true nature didn’t bother me as much as the potential upheaval to my career. Would it close doors? Did it matter? I’d spent forty-one years living my father’s projected life. Wasn’t it time I lived my own? Openly. Freely.

Wasn’t I entitled to happiness?

Upon Niles’s return, I demanded a full report. “How did they act? Was it couply? What movie are they going to see? It wasn’t a romance, was it?”

Niles poured wine, delivered a glass into my hand, and cupped my cheek. “All is well, Maestro. She’s a smart girl, and Cody is a levelheaded boy.”

“That didn’t answer my questions. Are you avoiding them on purpose?” I narrowed my eyes when Niles smirked. “There was touching, wasn’t there?”

“Hand holding.”

“And you didn’t stop it.”

“No. It was cute.”

“That’s how it starts. It won’t be cute when she tells me she’s pregnant.”

“She won’t get pregnant in the back of a movie theater.”

“It could happen. I was a teenage boy once. I know how they think.”

“How’s dinner coming along?” Niles scanned the messy counters.

I sighed and set my untouched wine aside. “Still in creation mode.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No. Thank you. I do better on my own.”

“I’ll leave you be then.”

Niles pecked a soft, lingering kiss on my mouth and left me to my devices. I watched him leave the kitchen, tall, lean, rolled sleeves showing strong forearms, a loose collar revealing a hint of collarbones, and a bun at his nape doing a poor job holding his hair back.

“Blindsided,” I whispered the moment he was gone. It was true. Sometimes, you didn’t see love coming. Sometimes, it smacked you in the face when you least expected it.

As I layered the moussaka—a base of thinly sliced potatoes, followed by a generous helping of kefalotyri cheese, aubergine, more cheese, ground lamb in a thick Bolognese-style sauce with a hint of traditional cinnamon flavoring, a second layer of aubergine and cheese, then a generous coating of creamy béchamel—I thought of our relationship, what it entailed, and where it was going. Who was I offstage? Who did I want to be?

I sprinkled a final layer of cheese on the top and popped the moussaka into the oven. The crusty bread and Greek salad would pair nicely with the meal. As I tidied the mess, the tinkling of a piano sounded from the other room. I paused, ear cocked, instantly recognizing the dainty passage. Niles had discovered the magical secret symphony that had taken over my life. The one still under construction.

I dropped the wet cloth I’d been using to wipe the counter and darted to the living room. Seated at the piano, Niles scrutinized the scribbled mess of notes on a piece of staff paper. He must have found the file I kept tucked away in the hidden compartment of the bench.

Heart knocking, I barely restrained myself from collecting the pages he’d withdrawn and hugging them protectively to my chest. “It’s not finished.”

“You wrote this?” He continued to play a melody I’d assigned to violins and flutes. Each section varied slightly, but he wouldn’t understand the notations in the margins. I wrote more comfortably in my native language.

“It’s not finished,” I repeated, collecting the pages he’d arranged on the rack. “I’m sorry. It’s… private. I don’t like sharing things mid-creation.”

Niles dropped his hands to his lap. “Is it a commissioned piece?”

“No. Not this one.” It was the most private thing I’d written.

“What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. You can… help yourself to something else. Anything else. I’d love to hear you play.”

I’d longed for Niles’s confidence to return, for him to voluntarily perform in my presence without Constance by his side. But whatever notion he’d taken dissolved with the removal of the half-complete composition. I instantly realized my reservation and exposing something so personal registered as an insult to his ability.

Again.

Reluctantly, heat filling my cheeks—for the symphony’s heart reflected my feelings toward him—I returned the scribbled pages of the first draft to the rack. “Don’t judge it. I’m not good with criticism,” I lied, hoping he would take the humble excuse and play again. “Go easy on me. I’d love your feedback.”

Niles’s expression conveyed skepticism. “The great composer doesn’t like harsh criticism?”

“It’s different when the piece is personal. It feels like an attack on my soul… on my heart,” I added with a whispered fragility.

Niles studied me for a long time before facing forward and organizing the pages so they sat side by side. A dozen more were meant to bracket them. He’d selected a section in the middle. How he made sense of the mess was beyond me.

“My methods are my own,” I tried to explain. “I stack instrumental sections as I go, noting variations in the margins until there’s no room left on the page.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Niles played the same melody I’d heard from the kitchen, right hand with its long fingers moving delicately over the ivories. It wasn’t exactly how I envisioned it, but I stayed quiet, noting my use of written articulation might be to blame and not his interpretation.

After a time, I sat beside him and added a bassline. “The horns,” I explained. “It builds anticipation until the brass section takes over.”

Perhaps feeling I’d infringed on his space, Niles stopped playing, chin lowered.

“Don’t stop. Keep going. The clarinets have a moving part coming up. I want to show you the transition I planned.”

His hesitation was brief, but he continued, and I added the parts that stood out in my head, noting changes I hadn’t seen before.

I closed my eyes. Not only could I hear Niles’s symphony, but the warm press of his body by my side catapulted me into another realm. His scent filled my nose. I was free, floating, soaring, no more chains to bind me, no more right or wrong.

Niles kept up when my creative mind demanded this or that or something new. In the end, he stopped playing.

He wouldn’t look at me, fixed instead on the penciled mess of a composition.

“So?” I asked into the silence.

“I think… it’s brilliant.”

“It’s nowhere close to finished. It’s… more of an idea at the moment. I’m still coaxing it to life. Nurturing it slowly until it unfolds.”

He huffed a soft, sad laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all. “An idea. Your idea is better than the best thing I’ve ever written.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“Will you ever share some of it with me? I promise not to criticize.”

Niles huffed. “You don’t have to mollycoddle me, August. How does one grow without criticism?”

“True, but there’s a time and place for it. On the day we met—”

“I don’t want to discuss that.” He placed his fingers over the ivories but didn’t play, as though he hadn’t quite decided if he would. “If you want to hear something, give me space.”

I shuffled off the bench but stayed nearby.

“I’m not as good as you.”

Before he could play a single note, I skated my fingers along his jaw, turning him to face me. From my vantage above, I peered down into his sunset eyes, so troubled. “In many ways, Niles, you are better than me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Name one.”

“I’ll name five. You are the farthest thing from egotistical. It’s one of my biggest flaws. In fact, you fail to see your own self-worth most days. You may not have raised a child, but you have an insight and patience with teenagers that far exceeds my own. You have the ability to see the positive qualities in a person and use them to help bolster their confidence.”

He tried to pull away, but I held his jaw firmly. “I’m not finished. ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’”

He slanted a brow. “You’re quoting Shakespeare?”

“You recognize it?”

“Of course I do. Hamlet. I dated a classics-obsessed English teacher, remember?”

“Koa. Right. It’s fitting. You are true to who you are, Niles. You don’t strive to please other people. You don’t hide behind false fronts or adjust your entire life to fit within the boundaries of expectation.” Not like me, I wanted to say.

“That was four.”

I smiled. “And number five. You’re not afraid to risk your heart. You’re not afraid to love.”

His throat bobbed. The sunsets turned misty. “Incorrect, Maestro. I’m terrified of risking my heart… especially with you.”

It stung, but his concern was valid. I’d never risked my heart for anyone.

Until now.

“Play for me. Please.”

With a searching look that traveled the contours of my face, seeking something I couldn’t identify, Niles submitted. With only faint hesitation, he turned and again settled his hands over the keys.

Then he played. A distinct difference existed between the music a musician played from a score and the music from within. The piece Niles performed was original, and knowing what I did of his past, the infusion of emotions shone through. It reeked of melancholy, of heartache, of pain. Its morose undertones flayed the listener, opening them to raw sentiments they might not want to experience.

It was beautiful, dark, and haunting.

It embodied Niles’s vulnerable heart so completely, I listened, awestruck at all he revealed. No wonder he didn’t want his heart exposed. It had been abused. It was fragile.

In under five minutes, Niles abruptly stopped midsentence and dropped his hands to his lap. “That’s all I’ve written. It’s one of my more complete pieces but far from finished.”

“What do you call it?”

“I don’t call it anything. It doesn’t deserve a name.”

I could have offered a dozen suitable titles, but I didn’t. The oven timer went off, summoning me to the kitchen. I didn’t move, staring at Niles’s glum profile, at the sorrow blanketing his mood, and all I wanted to do was reach out and make promises I couldn’t keep.

It was true. Love happened when you least expected it, and in a small northern town in Ontario, I’d been utterly blindsided.

Chapter twenty-three

Niles

Dinner was fabulous. The rich flavors of the moussaka danced across my tongue. Heavenly. Better than Koa’s, but I would never admit that to my best friend, who enjoyed cooking every ethnic dish imaginable.

August had been quiet through the meal. I caught him staring more than once, an expression of perplexity altering his features. Our undefined relationship had grown complex over the past two weeks, and I could no longer categorize our liaison as casual. I could no longer look upon August without wondering about the future.

We cleaned the kitchen together, poured more wine, and again wound up at the piano. It was a comfort to us both, a safe spot, and despite my adamancy to not play for August, I’d broken down and shared something deeply personal. True to his promise, he hadn’t criticized, but did he understand the sentiment behind the composition?

August dug through a mountainous stack of sheet music until he found what he sought. He cradled the pages to his chest, smirking. “Constance found this piece the other day. She wanted to present it as an option for your duet, but I told her I’d prefer you and I tackle it. I hear rumors that you like to open concerts with a personal solo. Since we are co-teaching, I say we perform a duet, and this one is terribly fun.”

He presented the composition.

“‘Linus and Lucy.’ The Peanuts Theme?” I chuckled, removing it from his hand to have a look.

“It’s more fitting to our age bracket than Constance’s. Do you want to try it? It’s not terribly complicated, but it would be entertaining. Many of the parents will recognize it.”

I scanned the sheet music, noting the two sections intended to be played together. It was true. I always performed the opening solo at concerts. Koa thought the reason stemmed from a self-conscious urge to prove to the parents that although I didn’t have the same credentials as the rest of the faculty, my skills as a musician weren’t in question. If there was truth to his theory, I couldn’t admit it, even to myself.

Playing alongside August felt like accepting doomsday. Before I could say no, he took the score and spread it on the rack. Knowing August’s skill at memorization, I doubted he needed the music in front of him and did it as a courtesy.

He took the higher end of the scale, leaving me with the lower range and less complex melody. Was it a dig at my skill? I reviewed the notes, and we began. The tune was familiar, and my sight-reading ability was strong. Before long, the binds of my insecurities broke. Because the earlier section of the piece leaned heavier into the higher end of the scale, I upped the tempo to keep August on his toes. He laughed but barely flinched, fingers flying as he kept up without a struggle.

When Constance and I toyed with Pachelbel’s Cannon in D over Christmas, challenging one another, it had been tremendous fun, but there was no subtext in our playing.

What August and I shared that evening amounted to another level. We tested one another, having a silent conversation through music. Perhaps it was the only way we could say what was in our hearts and on our minds.

Can you keep up? my playing asked.

Can you trust me? was his response as he took liberties with the melody.

Will you follow if I take you somewhere new?

Will you wait if I’m not ready?

And from both of us, Where do we go from here?

The music naturally ended, as did the subtle conversation. Our questions remained answerless. Our inquiries dangled in the open air.

“Did you bring an overnight bag?” August asked.

“Yes, you invited me to.”

More silence. Should I mention how spending the night with a lover usually meant things were getting serious? No. I couldn’t.

“Are you going back to Chicago?” I asked, seeking validation, confirmation, and justification for my reticence. If he could admit this thing between us was more than a passing moment in his busy life, maybe I could tear down the walls around my heart.

“That’s the plan.”

Shattered.

“Right.”

“I have to work, Niles. I’m killing time while Constance gets settled, but taking commissions and offering my skills to the school for a negligible paycheck won’t sustain me.”

“I know.”

The swell of silence grew painfully large.

“It doesn’t mean we can’t…”

I waited, but August didn’t finish the sentence. His return to stardom did mean we couldn’t unless he was ready and willing to make things public. But even then, the distance would be excruciating. Insurmountable.

“Maybe we should stop.” My heart broke even as I made the suggestion.

“Stop what?” August glanced from the piano.

“This.” I swung a finger between us.

“No. Niles, don’t say that.”

I made eye contact for the first time since we finished playing our cryptic duet. “You’re going to leave someday, and if I’m not careful, you’re going to take my heart with you.”

August brushed his knuckles over my cheek, uttering what sounded like the same string of Greek he’d said in bed a while back.

“Translate.”

He wet his lips, seemed to consider, then shook his head. “Another day.”

It was exactly what he’d said the previous time, but what if another day never arrived.

He kissed me and worries about the future evaporated. Who was I kidding? August already owned my heart. No amount of restraint had helped protect it. No amount of caution had kept me from falling. I was doomed in this life to be slaughtered by love.

***

I woke before August to the sound of the toilet flushing. Briefly disoriented by the unfamiliar bedroom, I lay in the dark for a second, getting my bearings. August’s arm circled my waist—strong and secure—his leg wove between mine, and his face rested against my shoulder, so every time he exhaled, warm air ghosted my skin. He was a snuggler, an oddity for a man who claimed to have never experienced a serious relationship. I reveled in the contact but counted the days until it was over.

The sound of running water echoed down the hall, and the clock announced it was half past five. Too late to sneak out. Too early to get up. We’d planned for me to spend the night, but the awkwardness of encountering Constance, who felt more like a student in the predawn hours, left me lingering beneath the sheets despite a full bladder.

I’d never dated anyone with a child before, so clandestine sexual encounters behind locked doors were not my forte. August, naked and wrapped around me, stirred a bone-deep arousal. Early mornings and lazy sex went together like sharp cheese and expensive wine. The craving echoed within me.

I wanted to roll him over and do something about the tingle stirring my groin but couldn’t determine if it was ethical with a teenager awake down the hall and possibly listening. The previous night, we’d gotten those urges out of the way while she was on a date. When we’d fallen into bed, handsy and horny again, we’d stopped short after a heavy make-out session. I desperately wanted to resume what we’d started and follow it to completion.

I turned into August’s embrace and faced the sleeping man, making out the contours of his jaw in the dark bedroom. In slumber, he lost the refined edge he carried around every day. With tousled hair, a dark contrast against the white pillowcase, he appeared innocent and boyish. I found it irresistibly appealing.

Dragging my fingers over the coarse hairs on his upper thigh, I inched closer, encouraging him to hook the leg over my hip.

Groaning, semi-waking, August complied, a smile forming on his once slack mouth. “It’s not morning, is it?”

“Hardly.” I moved my lips along his stubbled jaw, kissing and waking him further as I pressed my interested cock against his. “Do you care?”

“No.” He cracked an eyelid and hummed with pleasure, rocking his lower body with mine. “I like waking up like this.” His voice rasped, thick with sleep.

August rolled to his back, dragging me on top of him. We kissed and lazily rutted, both of us growing harder with friction. Knowing he wasn’t any more familiar with the art of silent sex, I reminded him to be quiet when a soft moan passed his lips.

