Page 67 of Symphony of Salvation

How’s dinner?

I emptied my wine glass before refilling it and typed,Dreadful, but getting better. I’m up to glass #4.

I hit send, reconsidered my math, and added an amendment.Correction, glass #5. Either way, the insults are cushioned by a nice thick layer of wine. They don’t “supset” me anymore.

The children were sent from the table. Dad, Andrew, and Mason renewed their discussion about a medical conference of some sort taking place in Edmonton this coming spring. Presley and Mom cleared the dishes. The bottle of wine I’d claimed for myself—and nearly finished—ended up under inspection. My mother frowned at the remains, announcing to no one in particular her intent to brew coffee.

My phone buzzed.I have a question.

Playfully, I typed,I might have an answer.

Do you have plans for tomorrow night?

No, I responded.It’s Christmas Eve.

Koa had always invited me for dinner in the past, but since Jersey’s hockey team was playing in Sault Ste. Marie on the twenty-sixth, they’d decided to rent a cabin in the area and celebrate the holiday in the wilderness.

I love cooking and plan to make a traditional Greek feast, but I fear I might end up eating alone. You’re welcome to join us… or me. I can’t promise Constance will grace the table. When I got home, she came out long enough to eat two pieces of pizza, then vanished again.

I considered August’s invitation as my mother and sister appeared with coffee paraphernalia. A steaming mug of robust brew replaced my wine glass. I had a hundred reasons to turn him down. Primarily, Constance was my student, and it would be frowned upon, but mostly because August was too hung up on living a straight life. I wasn’t interested in having my heart broken, and the more we connected, the higher the chance of ithappening. If I knew anything about myself, it was that I fell in love too easily.

And always with the wrong kind of men.

Besides, I lived in August’s shadow of greatness. I would be inferior.

Yet, the prospect of Christmas alone left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Delaying, I asked,What does a traditional Greek Christmas dinner consist of?

Before August could answer, my mothertsked and expelled air through her teeth in the fashion of someone fed up with a disobedient child. It was a sound she’d made often when I was growing up. I flashed my attention across the table to find her staring, arms crossed, lips pursed.

“You’ve been absent the entire meal, Niles. Really. You’re as bad as the children on that silly device. Put it away and join the conversation.”

I tucked my phone away and proceeded to drink coffee—laced with an Irish cream liqueur my younger brother had tried sneakily to hide from our parents—and listen to the insufferable arguing between my siblings and father. Join the conversation? What exactly was I supposed to contribute when all they ever discussed was surgery and court cases?

I didn’t get a chance to check August’s text until later that evening when the family relocated to the living room so my nieces and nephews could open presents. The ivory-colored piano in my parents’ living room had functioned as a decorative piece of furniture for decades. The only time it saw use was during our family Christmas when, despite the perceived taint cast by my career, I provided the ambiance of holiday tunes.

My third spiked coffee was more Irish than Colombian. I placed it on a coaster within reach as I sat on the bench and read August’s reply to my earlier question.

I’m not sure how adventurous you are with food, but traditionally, we Greeks eat pig at Christmas. I planned to make cabbage rolls using my grandmother’s recipe. They’re covered in an egg-lemon sauce and filled with a mixture of pork and vegetables. For dessert, I’m making diples, which is a Greek honey roll. Basically, deep-fried crispy dough doused in honey lemon syrup. I’m also making melomakarona. A soft cookie dipped in cinnamon and orange syrup. They’re to die for.

I smiled, thinking of all the times when Koa had experimented with strange recipes and enlisted me as his taste tester. I couldn’t deny having a fondness for men who knew their way around a kitchen. The abundance of alcohol I’d consumed vanquished deliberation, and I forgot why sharing dinner with August was a bad idea.

That sounds incredible. I’ll bring wine. What time do we eat?

***

Christmas Eve afternoon, I drove through a winter wonderland to Timber Creek Academy, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and two gift bags on the passenger seat. I’d woken with a mild hangover and a shadow of regret for having agreed to dinner with August. It wasn’t a good idea, and in a sober state, the possible implications reared their ugly heads.

I didn’t date closeted men, and a repressed bisexual sounded like a funky millennial term for the same thing. What was I getting myself into?

Parking in the unplowed teacher’s lot, I stared into the thicket of evergreens separating the school from the handful of cottages on the property. Their sagging branches, laden with snow, showed no signs of wildlife. The weak winter sun sparkled off an untouched landscape, blindingly bright and beautiful.

I could go home, text an excuse, and pretend our feud hadn’t been broken the previous day by sharing a combination of truths and random stories about our lives.

The alternative? An empty house. Loneliness.

I could use the time to work onGaspard de la Nuit, except the piece had been tainted by August, and every time I sat down to play, I heard the criticism he’d spoken on the day we met. How could the same man draw me in and make me feel small at the same time?

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