11. August

Chapter eleven

August

I picked 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.