Gripping my ass, he moved with purpose, arching off the bed, grinding harder. A finger slipped between my ass cheeks. The blissful pressure turned my skin hot. I trembled, wanting to find a condom and let him take me, but aggressive, uninhibited sex risked discovery. The bed might squeak or bang against the wall. The mattress springs would give us away. Before August could take it further—the tip of his finger penetrated me ever so slightly—I broke from his mouth and slipped down his body, taking him down my throat.

The groan that filled the room was rich with longing and lust.

“Find a damn pillow and shut up,” I said, coming up for air.

“No.” He brushed the hair from my face, peering down as I used slow, meticulous movements up and down his shaft, eliciting the greatest pleasure. I wanted to be inside him or have him inside of me. I wanted to ride the tantalizing edge of madness until our orgasms took us away. But if I forgot myself and got vocal, the embarrassment would stay with me indefinitely.

Instead, I let August use my mouth however he wanted until he came with a stifled cry, arching off the bed, toes curling with delight. I scaled his body, attacked his mouth, then fed him my cock, chasing my own pleasure all the way to completion.

After, we lay in a tangle of limbs, satiated, panting, and more exhausted than when we first awoke.

“Do you think she heard us?” I asked.

“Is she awake?” August croaked, eyes falling closed.

“Yes.”

“We were quiet… I think. Come here.”

August dragged me into his arms, his body a pleasant furnace in the chilly room, and before long, he fell asleep. We didn’t have to be up for another hour, so I let him slumber.

Wide awake and unable to lay still, I quietly escaped his arms and found the pajama pants and T-shirt I’d brought for lounging around the house. Both were still clean and folded in my bag.

I used the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to erase the guilty flush of our after-sex, and wandered to the living room where I found Constance on the couch in the same fashion as I’d discovered her Christmas morning—wrapped in a blanket and reading a book. It confounded me that a teenager would rise so early in the morning.

She made eye contact and smiled hello. I sought signs that she knew what had transpired in the bedroom but saw none.

“Good morning. I’m going to make coffee. Mind if I join you?”

Another smile signified she didn’t mind at all.

I stumbled around August’s kitchen, using the moka pot to make a single serving of coffee. Like Koa, August was a coffee snob and needed a fresh-within-minutes cup, or he wouldn’t drink it. The two shared enough interests I’d considered properly introducing them, but until I understood better what was happening with August, I didn’t want to risk bringing him further into my life.

With a steaming mug of coffee cradled between my palms for warmth, I located the thermostat and bumped it up a few degrees. For someone born and raised in a warm climate, August seemed unaffected by the cold, and the predawn air outside must have been brisk and leaking through the cottage walls.

Constance shuffled over, giving me room on the couch.

I motioned to the book on her lap. “What are you reading now?”

She displayed the cover with a shy smile. A romantasy I’d seen much of the female population of Timber Creek toting around lately. “That is definitely not assigned reading.”

She grinned and shook her head, signing, Dr. Burgard has us studying parts of Dickens.

“Ah, yes. Be glad you aren’t in his grade eleven class. Winter marks the beginning of his deep dive into existential literature. He’s passionate on the topic. How was your date last night?”

Since Cody had been in the car when I’d picked them up, and the second we’d arrived home, Constance had done everything possible to avoid her father by going to bed immediately, so I hadn’t gotten a chance to ask.

Constance blushed but shrugged noncommittally.

“Come on. Don’t be shy. I’m not your dad. I want all the dirty details.”

She made a face. You’re my teacher.

“Not at six in the morning while I’m in my pajamas I’m not.”

She considered, staring at the book in her lap before signing, It was fun.

“Good. First dates should be fun.”

Dad hates Cody, doesn’t he?

“No. He hates the idea of you growing up too fast.”

She rolled her eyes. He treats me like a baby.

“He treats you like you’re the most precious commodity in his life.”

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even care about me.

I quirked a brow, and she looked at her hands.

“Cody’s a nice boy. You could do worse.”

She nodded, cheeks flushing. I like him.

“Have you ever had a boyfriend before?”

She shook her head. He hasn’t officially asked me out.

“He will. He just needs to find some bravery. It’s scary when you’re fourteen. Even for boys.”

Cody’s really accepting. She touched the scarf at her throat. He doesn’t care that I can’t talk.

“Can’t?”

She scowled, but I didn’t back down.

I don’t want to.

“I respect that, and I’m glad Cody does too. But remember, there’s a difference between can’t and won’t.”

I know.

“You’ll talk when you’re ready, and if you choose to never speak again, that’s your prerogative. I think it would be nice to hear your voice, though.”

She didn’t look so sure. Why can’t Dad be cool like you?

I chuckled. “Then he wouldn’t be your dad.”

He’s frustrating.

“That he is.”

Do you love him?

I stalled, staring into the dark depths of my coffee and taking a sip to delay. “It’s too soon for that.”

Are you afraid he’ll go back to Chicago and forget about you?

Her astuteness knotted my insides, and I couldn’t find an adequate response, nor could I hide my distress. Yes, I wanted to say but couldn’t.

Constance traced the bold text on the front cover of her book before signing, He’ll leave us both behind eventually. He says he cares, but he doesn’t. He’s selfish like that.

I should have stuck up for August and countered Constance’s claim with proof that he wasn’t self-serving, but I had no proof. For all I knew, she was right, and wasn’t I waiting for exactly that day to come?

“He loves you,” I said.

Constance shook her head. Dad runs at the first opportunity he gets. He’s been doing it my whole life. He doesn’t know the first thing about love. The only thing he loves is himself and his music.

It was a good thing the sign language book I’d bought August had wound up buried and forgotten under a pile of musical scores in the bedroom because his presence in the doorway as Constance signed this final statement surprised us both.

“Good morning,” he said, oblivious to the hurt radiating from his daughter’s core and echoing in mine.

“Good morning.” I offered a weak smile.

Constance shared her misery with a glance before opening the romantasy book on her lap and reading.

Chapter twenty-four

Niles

Winter in Ontario was a swinging pendulum. Freezing and snowy one day, with low gray clouds and nasty north wind. Mild and slushy the next, with bright skies and rich scents of earth.

The weeks through January and February were filled with lazy weekend slumber parties—at August’s house since he couldn’t leave his daughter unattended—where we stoked a fire in the fireplace to stay warm and lounged in pajamas, reading, listening to our favorite pieces of classical music, and playing duets on the piano. August cooked extravagant meals, we talked long into the night, and spent a comfortable amount of time in bed, sharing carnal pleasures that grew more intimate by the day.

We worried less about the know-it-all teenager down the hall since she’d made it clear our clandestine affair wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all her. It was true. Timber Creek faculty had figured out our secret, but no one had called us on our relationship, and I wondered how August might react if they did.

We went on several dates, to the jazz bar, to a film festival, and once to see the Toronto Symphony play at Roy Thompson Hall. Constance had attended a few doctor’s appointments that involved extensive testing to be sure her cancer was under control, and twice, August had visited Rock Glen Treatment Facility to see Chloé and meet with the team of doctors to discuss her upcoming release plan.

Constance didn’t talk to her dad for a week when he refused her request to join him.

In the classroom, we’d found a balance, teaching side by side and preparing for the spring concert in May. August challenged the band with complex pieces I would never have been brave enough to tackle. August was a stickler for perfection, and his lessons tended to come across harsher than he intended. I wasn’t sure if the students were having fun or were too busy trying to please the maestro.

I’d learned to embrace the ruthless side of August, especially when the well-meant criticism was aimed in my direction, but students had their feelings hurt easily, so I’d needed to mend a few figurative bruises.

We grew closer, as was inevitable. Not only had I bonded with August, but I’d also connected with Constance in a way that went beyond a teacher-student relationship. She came to me with things she should have taken to her father. She confided in me in a way a teenager might a parent. It left me flattered and concerned. Her words from early January were never far from my mind.

He’ll leave us both behind eventually. He says he cares, but he doesn’t. He’s selfish like that.

Constance had suggested that August didn’t know how to love, and although neither of us had shared the sentiment out loud, I was certain we both felt it. My personal barriers had crumbled long ago, but I refused to bear my heart and call it what it was, from stubbornness or fear, I wasn’t sure.

The first of March, Chloé’s official release from Rock Glen, landed on a Saturday. After a feud of endless shouting—“You’re not coming, and that’s final. The court denied her application for a custody review. That means no, Constance. No! That means I’m in charge and get to decide what’s best for you. Seeing your addict mother is a disaster waiting to happen. She almost got you killed. Why is that so hard to remember?”—followed by a toddler-worthy tantrum of thrown objects and door slamming since Constance remained nonverbal, and all the sign language vitriol she spewed went over August’s head since he refused to learn it. I eventually convinced the flustered Maestro to leave, assuring him I would deal with Constance on my own.

“She’s an ungrateful brat,” he yelled into the house as I forced his coat and scarf into his arms and shoved him out the door.

“You can’t call her that.”

“I just did.”

“Grow up, August,” I hissed, getting in his face. “She’s fourteen and misses her mother. She doesn’t understand the complexity of addiction. All she sees is a man who has claimed the role of father and is keeping her away from the only parent she’s ever known.”

“I’m not claiming it. I am her father.”

“Then act like it. You play the game well enough, but your heart isn’t in it, and she’s too smart not to notice.”

August’s nostrils flared, but he donned his coat and angrily hung the winter scarf around his neck, fastening neither. Pacing, he stopped a few feet from the front door, face turned to the cloudy sky. The breeze rustled his hair as he closed his eyes. Good. He needed to cool off.

“I don’t know how to do this, Niles.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just too goddamned stubborn to try. It’s been five months. Stop acting like she’s an inconvenience unless you’re prepared to give her back to her mother or put her in foster care, and I know you don’t want either.”

Beaten and sagging under the weight of stress, August approached, looking for all the world like a kicked dog seeking forgiveness. “She hates me.”

“She’s confused.”

“Am I doing the right thing? Not letting her come with me?”

I didn’t know the answer. As an outsider, I had the unique perspective of seeing both sides. “I believe you’re doing what you feel in your heart is right.”

He huffed. “That’s not reassuring. My heart is a poor compass.”

I straightened his tie—perpetually ill-knotted and askew—and wound the cashmere scarf around his neck, securing it properly, then I buttoned his wool coat and smoothed my palm over the collar. “You look handsome.”

“Give me guidance. Please.”

I sighed. “I don’t know what to say. From my perspective, you need to sort yourself out. You can’t make excuses forever. Life may have thrown you multiple curveballs, but you can’t keep passing blame. You’re the father to a beautiful, intelligent young woman who is going through a lot right now. Battling cancer, accepting a physical disability, losing a mother to addiction, and living with a father who has never been part of her life.

“She’s moody and angry and will drive you up the wall daily. The likelihood is she doesn’t know why she feels the way she does. And yes, she’s targeted you. She unjustly blames you for all of it. In her mind, you’re the adult who waltzed into her life and turned it upside down, but you’re also a safe person, the one to whom she can vent all that anger. Give her grace. Give her time.”

August stared at the front door to the cottage. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’ve got this.”

His attention returned to me. “We should do something tonight.”

“See how you feel when you get home.” I kissed him, and August leaned into the connection, resting a hand on my hip as though needing the security, the stability.

“Thank you,” he breathed against my mouth.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve done more than you know.”

I returned inside once he left and ventured down the hall to Constance’s room, knocking. “He’s gone. I’m going to scramble some eggs for breakfast. There might even be bacon. Do you want to join me?”

She opened the door, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks damp and flush. Her lower lip wobbled once, and before I could prepare, she launched into my arms, sobbing silently against my chest. With Chloé’s release, the illusion had shattered. Constance’s mother hadn’t been away on a holiday. She wasn’t coming home to rescue her daughter from the father she barely knew. Chloé was a sick woman who had made grievous mistakes, and sadly, the people suffering most were the ones who didn’t deserve it.

It took an age to calm Constance. Once the tears stopped, I guided her to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. Instead of eggs, Constance requested cinnamon French toast. I wasn’t a chef like August or Koa, but it was simple enough that I whipped it together in no time. We drowned it in maple syrup and gorged until we were stuffed.

“Are you okay?” Our plates were empty, and Constance’s eyes shone brighter.

She nodded, focusing on her sticky plate as she drew pictures with the fork’s tines in the remaining puddle of syrup.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She remained silent. I waited, but after a time, decided it was best not to push and stood to clear the table.

A dorm room opened up. They offered it to me.

I sat back down, a flutter of anticipation sending my heart off rhythm.

Constance looked up. He didn’t tell you?

“No.”

He’s going to leave now. Mom’s out of rehab, so his obligation to her is over. The judge granted him indefinite full custody, so that’s settled. With a dorm available, he can return to Chicago early. It’s what he’s been waiting for.

Choosing my words carefully, I reached out and took Constance’s hand. “I don’t believe that’s going to happen. Not yet. He’s going to be sure you’re settled first. He won’t move you into the dorm and run. Plus, he’s been planning for the spring concert since he showed up. He’s not going to abandon that responsibility.”

Autumn, I’d told myself. August would stay until September. He couldn’t leave at the start of summer because school was out and Timber Creek closed its doors, including the dorm rooms. Constance would have nowhere to go. No. He would stay with her at the cottage until the start of the new school year.

He would stay with me because…

Because why?

He could easily jump ship early and abandon the concert. Abandon me. He could bring Constance to Chicago over the summer and forget the upheaval I’d caused in his life for good. He’d never made promises. He’d never admitted to falling in love.

For months, we’d pretended at a relationship, but I’d known all along it was temporary.

Constance looked as miserable as I felt. I didn’t know what to do, for her or for myself. A sick wash of shame turned the food in my stomach. I was a fool to have believed in anything more.

Constance wasn’t the only one waking up from an illusionary future.

“I say we forget about the dishes and go to the bookstore or the mall. I don’t know about you, but I need some retail therapy. My treat.”

A weak smile turned her mouth, and she nodded.

***

August returned in the late afternoon looking like a man beaten. He requested time alone with his daughter. “We have things to resolve. Do you think she’ll be open to having a conversation?”

He glanced down the hallway to Constance’s room, where the mellow tone of a sweet violin piece filled the air. Instead of a bookstore, we’d ended up browsing three different music stores in town. Constance had selected a few new compositions and had been eager to play when we got home.

“She was upset this morning, but she’s in better spirits. I may or may not have spent a fortune cheering her up today.”

August turned a smile in my direction. “Oh? Buying her affection, I see. I’ll never win at this rate.”

“It’s not a competition. Besides, shopping will cheer up any teen, provided you select the right store.”

He chuckled. “New music?”

“Yep. How did it go today?”

The smile faded, replaced by exhaustion. “As well as I expected.”

He offered no more information, so I let it go. His connection to Chloé was a sore spot, and he’d had an especially trying day. I wanted to ask about the dorm room and his plans, but it wasn’t the time, nor was I ready to hear the answer.

