9. August

Chapter nine

August

I spent 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.