Page 51 of Symphony of Salvation

Chapter twelve

Niles

“His type is the reason I uninstalled that infuriating dating app. Do you know how many closeted men I had dinner with? They’re lured by the idea of being out, but when faced with reality, they’re cowards. God, I’m too old for this shit.”

“There is no god.”

“Shut up, Koa. Let me despair about the woes of being a single gay man in peace.”

“More wine?” He drew the bottle forward and uncorked the top.

“Yes. Please.” I pushed my empty glass across the island. The dirty plates from our long-finished dessert remained. I stabbed a finger in the graham cracker crumbs of what had once been a cherry cheesecake piecrust before Jersey admonished me and took it away to be washed.

The hulking ex-hockey player fit surprisingly well into Koa’s life. Although nothing alike, Jersey brought Koa peace, and for that I was grateful.

Koa spoke as he returned my topped-up glass. “The closeted population have their reasons. We live in a controversial society. Not everyone wants to deal with people and their unsolicited opinions day in and day out. Not everyone is as openly affectionate as you.”

“Can I offer an opinion?” Jersey closed the dishwasher, pushed a few buttons to start the load, and slung a dish towel over his shoulder as he helped himself to his refilled glass of wine. “As a bisexual man who spent a good portion of his life in the spotlight, sometimes it’s easier to be who the people want you to be rather than ruffle feathers because, let’s face it, someone’s feathers will always be ruffled if you claim to be anything but heterosexual. I wasn’t closeted, per se, but I was careful not to allow myself to become a walking billboard for equality in the NHL. It would have caused potential conflict with teammates, fans, and sponsors. Harassment was a real concern, so I kept my personal life as personal as possible.”

“But you would flaunt a woman on your arm,” I pointed out.

“Of course. No one balks at that.”

I glanced at Koa. “Doesn’t that sound like a bisexual erasing themselves? Isn’t that the war they fight day in and day out?”

Jersey chuckled. “It absolutely is, and no one does it better, especially if they aren’t confident in their skin. Being straight is easy. Being bi is a lot to explain, and most people don’t understand. I didn’t say it was right. I didn’t say it wasn’t toxic and perpetuating stereotypes. I’m just saying, that’s the reality of fame and being anything but cis het.”

“August is not a hockey star.”

“He’s a world-renowned musician,” Koa said. “In his circles, it could be equally damaging to be out. Think about it. Many European cultures aren’t as accepting as we are on this side of the world, and most of his career has taken place across the ocean. Germany, Greece, Austria, and Russia, to name afew countries. It could be the difference between working or not working. Homosexuality is still criminalized in sixty-four countries.”

“Well, it’s not here, and he’s been in North America for several years, so your argument is faulty.”

“What about his family?” Koa asked.

“What about them? My parents would love it if I was straight, but alas, I live to disappoint them.” I drew a scented candle forward and dug through a wicker bowl of junk that perpetually decorated Koa’s kitchen island until I found a book of matches. I didn’t want to talk about August anymore. I heard the argument and knew I was playing the petty card, unfairly judging someone whose life was not mine.

I lit the candle and stared into its flame as it trembled and grew brighter. The truth was, I was lonely, and it had been a long time since an intelligent man had drawn my attention. Despite the green pallor of envy, I harbored an admiration for August. I wanted to know everything about him and live vicariously through him.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausting all this energy, bitching about a man who will be gone in a few months. What do I care? Why are we even talking about him? Are you two coming to the concert on Thursday?”

The pair took the change of topic with grace, neither one pointing out that it was me who wouldn’t let it go. It was me who was bothered. It was me who was hurt.

***

The week progressed as anticipated. Hours upon hours of August occupying the chair beside me as we listened to students’ solos. For privacy, we confiscated a practice room. The four wallsgrew especially close between performances when we were left alone to confer over grades.

We did not discuss the jazz club or the near kiss in the parking lot, and although he offered plenty of quality feedback—if not harsh at times—on the solos, I found myself irrationally irritated and arguing for the sheer sake of it.

August touched his tie and shook his head as he scanned the marks I’d given a senior flutist. “No. I disagree. I don’t feel she interpreted the piece correctly. The style of a rondo is not the same as an intermezzo. She didn’t prove she knew the difference. Plus, she ignored the dynamic markings altogether. The slow, melodic sections should have used more air across the embouchure and less tongue. Her attack and release were all wrong.”

“She was giving it her own artistic flare.”

“By destroying what the composer set out to do? Mozart would be insulted.”

“Well, Mozart isn’t here, and Natalie showed guts by taking on a difficult piece and daring to put her own spin on it.”

“Classical music is not meant to be reworked to that degree. Is this the kind of thing you teach?”

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