20. August

Chapter twenty

August

I drove 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?