I left August’s house and drove directly to Koa’s, my insides twisted and my head full of anxious thoughts.

Jersey answered the door, glass of wine in hand. The second he saw me, relief filled his face. “Oh, thank god. Here.” He shoved the wine in my hand and ushered me down the hall. “He’s in the kitchen and ranting about something… existential. It could be about a book. I’m not sure. Is satire a book?”

“Satire? Koa doesn’t gravitate to satire.”

“No, wait. Sartre? Is that right?”

“That makes more sense. Sartre is a philosopher and author. He wrote essays about existentialism and—”

“Stop. No more. I’ve been nodding and smiling for close to twenty minutes on the subject already. Koa’s onto me.”

Chuckling, I gratefully sipped the wine. “You signed up for this, Jersey. I paid my dues.”

“At least you understand that crap. I swear my brain shuts off the minute he gets going.”

Jersey snagged my shirt sleeve, halting me before I entered the kitchen. “Can you grab me a beer from the fridge? Slyly hand it to me, and I’ll slink away.”

“You should be ashamed.”

“I am. Now save me.”

I found Koa at the kitchen island, a spread of papers I recognized as students’ assignments in front of him.

“Reading satirical essays, I hear.”

Koa guffawed. “I would never.” He tapped one of the papers. “We’re studying existentialism.”

“That unit never fails to give you grief.” I slipped onto the stool opposite. “Why do you allow your students this level of suffering?”

“Suffering? It’s me who suffers. Listen to this nonsense.” He plucked a page from the pile and put on his reading glasses.

“No. Stop.” I removed the paper from his hand. “Forget your students for five seconds. It’s my turn to have an existential crisis. I didn’t come here to listen to you gripe about how misunderstood Dostoevsky is.”

“We’re studying Nietzsche.”

“Same difference.”

Koa managed to look aghast and insulted simultaneously.

“Beer,” Jersey hissed from the hallway. “You forgot the beer.”

“Get your own damn beer. I’m not your maid, for god’s sake.”

“There is no god,” Koa said. “And in what universe are Nietzsche and Dostoevsky the same? The two men were—”

“Stop. Can we please focus on my problems?” I circled my face with a finger. “Right here. Twenty-first-century existential crisis in the making. Study me, not them. Please. I need help.”

“You aren’t having an existential crisis.”

“I am. You don’t know the half of it.”

Jersey slinked in and retrieved a beer from the fridge. Koa eyed him but turned back to me once he left. “Is this about the undying love you can’t admit harboring for the maestro?”

“That’s not fair. I’ve tried really hard not to fall for him.”

“And it didn’t work.”

“No.”

“Shocking.”

“Shut up, Koa. I’m the post-Christmas Grinch with a heart too big for his chest. It’s my fatal flaw.”

“Unusual. A fatal flaw typically—”

I waved a hand, shushing him. “Stop being an English teacher for five seconds. I beg you.”

Koa, seeming almost amused, sipped his wine. “What’s the issue?”

“I’m in love with August, but he has one foot out the door. I’m forty-four, and I can’t have my heart broken again. I won’t survive it. Only, I don’t know how to keep him.”

“He’s not going anywhere. His daughter is—”

“Moving into a dorm room. When he leaves, this is over, and I’m shattered. Again.”

“Why would it be over?”

Koa didn’t know the half of it, so as I finished Jersey’s wine and helped myself to a fresh glass, I told him everything I’d withheld about August’s fear of being out, about his fragile relationship with his daughter and her conviction that he wasn’t sticking around, about his nonexistent past relationships.

“Does he love you?” Koa’s words stabbed a tender part of my soul.

“I think so. More than you ever did.”

“Has he told you?”

“No. Men seem to enjoy making me suffer.”

Koa couldn’t meet my eyes. He glanced at the spread of assignments on the table, wearing an expression of guilt and sorrow.

“Is there something wrong with me, Koa? Why is it that the men who love me can’t properly love me? Am I destined to be alone forever? To be constantly heartbroken?”

It wasn’t fair to voice these thoughts to Koa. He had never pretended to love me. He had never lied.

In fact, neither had August. He’d been honest about his position and plans from day one. Not once had he promised to stay and love me back. Not once had he suggested canceling his return to Chicago.

I slid the half-empty wine glass away and stood. “Never mind. I gotta go.”

“Niles,” Koa called as I made my way to the front door.

I ignored him, grabbed my coat, and left.

Chapter twenty-five

August

Something was off with Niles. Every phone call and text I sent Sunday went unanswered. In the evening, he messaged an apology, stating he was unwell. It felt like a lie, and in front of the class Monday morning, every student noticed his absent spark, especially Constance.

Niles ran through scales with little enthusiasm and without the added dynamics or variations. He taught history with a dreary edge that triggered more than a few eyelids to droop. Twice, his distraction caused him to miss students’ raised hands.

I couldn’t concentrate. Niles had delegated the task of solo selection to me the previous week, trusting in my unique ability to match certain pieces of music to a student’s skill level. Instead, I spent the entire second period staring at Niles, reviewing everything that had happened recently in a failed effort to determine where I’d gone wrong.

By lunchtime, the first chance I might have had to inquire about his well-being, Dr. McCaine’s secretary summoned me to the office. Before answering the call, I waited for the music room to empty.

“How are you feeling?” I asked when the last student departed.

Niles distractedly shuffled through a stack of music on the conductor’s stand. “I’m fine. It was a tension headache. It’s gone now.” He smiled unconvincingly, resuming the task.

I stilled the anxious fidgeting and turned him to face me. Instead of a pair of luminous autumn sunsets, trouble sat on the horizon, casting deep shadows across his face. Their cause lay with me, of that much I was certain.

“Let’s go out tonight. Have dinner together. My treat. Anywhere you’d like.” I brushed a hand over the short beard covering his jaw, tipping his face so he couldn’t look away as I added, “And it can be somewhere romantic with wine and candles.”

He took longer to agree than usual, but with a strained smile, he nodded. “That sounds lovely.”

I kissed him, something I’d never done in the middle of a school day in the music room. Hovering over his mouth, I whispered, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Perfect.”

I peered deep into his tormented eyes, but the truth remained hidden.

“I better see what they want with me.”

As I wandered to the administrative offices, I dissected Niles’s mood. Oddly, it reflected Constance’s from the previous day. Sullen and drenched in despair. Hers, I understood since it surrounded her mother and the custody arrangement the judge hadn’t allowed Chloé to fight.

Niles’s distress bewildered me. Things between us had progressed well, or so I’d thought.

“Maestro, please, come in.” Dr. McCaine waved a hand toward her private office, holding the door wide to allow my entrance. She’d been anxiously awaiting my arrival, or so she claimed.

Much of the faculty at Timber Creek held me in high regard, insisting on using the title Maestro no matter how many times I dissuaded them. Dr. McCaine was the worst, never failing to boast about my accomplishments to anyone who listened. It was why I’d had lunch with Niles most days, avoiding common staff areas where colleagues liked to congregate.

I took the proffered seat and touched my tie, hoping it wasn’t crooked or ill-knotted. Constance left the house before me that morning to meet with Cody, so she hadn’t been available to check me over before I’d walked out the door, a ritual I’d grown to appreciate.

Dr. McCaine slipped around the desk and sat, glancing once out the window. “Spring is on the horizon. I feel it, don’t you?”

“Indeed. It’s mild today.” Too early for buds, but the warm southern breeze had stirred the wildlife. Along the path from the cottage that morning, I’d spotted a single, red-breasted robin roosting on a low branch.

“And soon it will be summer.” Dr. McCaine folded her hands on the desk. “I presume you got the letter about the available dorm space for Constantina?”

“I did.”

And I’d stuffed it in a drawer, unsure of the correct course of action. I’d originally been told she would have to wait until the new school year to earn a spot. The early availability had sent my mind spinning.

“Excellent. We’re pleased to have her at Timber Creek.”

“She seems to have adjusted well.” Better than I’d hoped. She’d made friends, including a boyfriend, and had new hobbies that encouraged her to put her instrument down from time to time. It was all I’d wanted—to give her a chance at being a normal teenager.

“I’ve had a lengthy chat with the board of directors.”

“Oh?”

“We fear this dorm opening might accelerate your plans to leave us, and we have immensely enjoyed your presence here at Timber Creek. We consider ourselves truly lucky to have been graced with your presence.”

“Thank you. The honor is mine.”

“You are an exceptional educator, Maestro. Students and parents alike have raved about your masterful skill in the classroom. You bring a new layer to the learning environment they’ve never had before.”

I laughed nervously and touched my necktie. “I’m sorry, Dr. McCaine. Your flattery is misplaced. Mr. Edwidge is the true heart of the music department.”

She waved the comment off with a pff. “Nonsense. You own all the credit, and for that reason, the Timber Creek board of directors has an offer for you.” She plucked a neat package of papers, stapled at the corner, from a file I hadn’t noticed upon my entrance and slid it across the desk with a wide grin.

“What’s this?”

“A contract for a teaching position here at Timber Creek.”

I frowned, picking up the proffered pages and skimming. “Teaching position? I don’t understand. I’m not qualified to teach.”

“You are more than qualified, Maestro, and our music department would be the most prestigious in the country if you agreed to our offer.”

I set the papers down, shaking my head. “But you already have a more than suitable music teacher in Niles.”

“Maestro Castellanos—”

“August, please.”

“Augustus.” She laid a hand on the contract as though cradling a precious commodity. “I understand you’ve formed a friendship with Mr. Edwidge”—emphasizing the mister—“but here at Timber Creek, we aim to provide students with the highest education. Since opening our doors in nineteen seventy-four, we have ensured a level of instruction above and beyond any private institute across the country. We do this by employing the most qualified candidates.”

“And Niles is the most qualified.”

“Until now. Your education and background are far superior. Anyone can see that. You could provide the music department with something incomparable, unrivaled. It would elevate our institute to an even higher level than we already hold.”

“You’re wrong. I’ve never been to teacher’s college. I don’t know the first thing about instructing teenagers. In fact, pardon my language, but I’m rather shit at it. My tolerance level for their… conduct is nonexistent. Trust me. It’s been a constant struggle.”

She laughed as though I’d told a joke. “You’re modest. These things are trivial. It’s your mind we’re after. Your skills. These children don’t need parenting. They need to be educated to the highest degree possible.”

She turned the top few pages of the contract, spun it to face me, and pointed to an area midway down. “We’re offering you a competitive wage. Our finance team did some research, and I think you’ll find it comparable to your current earnings. Think about it, Maestro. Signing on with us, you’ll be nearby for your daughter. I understand you’ve been granted indefinite custody. Congratulations. I also understand Constantina is not quite in remission from her bout of cancer, so her health is fragile, and she needs constant monitoring. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable being close to her during these difficult times?”

I blinked at the head of Timber Creek Academy, confused how she’d learned so many personal details when I’d kept a majority of them close to my chest. Before I could speak, she tapped the paper, drawing my attention to the offer printed in bold on the contract.

Blood whomped in my ears at the sizable sum.

Niles and I had never openly discussed finances, but I knew for a fact my income far exceeded a teaching salary. According to the contract, Timber Creek planned to not only match my overinflated income but exceed it.

Words escaped me as I took it in.

“Well?” she asked, a proud smile plastered on her face.

“You would so easily dismiss Niles based solely on our educational differences?”

“You have far more to offer our students.”

But I didn’t. If she’d spent five minutes in the classroom observing us, she would not be making this offer. I was meant for the stage, to perform or conduct large orchestras. I was meant to compose creative works of art. Imagining a life where I was in charge of an unruly bunch of ungrateful teenagers about made me want to vomit.

“And what of Niles’s contract?”

Dr. McCaine pressed her lips in a thin line. Based on the expression, I sensed she hadn’t expected resistance. Wasn’t I a thankless bastard, querying about topics that didn’t concern me.

“I can’t discuss the nuances of the agreements signed between the board and staff, but I assure you, Mr. Edwidge’s contract was created with this contingency in mind. There are… loopholes.”

“Loopholes.”

She pushed the contract toward me. “Take it home. Read it over. If you have questions, I’ll happily answer them. If you want to suggest changes or don’t feel the offer is generous enough, I have sway, and I’m sure we can work something out. Keep your daughter in mind, Maestro. This is an incredible opportunity.”

For whom? I wanted to ask but didn’t.

A hundred questions filled my brain, a tangled mess I couldn’t voice. Too caught up in what might happen to Niles, I took the contract and stood.

I didn’t want their job or money… but if I took it, I could stay.

I could live openly in Peterborough, where the world and judgment seemed far away.

Niles and I might have a chance as a proper couple. I could set my heart free. Love him openly and without fear.

Constance and I might develop a better relationship. I could monitor her health. I could be the dad I’d never considered being.

But no.

None of that whimsy would happen if I signed the contract.

If I agreed to their proposal, Niles would never talk to me again. Constance would hate me worse than she already did.

And I’d be stuck in a nothing town, lonelier than I’d ever been in my life.

***

I didn’t return to the music room after my meeting, heading home to the quiet, empty cottage to think. Home? Had the barely adequate cabin in the woods, which I’d vehemently disliked upon my arrival, become such in the past few months?

In a way, it had.

Tossing the contract on the dining room table, I sat at the piano. Music stirred my anxious soul, the same melodies that had kept me company since December. From seed to flower, the symphony had grown and matured. It was more or less complete. Having suffered through several rewrites and alterations, the result amounted to something beyond reckoning. Pride swelled my chest every time I sat down with it.

My agent called it a masterpiece and eagerly demanded we move to production and publication. Like always, I vehemently rejected the idea. My work was not to be published. If any low-scale orchestra could purchase the rights, if it was played on the radio or downloadable on music apps, it would lose what made it unique and special. It would become no different than any other piece of work.

But my agent’s enthusiasm energized my desire to return to the stage. I wanted to nurse my creation to life and plan for its first showing. I wanted to conduct the orchestra and give the world an elite preview of my masterpiece. My agent agreed to this alternative, but when asked for a time frame, I’d put him off, unsure what to tell him.

I leafed through several pages of the symphony, harmonizing certain parts on the piano, thinking of Niles, and reliving every second of the music’s nature. It represented a journey, every nuance attributed to shared moments with Niles. The ups and downs of our relationship denoted the tempo and articulation, crescendos and decrescendos, staccatos and runs. Like a pounding heart, the booming, thunderous basslines grew increasingly more intense. The airy trill of flutes and clarinets, featherlight, drifted effortlessly on a breeze. It was magical. Wonderous.

The symphony was my salvation. Never before had I felt so connected. So complete.

I stopped playing, staring at the notes inside my mind’s eye. It had all come together flawlessly, and the vivid picture it drew displayed something plainly evident. How had I not seen it before?

I had written a love story. Our love story.

The air left my lungs as I absorbed the profundity.

Blindsided yet again. Blindsided since day one.

I was a fool. I had never successfully kept my feelings for Niles at bay. Instead, he had sunk into my bones. He had become the very marrow at the center. To eject him would mean my demise.

