Page 99 of Symphony of Salvation

Upon Niles’s return, I demanded a full report. “How did they act? Was it couply? What movie are they going to see? It wasn’t a romance, was it?”

Niles poured wine, delivered a glass into my hand, and cupped my cheek. “All is well, Maestro. She’s a smart girl, and Cody is a levelheaded boy.”

“That didn’t answer my questions. Are you avoiding them on purpose?” I narrowed my eyes when Niles smirked. “There was touching, wasn’t there?”

“Hand holding.”

“And you didn’t stop it.”

“No. It was cute.”

“That’s how it starts. It won’t be cute when she tells me she’s pregnant.”

“She won’t get pregnant in the back of a movie theater.”

“It could happen. I was a teenage boy once. I know how they think.”

“How’s dinner coming along?” Niles scanned the messy counters.

I sighed and set my untouched wine aside. “Still in creation mode.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No. Thank you. I do better on my own.”

“I’ll leave you be then.”

Niles pecked a soft, lingering kiss on my mouth and left me to my devices. I watched him leave the kitchen, tall, lean, rolled sleeves showing strong forearms, a loose collar revealing a hint of collarbones, and a bun at his nape doing a poor job holding his hair back.

“Blindsided,” I whispered the moment he was gone. It was true. Sometimes, you didn’t see love coming. Sometimes, it smacked you in the face when you least expected it.

As I layered the moussaka—a base of thinly sliced potatoes, followed by a generous helping of kefalotyri cheese, aubergine, more cheese, ground lamb in a thick Bolognese-style sauce with a hint of traditional cinnamon flavoring, a second layerof aubergine and cheese, then a generous coating of creamy béchamel—I thought of our relationship, what it entailed, and where it was going. Who was I offstage? Who did I want to be?

I sprinkled a final layer of cheese on the top and popped the moussaka into the oven. The crusty bread and Greek salad would pair nicely with the meal. As I tidied the mess, the tinkling of a piano sounded from the other room. I paused, ear cocked, instantly recognizing the dainty passage. Niles had discovered the magical secret symphony that had taken over my life. The one still under construction.

I dropped the wet cloth I’d been using to wipe the counter and darted to the living room. Seated at the piano, Niles scrutinized the scribbled mess of notes on a piece of staff paper. He must have found the file I kept tucked away in the hidden compartment of the bench.

Heart knocking, I barely restrained myself from collecting the pages he’d withdrawn and hugging them protectively to my chest. “It’s not finished.”

“You wrote this?” He continued to play a melody I’d assigned to violins and flutes. Each section varied slightly, but he wouldn’t understand the notations in the margins. I wrote more comfortably in my native language.

“It’s not finished,” I repeated, collecting the pages he’d arranged on the rack. “I’m sorry. It’s… private. I don’t like sharing things mid-creation.”

Niles dropped his hands to his lap. “Is it a commissioned piece?”

“No. Not this one.” It was the most private thing I’d written.

“What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet. You can… help yourself to something else. Anything else. I’d love to hear you play.”

I’d longed for Niles’s confidence to return, for him to voluntarily perform in my presence without Constance by hisside. But whatever notion he’d taken dissolved with the removal of the half-complete composition. I instantly realized my reservation and exposing something so personal registered as an insult to his ability.

Again.

Reluctantly, heat filling my cheeks—for the symphony’s heart reflected my feelings toward him—I returned the scribbled pages of the first draft to the rack. “Don’t judge it. I’m not good with criticism,” I lied, hoping he would take the humble excuse and play again. “Go easy on me. I’d love your feedback.”

Niles’s expression conveyed skepticism. “The great composer doesn’t like harsh criticism?”

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