Page 130 of Symphony of Salvation

Slowly, I peeled the paper from the decal, holding my breath as though restricting airflow might ensure perfect adhesion. Constance and I had spent a solid hour measuring and marking the wall for its placement so it would lay precisely where she wanted it.

When the paper popped free, I exhaled and peered along the musical staff with its delicately placed notes to where it ended on the far side of the wall.

Behind me, Constance giddily clapped. “You did it.”

“Wedid it.”

“We. Thank you, Niles.” She used her voice a lot more lately—with August and me—despite hating its flat, husky tone, despite August’s growing proficiency with American Sign Language.

I glanced over my shoulder at where she stood at the base of the ladder. We shared a smile and took in the room with its fresh coat of paint and personalized adornments.

“That about does it. Time to move your furniture in.”

Constance pirouetted and danced about the room, wonder sparkling in her vibrant eyes. She had come to life over the past few months, smiling more and settling down.

“Dad,” she called into the house. “Come see. We’re done.”

On September first, August and Constance shut down the cottage, packed their belongings, and moved in with me.

Constance might have been returning to school on Tuesday morning and relocating to the dormitories to live among her classmates, but she deserved a space at home too, a bedroom to decorate as she pleased for when she returned for holidays and summer break.

I’d made it happen, converting a rarely used office into a suitable teenage dwelling. We’d chosen soft lavender paint and spent the past week coating the walls and shopping for customized decorations. The music decals provided the finishing touch.

Constance had declined August’s offer to live at home during the school year. The distance and fact that I taught at the school would have meant easy access, but the thrill of dorm living hadn’t worn off—she’d barely experienced it—and Constance eagerly counted the days before she could return to school in the same capacity as everyone else at Timber Creek.

Her relationship with her father grew in increments. Baby steps forward. It wasn’t perfect, and August still struggled to understand teenage mood swings. He didn’t take things as personally as before, but there were days I caught the two in mid-battle and had to break things up.

Constance had visited her mother a few times, but their bond had lessened as Constance slowly acknowledged and accepted what she’d been through. Her announcement that she wanted to teach had not gone well with the retired prima donna, and Chloé blamed August for polluting her brain.

As for August and me, our relationship flourished. The anger I’d clung to when he went back to Chicago was a distant memory. We’d talked for long hours about the changes he’d made to his life and about our future. He worried I couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive him, but forgiveness was easy when I absorbed the whole picture.

August had never lied. He’d never made promises he couldn’t keep, and for that, I loved him fearlessly, passionately, wholly, and completely. He was a man of strong morals and profound dedication—to his job and family. And I’d become part of that family.

We were both flawed. We both struggled with uncertainties. His oblivious arrogance drove me up the wall some days, but my self-doubt did the same to him. Ultimately, we learned to laugh and support each other through our imperfections.

August appeared in the doorway and glanced at the new decal. “Wow. It looks lovely, and might I say, I’m eternally grateful the notes are hung in the correct direction.”

“Dad.” Constance rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be a shit.” I tossed him a wad of crumpled paper from the back of the sticker.

August caught it, chuckling. “What? It’s a reasonable concern. I distinctly remember fixing incorrectly hung music notes on your classroom door nearly daily.”

“And you blamemefor that?”

“It was your classroom.”

I deadpanned.

August laughed again and scanned the room, nodding. “It looks fantastic.”

“Can we set up my furniture?” Constance pressed her hands together in prayer formation. “Please, Daddy.”

I checked the time. “You can start if you want, but your dad and I have dinner plans tonight, remember? Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

Constance wrinkled her nose and shook her head. Dining with two of her teachers on the last day of summer vacation was not high on her list of fun activities, and I’d told Koa as much when he’d invited us over.

“Just don’t hurt yourself. Save the larger pieces for when we’re home to help.”

---