But my life was incompatible with love.

Wasn’t it?

I left the piano, the unnerving realization of such strong emotions too unsettling to bear. With Timber Creek’s unrealistic offer on the table and the daunting prospect of permanent parenthood looming over my head, I departed the stuffy cottage and headed out into the cool afternoon to cleanse my thoughts.

Wool coat unbuttoned, hands lodged deep into its pockets, I wandered the mucky, snow-trodden trails of Timber Creek campus, searching the high branches of bare trees for chittering birds and squirrels, wondering how I’d ended up here.

My heart’s staccato rhythm fluttered like a butterfly’s wings against my ribs. Trepidation sent waves of anxiety through my veins, and my teeth chattered despite the coating of sweat dampening my skin.

How could I leave? I was supposed to leave. But at Timber Creek, I’d not only found love for the first time in my life, but I’d gotten to know the daughter I’d never wanted. Despite our complicated relationship, despite how she abhorred me most days, I couldn’t deny the powerful fight within me. To be a father. To protect her. To do right by her. To give her the best possible chance in life. I feared leaving her on her own, at the mercy of boys, cruel students, or, god forbid, further sickness.

But how could I stay? The only career I’d ever known waited patiently on the outskirts for my return. The symphony wanted—needed—to be brought to life, and I could never entrust it to another.

But, more pressingly, in no universe could I take Niles’s job. It would be an unfathomable cruelty.

I ended up lakeside. The calm, glassy surface of the water reflected the sun, blanketing the area in false warmth contrary to the temperature. The world melted into spring, glistening with hope and promise. But for whom?

A dry spot on the shore called to me. I sat on the rocky edge, peering at the scant houses on the other side, noting hints of green grass poking through the patchy snowmelt. In another month, flowers would push through the earth, trees would bud and leaf, and insects would return. It was a breath away. A hiccup. A heartbeat. With its arrival, the magical kingdom where I’d spent the winter would dissolve.

What was the right course of action?

Stay or go.

Torn, heart in a blender, I dug my cell phone from a pocket and stared at it for a long time, contemplating, debating, fearing I would make the wrong choice. But there never was a choice. I’d been set on a path, and my duty was to follow it.

In the end, I made three phone calls:

To my agent.

To the musical director and designate for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

And finally, to Dr. McCaine.

I only hoped Niles and Constance would forgive me.

Chapter twenty-six

Niles

August didn’t return after lunch. With my mood already low and questions arising from his impromptu meeting with Dr. McCaine, third and fourth period passed in a blur. At the end of the day, after the last student departed, I retrieved my phone, expecting to find a text explaining what had happened.

Nothing.

I typed an inquiry but received no immediate reply. It was unlike August, but I could hardly be annoyed, considering I’d avoided his texts for the better part of Sunday. As I packed to leave, Constance, Cody, and three other students came through the door, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

“What’s this? Party in the music room? I didn’t get the memo.”

“Hey, Mr. E.” Cody grinned and waved.

Constance approached the desk, and the others hung back.

Have you seen my dad? she signed.

Frowning, I glanced at my silent phone. “No. He was called to a meeting at lunchtime. I haven’t seen him since.”

He won’t answer my texts, and he’s not at home. I need permission to go to a café in Lakefield. They’re leaving now.

“Lakefield? Who’s taking you all to Lakefield?”

“Tania.” Cody stepped forward. “In the school van. They’re having trivia this afternoon, and we wanted to enter as a team. One of the public schools is going to be there too. Tania said she’d take us for pizza after. We won’t be back until close to nineish.”

Tania was one of the after-hours activity coordinators, so the news wasn’t surprising. She often planned spontaneous off-campus trips with small groups. The students living in the dorms would only need to sign out, but Constance’s circumstances differed since she lived with her father.

“I’ll text Tania and tell her it’s okay.”

You’ll tell Dad too? I don’t want to get in trouble.

“I’ll tell him.”

Constance beamed. Thank you, Niles.

I slanted a brow. “Excuse me? We’re at school, missy.”

Constance shrugged but signed, Thank you, Mr. Edwidge.

She skipped off and joined the other students. They left, everyone except Constance eagerly babbling about the trivia game. The smile on her face was one August needed to see. His daughter was happy and sociable. She’d made friends despite her disability. No one singled her out. No one scoffed or made fun of her for choosing not to speak. At Timber Creek, she thrived as the teenager August wanted her to be.

I sent another message to her absent father, but it too went unanswered. It was one thing to ignore me but another to ignore Constance. August’s instincts weren’t on par with other fathers, but he was improving. Instead of heading home, I tossed my briefcase into the car and followed the path to August’s cottage.

After knocking a few times and receiving no reply, I tried the door. It was open, so I let myself in, calling, “Hello? It’s me… Auggie, are you here?”

Absolute silence greeted me. I toed off my shoes and wandered around to be sure he hadn’t fallen asleep or suffered an accident and needed help. Those were the only excuses I could devise for why he wasn’t answering his phone.

August wasn’t in the kitchen. A chaotic spread of sheet music on the piano rack—the symphony he’d secreted away since the day I’d accidentally found it—remained as evidence that he’d been there recently. He was ordinarily meticulous about keeping it hidden.

Unable to quell the urge to snoop, I spent a minute leafing through the dozens and dozens of pages filled with carefully scrawled music. A conductor’s score, each instrument’s part meticulously penned with several notations denoting how it should be played. The complex layers that constituted a full orchestral ensemble fascinated me, especially knowing it had been written by someone with whom I was closely acquainted. The copy in my hands was newer than the one I’d seen months ago. Cleaner. A revision, I assumed.

In fact, on closer inspection, the symphony appeared complete. No. August would never have left it lying around, even if he wasn’t expecting me. He gave the impression this composition was something extremely private—at least, I’d surmised as much with how protective he’d been.

I put the pages back where I found them, resisting the urge to sit on the bench and play through some lines. Before leaving it, I checked the top of the first page, but the symphony remained untitled.

In the bedroom, I discovered a neatly made bed, folded laundry that had yet to be put away, and no sign of August. Suit jackets and pressed shirts filled the hangers in the closet. The numerous silk ties he couldn’t knot to save his life hung on a rack. Underneath, a few pairs of expensive leather shoes lined the carpet. Nothing appeared to be missing. I wasn’t sure why, but a niggling prophecy whispered in my ear, saying August was leaving, August was gone.

Stumped, I wandered back into the main part of the cottage, scanning for clues that might indicate his whereabouts. His rental was in the lot, so he couldn’t have gone far. My attention caught on a stapled packet of papers on the dining room table. The Timber Creek letterhead and formal configuration had me stepping forward, crossing lines, and invading August’s privacy once again.

It appeared to be a contract.

Stomach sinking, I picked it up and read.

It took three paragraphs to reveal its purpose, but once I pieced it together, my knees threatened to buckle. Timber Creek’s board of directors had offered August a full-time teaching position—my teaching position—with a starting salary nearly triple my own.

In December, I’d told Koa the school was looking to replace me—I’d been saying it for years—but he’d claimed I was paranoid. An earthquake shook my core and radiated along my limbs. Bile climbed my throat. I was going to be sick. It wasn’t shock upsetting my system. How could it be when I’d foreseen this moment for years? Devastation, however, made breathing difficult.

I set the contract down and backed away like it had bitten me. The lack of a signature on the final page was a small consolation. For all I knew, it was a copy meant for August’s records, and the real contract was in a new file in Dr. McCaine’s office, signed in black permanent ink.

I spun twice, trying to get my bearings. My scrambled brain struggled to process. When my phone vibrated with an incoming call, I startled.

August’s name filled the screen. I cleared my throat—twice—to ensure my voice didn’t croak upon answering. “Hey. Where are you?”

“At the lake. Sorry I missed your texts. I was on the phone when you messaged.” The long pause conveyed its own troubling conversation. “Come sit with me.” Was that anguish? I couldn’t tell.

“Um… sure. Did you get ahold of Constance?”

“Yes. She said you gave her permission to go to some café with a group of kids, then out for dinner?”

“Yes. With Tania. She’s an activity coordinator. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s good for her. Thank you.” Another extensive pause. “Where are you? Have you gone home already?”

“No.” I glanced around the cottage, at August’s secret symphony on the piano rack, then to the unsigned contract on the dining room table. I could lie, pretend I’d seen nothing, pretend I was still in the classroom, marking papers, but to what purpose?

“I’m at your place. I was looking for you. The door was open.”

“Oh.” Silence. “Come find me at the lake. We need to talk.”

As I hung up, a chill shivered along my spine. Talk. No word had ever sounded so daunting, so ominous.

“It’s to do with you,” I said to the unsigned contract. Only two scenarios presented themselves, neither favorable. August either took the teaching position, leaving me displaced, or he returned to Chicago and his coveted first chair.

I found August seated on a boulder by the water’s edge, staring across the glistening lake, lost in thought. The high color in his cheeks and the rosy tint to his nose suggested he’d been there a long time. Spring might be lingering around the corner, but a winter bite still hung in the air.

A branch snapped underfoot as I approached, alerting him to my arrival. His welcoming smile seemed free from strain, but I didn’t trust it. August prided himself in a well-honed stage face.

“Aren’t you cold?” I balanced along the rocky border until I landed on the boulder he occupied.

He shuffled over so I could join him. “My backside is frozen, I can’t feel my fingers, and I’m in desperate need of a tissue, but the view is too beautiful to leave. It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. A person could get used to this.”

I settled beside him, close enough that we touched along one side. From my coat pocket, I extracted a travel pack of Kleenex. August thanked me graciously.

Nothing stirred in the lakeside vista. No animals, no birds, and not a single jumping fish. The tranquility was serene, fantastical in a way I’d never considered. Winter gave the impression of freezing time. Crystalizing moments. Holding them in stasis. But the future, dormant beneath its icy layers, could only be restrained for so long. The sun would melt the snow, and life would continue as it always did.

August and I had formed our relationship throughout the winter. It existed in that stopped time. But spring was near, and the fantasy would melt and be gone. Nothing good in life ever lasted. Koa’s niggling voice in my head whispered, I’ve been telling you that for years.

“You didn’t return this afternoon.” My voice conveyed a strength I didn’t feel.

“No… Too much on my mind.”

“What did Dr. McCaine want?”

August didn’t speak for several minutes, squinting into the distance as though searching for a future still trapped in winter’s grasp. Was it as impossible for him to see as it was for me? Did he feel the dissolution of our relationship too?

“Do you know there’s a loophole in your contract?”

It was my turn for silence. “Yes.”

August turned to face me. “Why did you allow for that?”

I couldn’t meet his eyes and scanned the meandering lake to where it bent out of sight, wishing for a distraction. “They didn’t give me a choice. They bent the rules hiring me. It’s in their handbook that Timber Creek Academy strictly hires teachers who hold a doctorate degree of education. I hold a master’s, but they couldn’t find anyone better to fill the position at the time, and they were desperate. When I applied, figuring I wouldn’t get it based on a lack of qualifications, they offered me the job on the condition that should they find someone more suitable in the future, I would be replaced.”

“And you agreed?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” I repeated. “Unless I wanted to turn them down. That would have been stupid. It was my dream job… or rather, my modified dream job.” I glanced at August. “And now they’ve found someone better.”

Sorrow pulled at the corners of August’s eyes—dark and beautiful like an endless forest. I’d gotten lost in those mesmerizing orbs plenty over the past few months.

“You found the contract on the table.” It wasn’t a question. “I didn’t put it away.”

“Yes. I found it, and I read it.”

“I haven’t accepted the job, Niles.”

“You will. You should. They’re offering you an astronomical wage. Surely you can see that. It would be stupid to turn it down.”

“Except, I’m not a teacher.”

“You’ll learn. Any fool can teach.”

“Niles.” The sharp tone made me bite my tongue. August hated self-recrimination.

I stared at the pale blue sky and milky sun. “You don’t need my permission. Take it. If not for yourself, then do it for Constance. She can’t voice it, but she needs you, August. Desperately.”

The deep lines bracketing his eyes remained as he searched my face. “You wouldn’t begrudge me?”

“For a while, maybe, but it’s my own fault. I saw it coming from a mile away but chose to ignore it. I literally sat by and waited for this to happen, and I did nothing to prevent it.”

“How long have you taught here?”

I huffed and shifted my attention to the sky again, letting the weak sun warm my face. “Sixteen years, and every year, there’s at least one parent complaint about my inferior education. Every year, someone reminds me I’m not good enough to teach their child.”

“Bullshit.”

“It is what it is.”

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why not get your doctorate? You’re incredibly intelligent. If it’s the crux of the problem, why not correct it? You could have worked on it while teaching.”

“I know, and I thought about it, but I already had student loans coming out the ass because my well-to-do surgeon father refused to pay for an inferior education for his son. He assisted all my siblings in their more respectable careers but not me. I did it on my own. I calculated it would take roughly twenty years to pay off that debt. I didn’t need to owe the government more. Timber Creek gave me the job at a reasonable salary. I figured I’d pay off the balance first and consider finishing my schooling after. The years passed, and by the time I was free and clear of that blasted student loan—which I managed in fourteen years, not twenty—I was too old to be bothered.”

“That’s an excuse.”

“Maybe, but it’s mine, and now I’ll pay the price for my stupidity.”

“You should have fought that clause in the contract. Sixteen years is evidence enough you are the best music teacher out there.”

But I wasn’t, and beating around the bush drove me insane. I was a rip-the-Band-Aid-off-quick kind of person. “Are you taking it?”

“Absolutely not.”

I let the definitive words sink in. August had spoken without pause or hesitation. He’d made the decision long before I’d arrived. But it was the wrong decision, and only then did it dawn on me that I would sacrifice my job to keep him.

“Please take it. You belong here.”

“I’m not a teacher, and they would swiftly learn that they’d spent a lot of money on a poor replacement.”

“And what of Constance?”

“What of Constance? She gives me enough hell at home. Can you imagine if I was her full-time music teacher too?”

Maybe part of me knew the truth when I’d sat down, but hearing confirmation that August didn’t want the job wasn’t as reassuring as I’d hoped. It solidified his imminent departure. Nothing, not his daughter nor a superior job opportunity, could keep him from the bright lights of the stage.

Not even me.

He was always going to return to Chicago.

“I’m cold, Niles. Would you like to come back to the house with me? I thought, since Constance will be gone until nine, maybe I could cook dinner.”

I was more than cold. I was numb, but it had nothing to do with the plummeting temperatures.

Agreeing, I followed August along the path, away from the lake and back into the forest to his cottage. He made chicken and homemade gnocchi with oven-roasted vegetables. “My grandmother’s recipe,” he said spearing a fanciful potato dumpling from the skillet and holding it out, a hand cupped underneath the fork to protect against sauce drips as he offered it for me to try.

Warm and soft, the gnocchi burst with flavor. I hummed approval, and August beamed, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction. As our relationship progressed, August grew comfortable sharing the various facets of who he was. He took pride in cooking, presenting a cultural experience with every meal. But he only shone when I praised his effort. I’d become the happy recipient of many delicious meals.

