Page 68 of Symphony of Salvation

The events in the auditorium came back to me. August’s mouth. His fingers wrapped tightly around my hair, tugging me closer. The heat of his erection in my hand. Swelling. Pulsing. Shivers coursing through his body when he came.

No visual memory existed to revisit. The impenetrable darkness in the auditorium had robbed me of those potential remembrances. It left the experience with surreal undertones. What did a cultured, professional man like August look like when he unraveled? He’d shown me a taste of a playful side in our texts the previous day, but those, too, were once removed, not witnessed in the flesh.

The infuriating man in the classroom, too high on himself and prone to find flaws in everyone, and the man who showed up at my door late at night with stories of youthful mistakes and regrets he feared voicing, was not the same person. Who was the real Augustus Castellanos? Did I want to know?

The quandary I’d woken with remained. Sitting in the empty school parking lot wouldn’t bring answers. Action might.

Stay or go?

I grabbed the wine and gift bags and exited the car, finding the unblemished path through the trees to August’s cabin, treading languidly along, preparing for the unknown.

“You came.” A boyish smile creased the sides of August’s eyes when he opened the door, a dish towel slung over oneshoulder. He wore trendy slacks and a Christmas-inspired Fair Isle sweater vest with a collared shirt underneath, open and revealing a touch of skin.

“And I brought wine.” I presented the gifts as well. “These can go under your tree.”

“You didn’t have to bring wine, and you certainly didn’t need to bring presents.”

“It’s Christmas. It would be rude otherwise.”

August thanked me again and inspected the bottle, reading the label.

“My wine connoisseur best friend told me it pairs nicely with pork. I texted and interrupted his holiday to be sure.”

“Koa?” he asked, not looking up. Did I imagine the frost in his tone?

“Yes.”

A nod. “It’s perfect. Please, come in.”

The cottage was warm and scented with a mixture of savory spices and pine. Soft piano filled the house, dainty and magical, fairies dancing in a fictitious winter wonderland. Not a recording. Constance.

August took my coat and hung it on a rack. We stood awkwardly in the front hall, two weeks of conflicting emotions colliding. Neither of us seemed sure how to act with the other. Questions and no answers. Thick lust and thin restraint. We hadn’t seen each other since the mythical night in the auditorium when I’d left August with a straightforward message about repeating what we’d shared. Maybe I no longer cared. Maybe sacrificing rules would be a nice change of pace. If I could keep my heart out of it.

“Constance doesn’t know…” August glanced over his shoulder, and reality returned with a slap. “She doesn’t know I invited you… or why.”

Meaning she didn’t know a turbulent ocean of feelings was getting in our way. What else didn’t Constance know? How repressed was repressed? Did Chloé know? Did anyone outside his parents?

He didn’t deserve to be rescued, but my altruistic nature said, “I was alone on Christmas, and you extended charity.” It was the truth of sorts.

August smiled. “Thank you, Niles. I need to check dinner.”

“Open that wine and let it breathe, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I will. Please, make yourself at home.”

He set off to the kitchen, and I followed the music, familiar with the layout of the cottage since I’d lived in one myself for a time. Constance caught sight of me when I entered the living room and stopped playing, a querying look on her young face.

What are you doing here?she signed. My ASL was slowly returning, requiring her to spell fewer words when we talked.

“Your dad invited me. I had nowhere else to go for Christmas.”

She frowned, but I motioned to the piano before she could investigate the subject further. “That was lovely. What was it?”

She shrugged.Dad wrote it.It was a piece I was supposed to perform two years ago in a youth competition in Madrid. My mom signed me up, but I got sick and had to back out.

I didn’t know the exact timeline of when Constance’s cancer had returned or when she’d had surgery, but two years ago sounded about right. “You would have done fabulously. Will you play it again? I missed the beginning.”

Smiling, she nodded and turned back to the bench, rearranging the handwritten sheet music. I approached as her long fingers caressed the opening harmonies from the ivories. The title etched across the top of the page read, “Nothing but Winter” by Augustus Castellanos.

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