Page 106 of Symphony of Salvation

“I just did.”

“Grow up, August,” I hissed, getting in his face. “She’s fourteen and misses her mother. She doesn’t understand the complexity of addiction. All she sees is a man who has claimed the role of father and is keeping her away from the only parent she’s ever known.”

“I’m not claiming it. Iamher father.”

“Then act like it. You play the game well enough, but your heart isn’t in it, and she’s too smart not to notice.”

August’s nostrils flared, but he donned his coat and angrily hung the winter scarf around his neck, fastening neither. Pacing, he stopped a few feet from the front door, face turned to the cloudy sky. The breeze rustled his hair as he closed his eyes. Good. He needed to cool off.

“I don’t know how to do this, Niles.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just too goddamned stubborn to try. It’s been five months. Stop acting like she’s an inconvenience unless you’re prepared to give her back to her mother or put her in foster care, and I know you don’t want either.”

Beaten and sagging under the weight of stress, August approached, looking for all the world like a kicked dog seeking forgiveness. “She hates me.”

“She’s confused.”

“Am I doing the right thing? Not letting her come with me?”

I didn’t know the answer. As an outsider, I had the unique perspective of seeing both sides. “I believe you’re doing what you feel in your heart is right.”

He huffed. “That’s not reassuring. My heart is a poor compass.”

I straightened his tie—perpetually ill-knotted and askew—and wound the cashmere scarf around his neck, securing it properly, then I buttoned his wool coat and smoothed my palm over the collar. “You look handsome.”

“Give me guidance. Please.”

I sighed. “I don’t know what to say. From my perspective, you need to sort yourself out. You can’t make excuses forever. Life may have thrown you multiple curveballs, but you can’t keep passing blame. You’re the father to a beautiful, intelligent young woman who is going through a lot right now. Battling cancer, accepting a physical disability, losing a mother to addiction, and living with a father who has never been part of her life.

“She’s moody and angry and will drive you up the wall daily. The likelihood is she doesn’t know why she feels the way she does. And yes, she’s targeted you. She unjustly blames you for all of it. In her mind, you’re the adult who waltzed into her life and turned it upside down, but you’re also a safe person, the one to whom she can vent all that anger. Give her grace. Give her time.”

August stared at the front door to the cottage. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’ve got this.”

His attention returned to me. “We should do something tonight.”

“See how you feel when you get home.” I kissed him, and August leaned into the connection, resting a hand on my hip as though needing the security, the stability.

“Thank you,” he breathed against my mouth.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve done more than you know.”

I returned inside once he left and ventured down the hall to Constance’s room, knocking. “He’s gone. I’m going to scramble some eggs for breakfast. There might even be bacon. Do you want to join me?”

She opened the door, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks damp and flush. Her lower lip wobbled once, and before I could prepare, she launched into my arms, sobbing silently against my chest. With Chloé’s release, the illusion had shattered. Constance’s mother hadn’t been away on a holiday. She wasn’t coming home to rescue her daughter from the father she barely knew. Chloé was a sick woman who had made grievous mistakes, and sadly, the people suffering most were the ones who didn’t deserve it.

It took an age to calm Constance. Once the tears stopped, I guided her to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. Instead of eggs, Constance requested cinnamon French toast. I wasn’t a chef like August or Koa, but it was simple enough that I whipped it together in no time. We drowned it in maple syrup and gorged until we were stuffed.

“Are you okay?” Our plates were empty, and Constance’s eyes shone brighter.

She nodded, focusing on her sticky plate as she drew pictures with the fork’s tines in the remaining puddle of syrup.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She remained silent. I waited, but after a time, decided it was best not to push and stood to clear the table.

---