Dinner was lovely, and wine flowed as we ate. August lit a few candles, setting the atmosphere. It was hard not to get sucked into the romance of it all, to remember how this story ended. How it was always going to end.

After the meal, I helped him tidy the kitchen. We danced around one another effortlessly, shirtsleeves rolled, August in fine spirits, making jokes and laughing as though oblivious to my heartache.

At one point, after I’d dried and put away the last dish, August pulled me into his arms, securing his hands on my hips. I was the rare witness to his disheveled state. Only at home. Never in public.

“Oh, Niles,” he said on a released breath.

“What?”

He had the look of a man who had something important to say but didn’t know how to say it.

He searched my face, eyes glinting, pouring so many unspoken emotions I feared what he might say.

“Écho tyflotheí.” The whispered words hung between us.

I offered a wary smile. “There you go again. Cursing me in a different language.”

“I’m not cursing you. Quite the opposite.”

“How would I know? You never translate. Do I have to wait for another day?”

August shook his head, and his surety broke, nerves leaking to the surface. “I told you I’ve never been serious with anyone. I’ve experienced all kinds of superficial relationships throughout my adult life, but nothing has ever stuck. Everything was short-lived. The impulse to seek more was never there. I travel a lot. I’ve never settled anywhere for long. A year or two, maybe, then off on a new adventure. I always thought love was for other people, and that was fine. I didn’t go searching for it. I wasn’t sure I wanted it.”

Heart knocking, I held my breath and listened as August mused. He seemed to be circling a point like a vulture might his road-killed dinner. Only, I wasn’t sure if he was saying goodbye or the complete opposite.

He touched my cheek, brushed a stray chunk of hair behind my ear, and repeated the Greek phrase that had become familiar in the past few months. I figured it was an endearment of some kind, and he was too embarrassed to share.

“What does it mean?” He would answer me now. I knew he would.

Leaning his forehead against mine, August closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’ve been blindsided, Niles. Écho tyflotheí. In no universe did I expect to come to Timber Creek and fall in love.”

I couldn’t breathe. “Are you… What are you…”

He opened his eyes and peered deep into my soul. “I am madly in love with you.”

“Oh.” August was the last thing I’d expected, too, but everything I wanted, and the walls I’d held precariously around my heart crumbled. The words I’d clung to out of fear and necessity spilled unchecked from my mouth. “I’ve loved you for months, but… you’re leaving.”

He held my face, strong and confident, with a tinge of despair dampening the edges. “I am.”

My stomach sank, and I tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“I have to, Niles. I can’t take your job. It’s a cruelty I can’t abide. Besides, there are… things that require my attention in Chicago.”

My insides quivered, and I forcibly pushed from his hold. “So, what? You tell me you love me but you’re walking out the door? I don’t understand. Are you coming back?”

A pained expression filled his eyes. “In time.”

“In time? What does that mean? A month? Three? A year?”

“It means…” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “It means I can’t give you a date because I don’t have one, and I can’t explain better, so please don’t ask me to.”

“What about your daughter?”

“Constance will be happy here. She’s made friends. I think she likes it more than she expected.”

“But she needs you, August.”

“She doesn’t. She never has. Once she’s settled in a dorm room, she’ll barely think of me.”

He was wrong. His misunderstanding of teenagers remained no matter how many times I explained it. He couldn’t see beyond the indignant attitude and anger to the broken girl underneath. But I selfishly didn’t argue. What he did with Constance was his choice. It was my heart he wrung through a blender, my emotions threatening to snap. Did he care?

All I heard was, I love you, but I’m leaving.

I paced, sick from distress, but before I could untangle the knot of confusion, August pulled me into his arms and kissed the protests away. The intensity of his affection confused my muddled brain. I wanted to scream, but I drew him closer, desperate not to lose this connection, fearing he’d walk out the door in the next instance and I’d never see him again.

“You can’t go,” I said into the kiss.

“I have to.”

“You don’t. Stay here… with me.”

“Niles.” Anguish bled through his tone.

Not for the first time, I experienced a hopeless urge to cling to someone who couldn’t give me what I needed. Love had always caused pain. Where was the blissful romance portrayed in love stories? Was I destined to drown every time I fell for someone? Risking my heart had done nothing but expose it to constant injury.

Would I ever learn?

But god help me, I couldn’t pull away. I couldn’t shut August out or turn off my heart. I wanted all he wasn’t offering and more.

“I’ll come back. I swear it.”

But his promises felt paper thin.

He spread a hand over my lower back, drawing me against him. The other worked loose the tie holding my hair. Long strands fell over my shoulders, and he sighed against my mouth. “I want to make love to you. I need you to trust me, Niles.”

“You’ve told me nothing.”

Trust was a finicky thing in my world. I’d been let down more times than I could count, and August’s cryptic plans for a hazy future didn’t evoke confidence.

“What is so important in Chicago?”

“Please. I’ll tell you, but not now.”

Fools in love didn’t care about logistics, and wasn’t I the fool, hanging on when I should be letting go. Trusting when I shouldn’t.

I followed August to the bedroom, where he lay me down and worshiped every inch of my body like I was a priceless artifact. I had so many questions, but they floated out of reach. Hunger, desperation, and pleasure constantly pushed them away.

August claimed to love me, and I wanted his love. I wanted it to consume me, even for one night.

“I love you,” I whispered like a prayer. I wished they were enough to still his wandering heart.

“And I you, Niles. More than you know.”

Naked, he pinned me to the bed, arms above my head, hovering over me as he destroyed my sense of reason with his mouth alone.

“What’s in Chicago?” I asked when he moved to my neck.

“Work.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

“You swear you’re coming back?”

August’s formidable body blanketed my own. I noted every place we touched, absorbed his warmth, and clung to his certainty. He nuzzled my collarbones and fanned his lips over my sternum, breathing, “In time.”

“How long?” If asked enough, maybe he’d tell me.

“I can’t say.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m being as honest as I can.”

“Take the job.”

He stopped kissing and found my gaze in the shadowed darkness of the bedroom. “What?”

“Take the job. My job. Stay. Please. I’ll find something else. I’ll go back to school if I have to.”

He softly laughed, shaking his head before bumping our noses together. “What a horrible idea.”

“School? Why?”

“Not school. My teaching.”

“Oh. You’d manage.”

“Do you know what I’ve discovered in the few months I’ve been here?” He kissed my eyelids and cheekbones.

I closed my eyes, reveling in the connection. “That you aren’t a fan of teenagers.”

He chuckled. “That too, but no.” He combed his fingers through my hair, brushing it back off my forehead and staring wide-eyed at the contours of my face. “I’ve discovered how incredibly brilliant you are at your job. You have something I don’t, Niles. For all the study and performance I have in my background, I can’t teach music to save my life. I see everything that’s wrong but not how to make it right. I can criticize, but I can’t problem-solve solutions. I haven’t the patience to nurture a gifted student, and I lack the common sense to shut my mouth or find tactful ways to translate problems.”

“Then how is it you conduct orchestras?”

“Conductors are the most meticulous, arrogant, and nasty people on the planet. We don’t coddle musicians. We demand results. Our expectations are almost unachievable. We’re brash, rude, and unforgiving. We insult and complain until our visions are realized. You need thick skin to perform in an orchestra, and I know you think it’s an opportunity you missed in life, but you were never cut out for the stage, Niles.”

My spine prickled, and I wanted to shove him off and tell him he was wrong, but he held fast, knowing I wouldn’t take kindly to the observation.

“You have a different gift, and Dr. McCaine would soon realize the error of her ways if she hired me. She has the best music teacher already. I don’t want your job. I never have. You are exactly where you were meant to be, and so am I.”

“Which is far away from me.”

“Oh, Niles.”

I cupped August’s face, his five o’clock scruff rasping my delicate skin. “I don’t want you to leave.”

He took my hand and kissed the center of my palm. “I must, if only for a little while. Please trust me.”

“I’m trying.”

“Will you do something for me?”

Heart aching, a thick lump stuck in my throat, I nodded.

“Keep an eye on Constance. I’m not asking you to step in and parent her. That’s not your responsibility. I’ll be sure her medical and financial needs are taken care of, but… without her mother… She looks up to you.”

“She looks up to you too.”

“Not in the same way. I’m sure she’ll be fine, but…”

What could I say? Constance had become as significant in my life as August. We’d bonded in a way I’d never expected.

“I promise.”

With my reassurance, August brushed a thumb over my bottom lip. “Thank you. You are an exceptional human being, Niles. I never expected you.”

“I never expected you either.”

“When I’m gone, remember one thing if nothing else. I love you dearly.”

We made love for as long as time allowed, knowing Constance would be home in the evening.

After, as we lay in each other’s arms, I asked the one question I hadn’t yet voiced. “When are you leaving?”

August didn’t respond, but the answer came sooner than I expected.

Chapter twenty-seven

August

“With all due respect, Maestro, you’re making a mistake.”

I signed the final form and slid it across the desk to Dr. McCaine. “I respect your opinion, and I’m grateful for the opportunity you’ve given my daughter and me, but it’s time I get back to work. Is there anything else I need to sign?”

“With regard to the emergency contacts…” She indicated a part of the form I’d recently filled out. “You’ve listed yourself and Mr. Edwidge. I understand your wife—”

“Chloé is not and never has been my wife, nor is she to have any interaction with my daughter.” I removed a file from my briefcase and slid a photocopy across the desk. “This court order states I have full custody and rights to all decisions regarding Constance’s care. Under no circumstance is Chloé to visit or have access to my daughter. Is that understood?”

Lips firmly pressed together, Dr. McCaine skimmed the order and nodded.

“She’s permitted supervised visits only, and I will arrange them. Minor concerns can be brought to Mr. Edwidge. He agreed to that. Health concerns should be directed to the physician marked under her medical care forms. Emergencies or anything more pressing can be brought to my immediate attention. I left several numbers where I can be contacted.”

“We’re sad to lose you, Maestro.”

“You never had me, Dr. McCaine. My services were never meant to be permanent.”

“Still, it’s a shame to see you go. You’ve been a gem in the music department. Incomparable.”

I bristled. “May I speak freely?”

“By all means.”

“You’ve had an incredibly talented man running your music department for years, and you don’t give him near the credit he deserves. At the end of the day, honorifics attached to the end of a name mean little. What counts is the heart and soul a person puts into their job. Before coming here, my daughter was tutored by several classical music instructors. The best money could buy. I’ve declined to rehire them because she will learn more from Niles Edwidge than any overeducated chump the conservatory is spitting out these days. If your parents are complaining, maybe it’s time to stick up for your staff and stop nurturing their negativity. After sixteen years, Niles deserves to stop living in fear of being replaced. Shame on you for perpetuating a ridiculous stigma and making him feel like he isn’t worthy of being part of your staff.

“Now, if there’s nothing else for me to sign, I have a daughter who needs to move her belongings into the dormitories.”

***

The residual irritation from my meeting with Dr. McCaine lingered as Constance sat among a dozen packed boxes in her new dorm, arms crossed with perpetual teenage indignance. I’d pulled her from class early to help organize the room, but ten seconds in her presence, and I regretted my decision. She was as moody as ever.

“What’s the problem? You expressed a desire to live among your fellow students. You didn’t want to be in the cottage with me. Now that it’s happening, you seem upset.”

She signed something, and I glared with a quizzically raised brow.

Rolling her eyes, she typed a message on her phone and all but threw the device at me. I had to scramble to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Was that necessary?”

She motioned for me to read.

Why are you leaving?

“Because I have to return to work. You knew that. It’s why I enrolled you here. I promised your mother I would ensure you were comfortable first, and I have.”

She launched off the bed, tore the phone from my hand, and typed again, nose wrinkled and with a murderous glare altering her once fine features. Again, with vitriol, she slammed the phone against my chest and waved for me to read what she’d typed.

It’s not about me! OMG. What is your problem? How are you this stupid?

“I don’t understand.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, staving off the headache from too little sleep and the stress of sending Niles off to work that morning, knowing I wouldn’t see him again for a long time, knowing he would be upset when he learned of my absence.

Constance fisted her hands, and I thought she would punch a wall, then she signed something definitive with jerky and distinct motions I was likely meant to understand but didn’t.

I shook my head. “Constance, you know I—”

She stamped a foot and signed the same series of gestures again, slower and with more emphasis, as though punctuating her feelings on my stupidity.

“Stop it. I don’t understand what you’re signing. If you would—”

She all but screamed with her body language and used her phone to type her meaning instead. For the third time, she handed off the device with unnecessary violence.

N I L E S!!!

I frowned. “Niles?” How had we gone from discussing her comfort level in a new dorm to Niles? “I talked to him last night. He knows I’m leaving.”

Devastation marred her face, and her eyes, so much like her mother’s, glistened with fresh tears. She ripped the phone from my hand and proceeded to type furiously.

“This conversation would go a lot faster if you opened your goddamn mouth and spoke for once.”

The room’s temperature plummeted ten degrees with her icy glare.

If she could have told me to go to hell, I had no doubt Constance would have unleashed a fury like I’d never known, but my nonverbal daughter didn’t have that means of expelling her frustrations.

Instead, she whipped her phone against the drywall, hard enough to leave a dent, and threw herself on the bed, burying her face in her arms. Her shoulders shook with silent tears, and I stood helplessly to the side, unsure what to do and unclear where I’d gone wrong. Why did everything have to be difficult between us?

“Is this how you’re saying goodbye?”

Blindly grabbing for a discarded shoe on the floor, she threw it at me, missing by a mile. The second one nearly caught me in the head, but I dodged its assault.

“Christ, child. What is your problem?”

I didn’t need words typed on a phone or sign language to understand she wanted me to go.

I picked up her phone and examined it, noting the long crack across the screen. When I pushed the button, it lit up, requesting a password. At least it worked. I would order a replacement and have it sent to her once I was settled in Chicago.

I set the device on the empty bedside table and peered down at my distraught, sobbing daughter. “I’m sorry, Constance. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m not good at this.” At being a father, at knowing how to fix your anger, at loving you. I said none of it. She would probably yell and throw more things.

“Call me if you need me. I mean it.”

No response.

I waited a few more minutes, wanting to reach out, wanting to draw her into my arms until her tears stopped, but she would deny me affection, and the rejection would hurt too much to bear. Watching her cry was already killing me. Reluctantly, unsure how to fix us, convinced it wasn’t possible, I left.

At the rental, I stared at the historic building housing Timber Creek’s finest and considered one last time if I was doing the right thing. Deep in the center of my being, a lonely heart thrummed with a prolific symphony. I closed my eyes and hummed my favorite parts, drawing on the image of the man who’d shared my bed the previous night. He was the soul of every note. Two intertwined loves. One existed because of the other, and I would do justice for both.

“Wait for me.” The cool spring breeze swept my words away. I imagined them riding the wind and finding their way to the man for whom they were spoken. “I’ll prove myself true. I swear it.”

