22. August

Chapter twenty-two

August

N iles 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 facade. 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.