8. Niles

Chapter eight

Niles

“ W hat 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 Ysa?e 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?”