I wasn’t brave enough to grace the music room and say goodbye. I’d explained all I could the previous night. After making love, when he’d asked how soon until I departed, I’d never responded.

I wasn’t good at goodbyes, and witnessing heartbreak on his face might have been enough to change my mind.

***

I arrived in Chicago at seven in the evening. The stale air in the one-bedroom condo—it had been closed up for nearly six months—tickled my throat. Despite the outdoor temperature, I opened a few windows, letting the breeze through. A thin layer of dust covered the furniture. If I’d thought ahead, I could have hired a cleaning service to tidy the place, but everything happened quickly.

The available dorm.

Dr. McCaine’s offer.

The dawning realization that I’d somehow fallen in love.

Knowing I couldn’t remain in the secluded—safe—confines of a winter dream and needed to find a way to meet the world head-on.

Three messages awaited when I landed. Two from my agent and one pointed text from Niles. Niles’s was brief and direct. You asshole.

Collapsing on the couch, I stared at the two words for a long time, debating how to respond. I had a hunch he didn’t want to hear from me, at least not right away. I texted my daughter, asking how she was doing, but received no response.

I called my agent instead and made arrangements for the coming weeks. The quicker I could get things organized, the faster I could return to Niles. As we talked, I stripped the bed, tossed the sheets and blankets in the washer, and opened the empty fridge, finding nothing but condiments. I made a list of groceries.

When I hung up, I retrieved the symphony from my bag and deposited myself at the piano. Carefully, I laid several pages on the rack. I didn’t need the score any longer. The music was imprinted on my mind. Over and over, I played. This section and that. Blending. Harmonizing. Feeling every note in my soul. It was the only way I could be close to Niles. I needed to keep the music alive. It could not go silent. Not now. Without it, I would be lost.

Chapter twenty-eight

Niles

Ishould have been fuming. August knew exactly when he planned to leave as we’d eaten dinner the previous night, as we’d made love in his bed, as he’d curled around me while we slept, but he didn’t have the audacity to tell me or say goodbye. I had to learn about his departure from a dorm supervisor who called shortly after fourth period ended to inform me Constance was having a fit and could I please try to calm her down.

Boggled, I crossed campus at a run, hustling up the stairs to the third floor where they had housed her. I arrived on scene to her throwing the contents of several boxes out the window. Clothing. Books. Toiletries. Shoes.

Cody lingered in the hallway with several female students from neighboring rooms, bewildered, seemingly at a loss.

“You aren’t supposed to be up here,” I reminded him. The female dormitory was out of bounds to male students, and he knew it.

“Yeah, but—” He motioned.

“No buts. Get going.”

“But her dad left.”

I stalled and stared at the kid’s stony expression. “What?”

“Around lunchtime. He pulled her from class, moved her from the cottage to here, and just left.”

I absorbed Cody’s words and glanced into Constance’s dorm. A supervisor was trying and failing to calm her down. The poor girl’s face, running with tears and blotchy from crying, poured so much torment my heart ached.

Damn you, August. You didn’t listen.

I patted Cody’s shoulder and aimed him toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Did, like, you two break up or something?”

“What? No… It’s… complicated. Go on now. She’ll be okay.”

But Constance would not be okay. She’d been torn from her mother and rejected by her father. That day marked the first of many outbursts.

I entered the room, and the minute Constance saw me, she ran into my arms, collapsing and sobbing uncontrollably. Her sign language was messy and hard to understand when she was finally able to talk. She trembled and had to keep wiping her nose and eyes.

He left. I told him not to, but he left.

“He’s coming back.”

He’s not. I hate him.

Why should she believe me? August had spent a lifetime running from the responsibility of fatherhood. For all I knew, Constance was right, and August wasn’t coming back. He’d padded his exit with proclamations of love, but his shady reasons and elusive explanations didn’t bolster confidence.

Somehow, I calmed Constance, encouraged her to collect her things from the lawn below, and walked her to the activity room where her friends waited.

Did he break up with you? she signed.

“No.” The impact of his absence, however, felt oddly similar to the dissolution of a relationship. “And he said he’d be back.”

He won’t be. Dad’s a liar.

Constance’s biggest concern seemed to be for me, so I assured her I was fine and that August and I had parted on good terms. Eventually, she joined her friends.

As I drove home that afternoon, I questioned everything. Was I once again playing the part of a fool? Our conversation from the previous night played on repeat in my head. Regardless of the outcome, I was a grown man and could handle whatever transpired. Constance worried me, and the more I replayed the scene in the dorm, the angrier I got. How could August not see the desperation in her? She needed her father now more than ever.

August hadn’t texted, so I sent him one, expressing everything I felt in my heart.

You asshole.

***

The spring concert had once again become my responsibility. I junked August’s modified version of “Chorale from Jupiter” and every other ridiculous piece he’d chosen. No one in the band was enjoying themselves, with August’s stern way of conducting and finicky need for perfection. Instead, I selected a few fun compositions, including a medley of show tunes. We didn’t have much time to start fresh—the concert was in May—but the scores were simple enough that the students would have no trouble pulling them together.

Constance stayed every day after school to rehearse our duet or play with the band. She remained sullen and withdrawn, avoiding friends, avoiding Cody—whose cloudy countenance mimicked his disaffected girlfriend’s.

August’s departure had a rippling effect on both our lives, and those ripples spread outward.

Over the course of two weeks, Koa approached me more than once to say he had concerns. Constance’s work was perpetually incomplete, and what she did submit was subpar at best. It was the same in all her classes. The only reason I suspected her music didn’t suffer was because I had become her leaning post, and music was an outlet, but even then, she didn’t talk to me about August.

A month went by. The elusive musician who I could hardly consider a boyfriend called a handful of times. I refused to answer, at once angry at his irresponsibility and too afraid I’d resort to begging him to come back. I’d exposed my heart and left myself vulnerable, and I’d never been good at closing doors once they were open.

In April, Constance started skipping classes and gave up on her music. Once, I got pulled from teaching because another student from her dorm reported she’d left with plans to hitchhike to Toronto in search of her mother. Thankfully, for as worldly as Constance could be, her street smarts left much to be desired, so I caught up with her at a bus stop in Peterborough.

“Get in,” I said, pulling up alongside the curb.

She didn’t argue, slipping miserably into the passenger seat, wedging an overfull backpack between her legs. I didn’t scold or lecture her. It wasn’t my place. Instead, I drove back to the school and walked her to class.

Before she entered, I caught her arm. “So you’re aware, every time you pull a stunt like this, I’m the one you’re punishing, not him. I’m the one getting pulled from work. I’m the one suffering.”

I’m sorry.

“After class this afternoon, I want you to stick around. I need help with something.”

She donned a quizzical expression, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Get going.”

At the end of the day, Constance remained seated as the rest of the fourth-period music students packed their instruments.

“You won’t need that.” I motioned to her violin.

She put it away and sat rigid, peering over the music stand as I tidied my desk. Once the rest of the students were gone, I moved to the piano and sat.

Are we practicing our duet? she signed

“No.” I spread the complex piano piece I’d been studying for years on the rack. “I need your help. I’ve struggled with this piece for a long time, and I want to open with it at the concert. The first time your dad heard it, he criticized my playing. It was a punch to the gut. I’ve been sore about it since and haven’t gone near it.”

Constance approached and peered over my shoulder to see what I’d arranged on the rack.

He’s a perfectionist, she signed.

“Yes. To a fault… To his own detriment. I’m going to play it for you, and I’ll probably butcher it, but I want you to be honest and tell me what you think. If it’s a lost cause, say so.”

You want my feedback? Constance seemed perplexed at the request.

“Yes. You’re a far better pianist than me, and I value your opinion.”

You don’t value my dad’s?

I chuckled. “I do, but…” I recalled August’s words. “He has the harsh presence of a conductor, and I have the soft heart of a teacher. I wasn’t made for the stage. When someone yells at me or points out my flaws, I dig a hole and bury myself inside.”

He yelled at you?

“No. But he certainly told it like it was, and I need gentler handling. I’ve seen you work with Cody. You have a gift, Constance. You’d make an excellent teacher.”

For the first time in a month, Constance stood taller, and her face brightened.

“Will you help me improve this mess?”

She nodded and gestured for me to play.

Playing Gaspard de la Nuit had been a goal of mine since graduating from teacher’s college. I went through phases of heavy practicing before giving up, never satisfied I did it justice. As I played for Constance, she lingered close, following along and moving the sheet music when required.

I stumbled over the worst transitions but didn’t let it stop me. When I finished, I dropped my hands into my lap and sighed. “That was a train wreck.”

Constance slipped onto the piano bench beside me and shook her head, rearranging the music. Not at all. You inject so much emotion into your playing. I love it. So many people simply play the notes without feeling. I felt that. It was powerful. I have some tricks that might help with the transitions.

We worked together for an hour, Constance overly cautious not to step on my toes or hurt my feelings. The request for assistance started as a means of giving her something to focus on, but the heart she put into the task seemed to help soothe the sting of other issues.

By the middle of May, Constance showed signs of adjusting to her new reality. Her temperament improved, and her grades went up. Friends regathered, and Cody smiled anew.

It was me who’d taken on her suffering. August had been gone seven weeks, and we’d barely spoken. To shield my heart, I still refused his calls and kept texting to a minimum. He continued to assure me of his return, but I quit believing in him. Soon was the only date he’d given when I asked for a time frame.

The longer he was away, the more I understood Constance’s assessment. Was she right? Was he never coming back?

With a week until the spring concert, my mood plummeted. Koa invited me over several times for wine and conversation, but his morose outlook on life—however restored by Jersey’s companionship—didn’t invoke positivity.

Constance noticed, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. My teaching suffered. The energy in the classroom tanked, and I stopped sleeping well.

During an afternoon rehearsal, when we’d exhausted playing the duet, Constance leaned her head on my shoulder in silent commiseration. I had no doubt we were thinking about the same person. August Castellanos.

He’d abandoned us both.

Chapter twenty-nine

Niles

From center stage, I peered into the empty auditorium as my fourth-period class arranged the risers and brought the chairs and music stands from the classroom. Koa would assist in moving the piano after school. I didn’t trust fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds to its care and couldn’t do it safely on my own.

Not for the first time, I imagined a more prolific stage in a grander location than a high school. I thought of August, seated in his precious first chair, playing with the Chicago Symphony, oblivious to the destruction he’d left behind.

Then I remembered a time many months ago, after a different concert, when I’d kissed him in the back row of the auditorium. I stared at those same two seats, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Had that kiss been the catalyst of all this pain? Had I gone home that night and not turned around to see August reseating himself, might it all have been different?

“Mr. Edwidge,” Cody interrupted. “We can’t find the dolly for the timpani and drum set.”

I blinked from my daze. “You’ll have to locate a custodian. It will be in the storage room, and you’ll need the keys. Move them carefully, please. They cost nearly as much as your tuition.” Not true but a lie to promote caution didn’t hurt. Cody nodded and ran off.

He and Constance were glued at the hip. I imagined August would have been stressed about their blossoming love, but I wasn’t confident in my assessment of the man anymore. For all I knew, he didn’t care. Besides, young love came and went with the seasons, so Constance and Cody’s relationship likely wouldn’t last. By next year, she might find someone else.

“Mr. Edwidge,” came a shout from overhead in the booth. “Can you help us with the soundboard?”

I glanced up, shielding my eyes against the overhead lights, and found Samantha and Donny peering down from the small window. “Find Matthew. He knows how to hook it up and set the levels.”

“Mr. Edwidge,” this from a puzzled Nadine at the back of the stage, “is this curtain supposed to be opened or closed?”

“Closed. Trinity, you’ll need to bring the chairs closer together, or we won’t all fit. Nice and snug.”

A tug on my sleeve had me turning. Constance.

“What’s up?”

She handed me the sheet music I’d been practicing for an eternity, the same piece she’d been helping me perfect for weeks. It had a long way to go before it would be stage-worthy. My previous ambition had faltered.

“I don’t think I’ll be tackling that one tonight. I’m not ready.”

She nodded and thrust it into my hands, forcing me to take it. I’d been debating not performing at all. A newfound sense of humiliation had me second-guessing myself. For years I’d opened the shows, but how pitiful, how pathetic. It proved nothing. It was the sign of a desperate man seeking approval.

Parents still complained. Dr. McCaine still tried to give my job away.

But the anguished look in Constance’s eyes changed my mind. She’d experienced enough disappointment for one lifetime. I would play if she wanted me to, even if it painted my flaws in red ink. I had enlisted her help and wanted her to know I valued all she’d done to get me this far.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

A faint smile touched her lips. You’ll be amazing, she signed.

The show opened at six. With the dimming of the houselights, a hush settled over the audience. A spotlight appeared center stage with my entrance. I stopped in its aura and peered at what I knew to be a large crowd. The blinding lights shining in my eyes obscured faces. I could make out forms, but nothing more. The farther back from the first row, the less distinct their images.

I spoke, thanking everyone for coming, reminding them of the house rules against food and beverages, the courtesy of not having their phones on, and the law against recording the performance.

As was the custom, I sat at the piano, Gaspard de la Nuit taunting from the rack. Constance came on stage to turn pages and offered a reassuring smile. I smiled back but couldn’t help but imagine Ravel and August sharing a drink and cringing over what was to come.

Choosing the piece was insanity, but the presence of the young girl at my side encouraged me to take the plunge.

Was my playing perfect? No. I fumbled once in a random spot that had never tripped me up, but I continued, covering the error well.

Did I manage the transitions between movements? Miraculously, yes. For the first time ever, I crossed those bridges without making a mistake.

I played the piece to completion. As I bowed and took my place at the conductor’s stand, Constance gave me an approving nod. The students filed in to take their seats as a nugget of pride warmed my chest.

The concert progressed smoothly with duets, solos, and several ensembles. The burst of applause at its conclusion reminded me how much I loved my job despite the constant shadow of inauthenticity hanging over my head.

Any attempt at maintaining professionalism went out the window the second the houselights came up. Students flowed from backstage to greet parents they hadn’t seen in ages. I stood off to the side, observing the commotion, the loving embraces and claps on the back.

Constance joined me, standing close. She wasn’t my daughter, but she belonged to the man I loved, and over the past few months, I drew strength from her and she from me.

“You did great.”

You too, she signed.

I would need to mingle and talk to parents at some point, but I wasn’t ready. Content on the sideline, I listened to the buzz of indistinct conversations, of students’ energetic chatter and parents’ layered praises, when an off-sounding noise caught my ear.

Constance grabbed my arm before I could figure out what I’d heard. But the sound came again, quiet and raspy, its tone flat yet inflected.

“Daddy. It’s Daddy.” Constance pointed at the same moment I realized the noise had come from her mouth, and they were words.

Stunned at hearing her speak for the first time, it took her shaking my arm to understand the meaning behind what she’d said.

“Look.”

I followed where she gestured, and there in the back row, exactly where he’d sat at the Christmas concert, where we’d shared an intimate moment, was August, aiming a nervous smile in our direction.

