Page 29 of Symphony of Salvation

“Then all is good. Bottoms up.” He clinked his glass to mine and gulped the wine. His method had gone from sophisticated sommelier to college-frat-party drink slammer.

If any resentment remained, it was washed away by August’s dissolution in drink.

“Keep going with your story.”

“Where was I?”

“The cougar wanted to take you out for dinner.”

“Ah, yes.” His eye-crinkling smile returned. “Before you assume Constance was the product of a one-night stand, you’re wrong. Our tryst lasted an impressive three weeks.” Said with sarcasm and a grimace. “My time in Vienna was over. The original conductor had returned, so I was heading back to London to reclaim my seat with the Royal Philhar—Wait. No. That was later. I’m confused. I returned to Russia and rejoined Mariinsky—”

“Hold up. You played with the Royal Philharmonic?” Inebriation incapacitated me, and I was unable to hide the shocked tone.

“Yes, for about five years. It was after Constance was born.” August leaned over the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Is that one of those things that supsets you? Supsets… Sup…upsets you.” He glanced at his nearly empty glass. “Gracious. I think I’m drunk.”

Snorting, I walked my fingers across the table and not-so-sneakily dragged the culprit toward me. “I’m cutting you off.”

“Unfortunate, but wise. I’ve never been able to hold my alcohol. Are you angry? Do my accomplishments supset… Goddammit.Upset. Why is that so hard to say?”

I laughed.

August spent a moment repeating the word to himself, getting it wrong more times than he got it right. Witnessing his boyish, unkemptness, sloshy drunkenness, and brutal honesty, I couldn’t help feeling oddly attracted to the man. The August at my kitchen table was not the same person I’d met in the classroom on Monday, and I preferred this one.

“I’m not supset,” I said. “Honestly? I’m jealous, envious, resentful… Pick a synonym. All the above. I’m sorry if I haven’t been welcoming.”

August’s drunken smile faded, and he frowned at the table’s surface. “I don’t live the glamourous life you’re imagining.”

“You don’t know what I’m imagining.”

“No. I guess I don’t, but…” He wet his wine-stained lips and shrugged. “I haven’t been happy for a long time, Niles.”

I wanted him to explain, but before I could formulate a question, he asked, “What was I talking about? I’m muddled with wine.”

“You were telling me about Chloé.”

“No, no. I was telling you about Constance. Her existence started with a brief affair with Chloé, that’s all. We broke ties when I returned to Russia. It wasn’t love. It was… lust? I don’t know. Hormones probably. Opportunistic? Eight weeks passed before I got a phone call. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.”

August blew out his cheeks. “I believe I stupidly asked ‘How?’ and ‘Who’s the father?’ before realizing what she was telling me. Daft, aren’t I?”

August reached across the table for the glass I’d removed, and I shoved his hand away. “No more. You’re sloshy enough as it is, and I don’t have a spare room. My couch is wretchedly uncomfortable, and you don’t want to share my bed. Even the most liberal straight man will wake up with regret when the booze wears off and he realizes he slept beside a gay man. Although I would never tell your friends, it would bother you and likely affect our professional relationship, so no more wine.”

August forgot his quest for the glass. His gaze flickered all over my face with fascination or perplexity, perhaps confusion. I didn’t usually advertise my sexuality—it was no one’s business—but I’d learned the hard way that to conceal the truth when it was so readily attainable was sometimes more dangerous.

“You’re gay?”

“Certified card holder. Will that be a problem? Want to pull your daughter from school now?”

“No.” August continued studying my face as though looking for nuances that he should have picked up. Slowly, he shook his head. “No… it’s… fine.”

“It doesn’t… supset you?”

A dimpled smile. “No… I… No. We’re good.”

For a heartbeat, August’s gaze rested on my mouth before he tore his attention away and reached for the unprotected bottle instead. Only dredges remained, but he upended it into his mouth, taking every last drop before peering mournfully inside the bottle as though it had deceived him.

I shoved the confiscated wine toward him. “My god. Just finish it. No point tossing away a mouthful.”

He polished it off and rotated the stem of his glass with two fingers, turning it this way and that with a furrowed brow.

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