He waved, and Constance ran. For a moment, I thought she would tackle her father to the ground and beat him black and blue from anger, but she dove into his arms, nearly knocking him down, and wrapped her limbs around him in a tight embrace. Then, she buried her face in his neck and cried.

My shock mirrored August’s. Mine from having discovered his presence, and his, I thought, from the reception he’d received from his daughter. He, too, must have expected abuse, not love.

Suddenly nervous, I made my way toward them, wishing I could find the anger I’d harbored in his absence but discovering nothing but longing and love in my heart. Was he back for good or to officially say goodbye?

By the time I reached the rear of the auditorium, Constance was on her feet again, peering up at her father with such heart-wrenching anguish I wanted to reach out and protect her, which was stupid. He was her father.

Constance touched the scarf covering her neck and spoke, the words rough and toneless, as clear as she could make them, but audible and unmistakable. “Don’t leave. I’ll talk. Please don’t go, Daddy. I want you here.”

It was August who cried then, and it looked like his knees might buckle. Fat tears spilled from his eyes as he looked at his daughter in awe. He cupped her face. “I’m staying, baby girl. I promise. Forever and ever.” Then his gaze shifted to me, and he said it again. “I’m staying.”

Constance fell into his arms and remained there for a long time. August hugged her tight, chin resting on the top of her head. Our time apart no longer mattered. If Constance could forgive and forget, if she could trust in August’s return, how could I do less?

He held out a hand, encouraging me to take it. When I did, he drew me into their embrace, so Constance was snug between us, and the dynamic did not pass me by. We’d become a unit. A shaky family in the making.

August whispered in my ear. “I love you, Niles. I know I hurt you. I know you’re mad. Forgive my extended absence. It wasn’t without purpose. I swear. You’ll know the reason soon enough.” Without reticence, he kissed my temple in front of an auditorium full of parents and students. When I faced him, shocked at the gesture from this once reluctant man, his mouth shamelessly landed on mine.

A heady rush of blood swamped my veins. When we came apart, he said it again as he brushed a thumb over my cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too, you bastard.”

He chuckled. “I deserve that.”

“I expect a full explanation.”

“You’ll get one.”

After an extended period where the three of us simply existed, I pulled free. “I have to mingle.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.” Before I could back away, he caught my hand. “Your playing was brilliant, by the way. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

“Don’t fluff my feathers, Maestro.”

“I’m not. You shine on stage.”

Constance’s smile seemed to agree.

My talent and August’s were incomparable, but I graciously accepted the compliment.

It took forty minutes to clear the auditorium. Forty minutes to chat with parents and congratulate students on a job well done. I found Constance and August in the music room, the former grinning ear to ear as the latter fumbled through a series of rough sign language gestures.

“I’ve… been… learning.” August slowly made the signs as he spoke. “It’s… harder than it… looks, but I’m… getting there. If you sign slowly… I might understand now.”

Constance pushed his hands down and touched her throat. “I’ll talk.”

He cupped her face. “Only if you’re comfortable. I won’t get mad anymore. I was wrong to insist. How have you been? I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too. I don’t want to perform anymore. I want to be a music teacher like Niles. Is that okay?”

My heart about melted, but I bit my lip, waiting to hear how August would take the news.

“Of course it’s okay. You can be whatever you want to be. I’ll support you regardless, and a teacher is an amazing career choice.”

“Mom will be mad.”

“Mom doesn’t get a say in your future. Only you get a say.”

August noticed me in the doorway, and we shared a smile. “Did you hear that? My daughter is going to be a music teacher someday.”

“I heard.” Constance and I shared a smile. “It’s a rewarding profession, and she’ll excel at it.”

August’s features softened. Maybe he read the hesitation in my body language. “I’m back for good, Niles.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I’ll be staying at the cottage for now, but I’m house hunting in Peterborough. I sold my condo in Chicago.”

“What about the symphony?” Constance asked.

“I quit.”

Her eyes grew as wide and round as my own.

“You quit?” I stepped into the room and joined them. “What will you do for work? You said—”

“I know. It’s part of the reason I had to leave for a while. I had to… organize an alternative. For now, I won’t work at all, at least for anyone else.” He looked at Constance. “I’m going to take care of my daughter and focus on some unfinished projects. I’ve put a bug in the ear of the music director here in Toronto. I have solid references, so we’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’ve… been assured a stable income.”

“How? You’re being elusive again.”

A mischievous look came into August’s eyes. “On purpose. Don’t make plans for Saturday evening. The three of us are going to Toronto.”

“For what?” I asked, brow furrowing.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise. I’ve pulled some strings, and… I can’t say more. I do hope you’ll join me.”

Constance and I shared a puzzled look. Mutually agreeing, Constance said, “We’ll be there.”

***

“We have a lot to discuss,” I said when we were alone later that evening.

We had gone to dinner as a family, and after, August escorted Constance to her dorm room. I hung back, allowing father and daughter a moment to find their feet. His time away had nearly erased the teenage animosity, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think it gone.

Constance clung to her father, checking in regularly as though fearing he might vanish at any moment. Although she was too self-conscious to use her voice at the restaurant, she signed slowly enough to ensure August understood her words. The commendable effort didn’t go unnoticed. Constance glowed with pride and grew misty-eyed when her father understood her silent language. August, in turn, got emotional every time Constance spoke.

Returning to the cottage that evening proved difficult. Without Constance as a buffer, the painful weeks of August’s absence surfaced. He must have sensed it too. Pacing, August made a mess of his tie, constantly moving the knot askew and wedging a finger under the collar until it hung loose and off-center. Eventually depositing himself at the piano, he lifted the fallboard and ran a finger over the ivories.

I remained in the doorway, analyzing the situation, afraid to hope.

“How much damage has my absence caused?” August stared at his hands, emitting waves of discontent.

I considered, glancing distractedly about the room as though the answer might pop out from behind the couch or fall from a high shelf. The stagnant interior of the cottage spoke of dormancy, but memories of our winter together hung like ghostly impressions everywhere I looked.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

August turned to face me. “I’ve made mistakes, Niles. With you. With Constance. I had a lot of time to reflect on those errors.”

“And what did you discover?”

He reached for his tie, thought better of it, tore it off completely and tossed it aside before settling with his elbows on his knees, fingers linked, focusing on the floor. “I discovered that on the big stage, under the spotlights, and in front of audiences numbered in the hundreds, I’m a lonely man. People idolize me, but they don’t know who I am outside my name and status. Heck, until recently, I didn’t know who I was either. I present different versions of myself to the world to fit an expectation, but I was never authentically me, and I didn’t realize how damaging such a thing could be to one’s psyche.

“Creative minds tend to come up with creative scenarios for what they perceive will be the outcome of particular situations. In doing so, I’ve made those outcomes scarier in my head. Reality has proven to be quite anticlimactic.”

“You’ve lost me.”

August glanced up from under a wary brow, meeting my gaze. “I told my musical director I was moving to Peterborough because I’d met someone while seeing to my daughter’s educational needs. Returning to Chicago about tore me in half. I told him that too. When he asked who she was, intrigued at the prospect that his first chair flutist, a man who’d sworn off relationships, was looking to settle down, I told him he was the music teacher at Timber Creek Academy, and I’d fallen in love.”

I absorbed the words, stunned silent for half a beat. “You came out to him?”

A slight nod. “To my entire ensemble. My parents too. Or rather, I confirmed my bisexuality had not gone away by ignoring it. They showed less enthusiasm for the announcement, as I presumed they might, but they know how to find me when it sinks in and they want to chat again. Plus, I’m the sole caregiver of their granddaughter, and they love Constance dearly. They’ll get over it.”

“And you’re moving here?”

“Yes.”

“To Peterborough?”

“When I find a place. Dr. McCaine may not be pleased I declined her offer, but she assured me the cottage was mine until I was ready to move.”

Instinctively, my overly sentimental heart wanted to extend an invitation for August to move in with me, but the impulsivity caught up with me in time, and I held my tongue. “Take your time looking,” I said instead.

“I will.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

The air grew thick with longing. It was there in his dark eyes. He wanted me to go to him, and I desperately wanted to step into his arms and forget the past two months.

“Will you stay the night?” His quiet words held hesitance. “I understand if you don’t want to.”

“Tell me you love me.”

August stood and approached. He took my hand. “I love you, Niles. Truly.”

“Tell me you aren’t going to leave again.”

He tipped his forehead against mine. “Never. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stay?”

“Yes.” His mouth landed on mine, and the night evaporated into a culmination of longing and lust and love.

Chapter thirty

August

“Stop touching your tie.” Niles smacked my hand when I moved to adjust it yet again. “It’s straight, and you keep messing it up.”

“Are you sure I look okay?” I smoothed a hand over the lapel of my suit jacket. Niles hadn’t questioned my need to gussy up, but he had wondered aloud if he wasn’t dressed well enough.

I’d played the role of beguiler all evening, inviting Niles and Constance to believe we were attending a show at Roy Thompson Hall. We were, in essence, but not in the vein they expected.

I wasn’t supposed to be in the lobby, mingling with showgoers. I was supposed to be hiding backstage with my ensemble, preparing for the special performance I’d spent the past two months organizing. The pressure of such an insane deadline almost killed me, but my need to get back to Niles and Constance kept me pushing forward.

Getting them inside the hall without seeing the brightly lit marquee advertising Guest Conductor Augustus Castellanos debuting A Night of Salvation had taken more skill than was necessary.

My face, instantly recognized by the lobby staff, caused a buzz. Queer looks passed between them, but thankfully no one dared question the maestro. The six-foot-tall banner was a problem in and of itself. I was certain Constance had spotted it since she turned a devious grin in my direction, but Niles had remained oblivious, more focused on quizzing me about the show.

When an usher offered Niles a program, I shooed her off with an edge of rudeness that didn’t go unnoticed.

“What is up with you? Why did you do that?” he asked.

“For reasons. Can I buy you a glass of wine?” I steered him toward the bar.

Constance wandered the grand lobby. A few staff appeared to recognize her from the Christmas performance in December.

Niles accepted a glass of wine and sipped it cautiously, eyeing me with a dissecting glare the entire time. When I took my wallet out to pay, he arched a brow. “You’re not having one?”

“Not tonight.” As much as a drink would calm my nerves, I couldn’t risk any amount of intoxication prior to a show.

The house doors opened at seven thirty. I followed Niles and Constance to the reserved seats I’d secured upfront. For the time being, I sat with them, admiring the stage, my stomach a flutter. It had been years since stage jitters had made their formal appearance. Notoriously confident under the spotlight, I was used to minor ticks upsetting my system, but the sweaty palms and steady tremble were unusual.

I waited until as close to showtime as was feasible before standing. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Now? The show starts in less than ten minutes,” Niles hissed. “They’ll close the house doors and won’t let you back in.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Constance smirked, and I offered her a wink before hustling up the aisle.

When the houselights dimmed and the stage lights brightened on the conductor’s stand, I walked into its aura. The entire orchestra had filed in already and sat quietly in their seats, instruments at hand, patiently waiting for me to guide them along this magical night.

Warmed from the applauding attention of a full audience and knowing Niles was among them, I stood taller, smiling and tipping my head in acknowledgment until the clapping dissipated.

“Good evening. I’ll keep this short since you didn’t pay to hear me talk.” A smattering of chuckles rippled through the spacious hall. “I’m Maestro Augustus Castellanos, and I’m honored to be here this evening. For those of you familiar with my work, you also know the rarity with which I share it.

“Tonight marks two special occasions. Not only am I debuting a new symphony, but I’m celebrating the launch of a very special album.” A murmur erupted in the crowd. I smiled. “Yes, you heard right. A Night of Salvation, the performance you are about to witness, is a compilation of some of my finest pieces. Ones that have been awarded top recognition in the classical music industry. Ones that have been performed in various cities worldwide. For the first time in my career, I have agreed to have them recorded and made available to all.”

I waited as the applause died down. “The featured piece on the album, however, has never been heard. You will be the first to attend its magic. I’ve titled it ‘Symphony of Salvation,’ and before we begin, I want to tell you the story of how this piece came into being.”

I paused, gathering my thoughts as I sought Niles in the audience. Making eye contact under the assault of the spotlight was impossible, but I knew he was there, watching and listening. I wished I could see his face and know his thoughts.

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked the audience as a whole. A few whispers arose, nothing clear enough to make out. “Well, up until a few months ago, I knew not what it meant to fall in love with another person. I knew about love in a different sense. My love of music. Familial love, particularly for my daughter.” I motioned to where she sat. “I love a glass of wine at dinner and the feel of sand between my toes at the beach. I love croissants. I love snowflakes melting on my cheeks. But the love that most people experience, the bonding of two individuals in a way that goes deeper than friendship or acquaintance was foreign to me. I didn’t think I was built for love of that kind… until I met Niles Edwidge.”

The steady pounding of my heart radiated in my throat and thumped in my ears. Met with silence, I feared I’d made a grave mistake and would be booed for the first time in my life. Not knowing what to do, I kept talking.

“My life took a drastic turn at the end of last year. Circumstances brought me to a private academy on the outskirts of Peterborough. It was there in the presence of a highly underrated music teacher when I first heard the notes inside my head.”

I chuckled. “Before you think me off-kilter, hearing music is common with musicians. It’s how symphonies are born. I have no doubt Mozart or Handel experienced something similar every time they took pen to paper. But this music was different, and I quickly learned it was born from an emotion I had never experienced. The more I got to know Timber Creek’s music teacher, the more complex and beautiful the music became.”

At this point, I hesitated, knowing the truths I planned to present could never be taken back, but I’d set the ball in motion, and for Niles, I would not back down.

“There was a moment when conflict over my growing feelings put a barrier between Niles and me. It also put a barrier between the symphony inside my mind and my ability to hear it through to the end. ‘Symphony of Salvation’ is the story of growth and self-acceptance. It’s a depiction of a love I never knew could exist.” I turned to the man I couldn’t quite see. “This is for you, Niles. I’m sorry its creation took me away from you for a short time. I hope you can forgive me.”

I scanned the audience. “Shall we begin?”

Thunderous applause exploded from the packed hall. A few patrons whooped and cheered. No one booed. A warmth filled my chest as I turned to the orchestra, took up the baton, and held it at the ready.

The special performance lasted shy of two hours, and upon completion, I earned a standing ovation. Misty-eyed, I glanced to the first row and motioned for Niles to approach the stage. From what I could make out under the assault of the lights, Constance had to give him a shove.

He mounted the stairs on the side and joined me. A crescendo of applause followed as I took him into my arms, hugging him fiercely and kissing his temple.

“You’re forgiven,” he said above the noise.

“Did you like it?”

He pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “Are you kidding? It was the most incredible thing I’ve heard in my life.”

“You are my salvation, Niles Edwidge. My life was stale and mechanical without you. I love you with all my heart.”

He touched my face, his warm palm cradling my cheek. “And I you.”

It took time for the hubbub to die down. My appearance was requested in the lobby. I signed programs and spoke with many people while Niles and Constance gave me space. The announcement of the recorded album came as a shock to many, including my daughter.

It was time. I wasn’t sure why I’d been so against selling my work. Why I’d persisted in ignoring producers’ offers. The album and selling the rights to my creations gave me the freedom to shift the focus of my career away from the stage to where it belonged. On family. On committing to a man who brought a spark to my once mundane life.

I was no longer afraid to be who I was and would do anything to prove it to Niles.

Later that night, after Constance had gone to bed, Niles and I enjoyed a celebratory glass of wine. Surprising me, he sat at the piano and played one of his own creations.

“I know people,” I said when he finished. “If you ever want a producer.”

“It’s not that good.”

“It has potential.”

Niles chuckled. “Maybe you can help me improve it.”

“I’d love to.”

He stared up from his spot on the piano bench with a serious expression.

“What is it?”

“I think…” He tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “I think you should move in with me.”

Bewildered, I floundered, unsure how to respond. “Really?”

“Yes… or eventually. I don’t know. Is it too soon? I tend to rush things and—”

I approached, taking his upturned face in my hands. “I love you, Niles.”

“And I love you. Is it crazy?”

“No, but how about we wait until the new school year.”

A furrow marred his brow.

“Hear me out. It’s May. Come June, Constance won’t be on campus anymore. She will be at home with me again.”

“I know that. I don’t mind.”

“If we wait until September, it gives you and me time to find our feet again. It gives me time to bond with my daughter—properly this time. When she goes back to school, we can make the shift. Then we will have time to get used to living together before she has a holiday, and it’s the three of us again.”

Niles nodded. “That makes sense.”

“September?”

“Yes.”

I kissed him, and the music inside me soared.

Epilogue

Niles- Labor Day Weekend

Slowly, I peeled the paper from the decal, holding my breath as though restricting airflow might ensure perfect adhesion. Constance and I had spent a solid hour measuring and marking the wall for its placement so it would lay precisely where she wanted it.

When the paper popped free, I exhaled and peered along the musical staff with its delicately placed notes to where it ended on the far side of the wall.

Behind me, Constance giddily clapped. “You did it.”

“We did it.”

“We. Thank you, Niles.” She used her voice a lot more lately—with August and me—despite hating its flat, husky tone, despite August’s growing proficiency with American Sign Language.

I glanced over my shoulder at where she stood at the base of the ladder. We shared a smile and took in the room with its fresh coat of paint and personalized adornments.

“That about does it. Time to move your furniture in.”

Constance pirouetted and danced about the room, wonder sparkling in her vibrant eyes. She had come to life over the past few months, smiling more and settling down.

“Dad,” she called into the house. “Come see. We’re done.”

On September first, August and Constance shut down the cottage, packed their belongings, and moved in with me.

Constance might have been returning to school on Tuesday morning and relocating to the dormitories to live among her classmates, but she deserved a space at home too, a bedroom to decorate as she pleased for when she returned for holidays and summer break.

I’d made it happen, converting a rarely used office into a suitable teenage dwelling. We’d chosen soft lavender paint and spent the past week coating the walls and shopping for customized decorations. The music decals provided the finishing touch.

Constance had declined August’s offer to live at home during the school year. The distance and fact that I taught at the school would have meant easy access, but the thrill of dorm living hadn’t worn off—she’d barely experienced it—and Constance eagerly counted the days before she could return to school in the same capacity as everyone else at Timber Creek.

Her relationship with her father grew in increments. Baby steps forward. It wasn’t perfect, and August still struggled to understand teenage mood swings. He didn’t take things as personally as before, but there were days I caught the two in mid-battle and had to break things up.

Constance had visited her mother a few times, but their bond had lessened as Constance slowly acknowledged and accepted what she’d been through. Her announcement that she wanted to teach had not gone well with the retired prima donna, and Chloé blamed August for polluting her brain.

As for August and me, our relationship flourished. The anger I’d clung to when he went back to Chicago was a distant memory. We’d talked for long hours about the changes he’d made to his life and about our future. He worried I couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive him, but forgiveness was easy when I absorbed the whole picture.

August had never lied. He’d never made promises he couldn’t keep, and for that, I loved him fearlessly, passionately, wholly, and completely. He was a man of strong morals and profound dedication—to his job and family. And I’d become part of that family.

We were both flawed. We both struggled with uncertainties. His oblivious arrogance drove me up the wall some days, but my self-doubt did the same to him. Ultimately, we learned to laugh and support each other through our imperfections.

August appeared in the doorway and glanced at the new decal. “Wow. It looks lovely, and might I say, I’m eternally grateful the notes are hung in the correct direction.”

“Dad.” Constance rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be a shit.” I tossed him a wad of crumpled paper from the back of the sticker.

August caught it, chuckling. “What? It’s a reasonable concern. I distinctly remember fixing incorrectly hung music notes on your classroom door nearly daily.”

“And you blame me for that?”

“It was your classroom.”

I deadpanned.

August laughed again and scanned the room, nodding. “It looks fantastic.”

“Can we set up my furniture?” Constance pressed her hands together in prayer formation. “Please, Daddy.”

I checked the time. “You can start if you want, but your dad and I have dinner plans tonight, remember? Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

Constance wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Dining with two of her teachers on the last day of summer vacation was not high on her list of fun activities, and I’d told Koa as much when he’d invited us over.

“Just don’t hurt yourself. Save the larger pieces for when we’re home to help.”

“I will.” She dashed down the hall, and the hollow thunk of footsteps descending the stairs to the basement sounded a moment later. We’d temporarily moved her boxes down there while we worked on her bedroom.

“Are you ready?” I asked August as I folded the stepladder and collected the rest of the garbage from the decals.

“I am. Are you?” He scanned my person.

“Ten minutes. I have to change.”

We were out the door in eight, August shouting a warning to his daughter about having boys over when we weren’t home. She either ignored him or rolled her eyes in the privacy of her room.

“I thought she and Cody broke up.” I buckled my seat belt and eyed August.

“No. They’re back together.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

I chuckled. “Teenage love. It’s so finicky.”

August drove. He’d been flaunting his newly leased vehicle since he got it a few weeks ago. I didn’t mind and texted Koa to tell him we were on our way.

Although August had met Jersey and Koa several times in passing, we’d never officially done anything as couples. I’d needed to have August all to myself for a time before I was ready and willing to share him. Also, formally introducing August to my ex, a man I’d been intimately involved with for over a year, who was now my best friend, was strange.

Jersey greeted us at the door and motioned toward the kitchen. “The chef is hard at work. If he’s behind schedule, I take full responsibility.”

“Save it. I don’t want to know.”

Jersey chuckled. “Believe me, I wish that was the reason.”

We found Koa hard at work at the counter, a glass of wine within reach. A mixture of spicy and savory smells permeated the air. Classical music played softly in the background.

The island was littered with a mountain of books, all of them either tabbed or lying open, the pages weighed down with various kitchen implements.

“Ignore the mess. I would have cleaned, but…” He eyed Jersey.

“I said I was sorry.”

“We’ll eat in the dining room.” Koa turned back to the counter.

“What are you working on?” I rotated a few books to view their spines and read their titles.

“I’m rearranging parts of my curriculum and choosing new material. I need to freshen it up.”

“Holy crap. Are you finally moving out of your depressive era?”

Jersey laughed, almost choking on his beer, earning a tight-lipped glare from his partner. “Sorry,” Jersey mumbled, still chuckling.

To Koa, I said, “I take it that would be a no.”

“No.”

“You’re not adding Faulkner, are you?”

“Honestly, Niles. Do you think my students would take to Faulkner?”

“Not in this lifetime. What’s for dinner?” I asked before he could rant about my poor literary opinions.

“Lebanese cuisine. Mujadara, tabbouleh, and pistachio baklava for dessert.” He nearly spat the last menu item like he wasn’t pleased.

I quirked a brow.

“The baklava is homemade,” Jersey added.

“The cake was too,” Koa spat.

“Cake?” I asked.

“He tried a cake thing first, but—”

“Tried? The effort isn’t the issue, Jersey. The cake was sensational.” Koa chopped with more vigor. “Rather, it would have been sensational, but my lovely partner got into it, and there was nothing left but crumbs, so I had to start again. I didn’t have enough ingredients to remake the cake, so you get baklava and a late supper since it put me behind.”

Jersey at least had the grace to look ashamed. “I didn’t know it was meant for dinner. It was delicious.”

“You’ve said. Wine?” Koa asked, wiping his hands on a towel.

August perked up. “That would be lovely.”

“In the fridge. Niles, would you be so kind? I’m busy.”

I found glasses and retrieved a bottle of Zinfandel. “This one?”

“Yes.” Koa gestured to the bottle with a tip of his head. “It’s Lebanese as well, both rich in aroma and flavor. Let me know what you think.”

As appreciative of good wine as Koa, August accepted the challenge, examining the color and aerating it before taking a minimal sip and sloshing it around his mouth. He turned thoughtful, and Koa paused dinner preparation to study my partner as he awaited the verdict.

“Oh boy,” Jersey and I said at the same time.

“This could get ugly.” Jersey took the words out of my mouth.

I feared August and Koa’s fervent love for wine might cause disagreements. They shared a passion and bullheadedness I was only then coming to realize.

August licked residual wine from his lips before speaking. “Finding an appropriate accompanying wine for Lebanese food can be challenging. The cuisine tends to utilize several particular spices that are hard to match, but I find selecting one with a similar structure of flavors helps.” He sipped again, examined the meal Koa prepared, and nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice. I couldn’t have done better.”

“Oh, thank god,” I muttered, knees almost buckling. “I was afraid you might bring the fires of hell down upon us.”

Seemingly pleased with August’s assessment, Koa shifted his gaze to me, brows meeting in the middle. Before he could open his mouth, I held up a finger. “Yes, I know. There is no god, and the only hell that exists is in your classroom during the winter semester when you teach existentialism.”

Koa guffawed.

Jersey snorted beer out his nose and went into a coughing fit to try to cover it up.

August quirked a brow with a smile.

I sipped my wine and smirked. “You’re right,” I said to August. “This is good wine.”

Koa pointed at August. “He’s your problem now.”

“Isn’t he delightful?” August wrapped an arm around me and drew me against his side, pecking a kiss on my temple. I warmed at the contact, leaning against him and taking comfort in his scent and solidity.

Koa’s animosity shifted to a look of contentment. “He is. Welcome to the family, August. I haven’t seen Niles this happy in a long time.”

Koa returned to meal prep, and Jersey joined him, offering to help.

I took August’s hand and led him into the large den so we wouldn’t be in the way. August took in the high bookshelves before zeroing in on the piano in the corner. “Does Koa play?”

“Yes, but his love for music is complicated. Tainted, in a way. It’s a long story. Music requires you to emotionally invest in yourself. One must be willing to risk exposure, be vulnerable, and display one’s true heart to the audience. Koa’s never been able to do that. He’s… emotionally compromised, and I say that kindly. It’s not his fault. But how can you properly translate the meaning behind what the composer has written if you’re afraid to bear your soul?”

August released my hand and approached the piano, lifting the fallboard. He tinkled a few keys before shifting and meeting my gaze. A thoughtful expression glimmered in his dark eyes. “You believe that?”

“Of course. You don’t? Music is a communication of raw emotion.”

“In that case, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.”

“I’m not following.”

“Maybe you don’t remember this, or maybe it bears less significance for you, but shortly after my return from Chicago, you sat down at the piano and played for me. I didn’t ask you to. You simply decided on your own to take that step. Before that day, you rarely shared your music. Getting you to play anything was a struggle. But in that moment, your reticence vanished. It was the first time I saw you play with confidence. Ever since that night, you’ve lost all inhibition. You don’t second-guess yourself and are no longer tense or fearful of judgment. Your music reflects those changes. It’s become soulful and deep. Moving… beautiful.”

It was true, but I didn’t understand the relevance.

August lowered the fallboard and approached. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear from where it had fallen from the tie. “Based on your logic, you are no longer afraid to be vulnerable in front of me. You openly and willingly display your heart, and—”

“I’m emotionally invested,” I finished.

August smiled and cupped my cheek. “Exactly. You trust me… This.”

“I do.”

“You have no idea how happy that makes me. I love you, Niles… you’re my salvation.”

August’s lips met mine, and I’d never felt more at peace. Maybe a symphony was locked inside me, too, ready to be brought to life.

Have you read...

Promises of Forever (Timber Creek Academy)

This is Koa and Jersey's story

Life can change on a dime.

Childhood tragedy left Koa Burgard with many scars. Reclusive and still healing, he is sent to summer camp, where the other kids tease and bully him. All except outgoing and popular Jersey Reid. A boy who dreams about being a hockey star. A tentative friendship forms. Every summer, they reconnect for adventure. Every winter, they write letters back and forth.

Promises are made, and promises are shattered.

Thirty years later, the sudden death of his parents brings Jersey home. Rotten things keep happening. His life has been full of torment and pain, and he can’t remember a time when he was happy.

Will it ever stop?

Cleaning out his deceased parents’ house, he uncovers Koa’s pen pal letters. Can Jersey recapture the happiness and innocence of youth by reconnecting with the strange, quirky boy he befriended at camp so long ago? Or will his prior mistakes be a barrier?

Although Koa is now a respectable English teacher at an elite boarding school, Jersey quickly learns that the boy from camp has darker secrets than he ever imagined.

Koa has given up on happiness. His views on life are bleak and disturbing, and he’s learned it’s better to be alone in an unforgiving world.

Jersey’s return offsets Koa’s balance and brings the past back into focus. A past he’s spent a lifetime trying to forget.

But Jersey was Koa’s savior once. He was kind when no one else was. Jersey made him feel safe in an unsafe world.

Until Jersey broke a promise.

And promises are supposed to be for forever.

** Promises of Forever is an angsty MM romance with the following themes. Second chance love, jock and nerd dynamic, opposites attract, mental health. Please check the trigger warnings on my website **

Dear Readers

Thank you so much for reading. Reviews are always appreciated so please consider leaving a few words on Amazon, Goodreads, or Bookbub. Every little bit counts. Be sure to follow me on Amazon or Bookbub so you don’t miss out on new releases Please consider signing up for my newsletter and be the first to hear about upcoming releases, view exclusive teasers and secret snippets, and hear about events where I’ll be signing. Lastly, come join in the fun in my reader group on Facebook. Daily interactions and all kinds of giveaways happening at random. Join today: Nicky’s Tortured Souls

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The Christmas I Know

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The One That Got Away

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Everything I didn’t Know

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Unstable Connections

Inevitable Disclosure

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About the Author

Nicky James is a Canadian author with 50+ MM romance titles under her belt. She writes across many subgenres including mystery, suspense, high angst, and high-stakes adventure always with a good dose of mental health representation in the mix. When she's not at her keyboard, you might find her pushing iron at the gym, drinking coffee, petting her three cats, or simply reading a good book.