Page 94 of Symphony of Salvation

“Yes.”

“You need to stop showing off.”

“I said, my lips are sealed.”

I regarded August for a long time. His lazy, relaxed smile. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re a flutist, but I have yet to see you play. You spend an awful lot of time at the piano.”

Strain pulled at the edges of August’s smile. “You noticed that.”

“I did. Is there a reason?”

“I guess… I’ve been focusing more on composition lately. I don’t know when I’ll return to Chicago and if my chair will still be there when I get back. In the meantime, I can take commissions and work from home. I still play the flute a few times a week, but I’m enjoying the break. You’ve heard of embouchure overuse syndrome?”

“Of course.”

“Before signing on with the Chicago Symphony, I suffered what they call embouchure collapse. Almost had to revoke my contract. It took several months to recover. It’s more common in brass players, but don’t underestimate the tenacity of a world-renowned flutist who is determined to outplay and outshine everyone in the world.”

“Doesn’t proving yourself get tiresome?”

“Yes.” It was meant as a joke, but August wasn’t laughing. “I’m careful now. The break has been nice.”

“What are you writing at the moment?”

He appeared to hesitate and look away. “I’m supposed to be focusing on an assignment for an artist in France, but I’ve been uninspired, so I’ve taken on a personal composition as of late.”

“So you’re procrastinating.”

“Yes. Have you ever written anything?”

It felt like a diversion, like he didn’t want to talk about whatever masterpiece was in the works, but shining a light on my failed accomplishments stung. “Never finished anything. I’m great at beginnings but lose confidence halfway through and give up.”

“I’d love to hear some of your work.”

“That’s probably never going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Tell you what. You translate those whispered sweet nothings from earlier, and I’ll think about sharing a piece with you.”

He didn’t and wouldn’t, so the conversation drifted elsewhere. It was long past midnight before August said he should get home. Reluctantly, we got up and dressed.

Lingering at the front door, we shared enough unspoken words to fill a book. The subtext was glaring.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Niles,” he cupped my face, “I’ll call you.” Our parting kiss was enough to make me forget my pledge.

Chapter twenty-two

August

Niles possessed an uncanny ability to manage a classroom of twenty-four teenagers without earning a single caustic glare or eye roll. Meanwhile, I netted both multiple times a day while at home with a single fourteen-year-old. Whatever supernatural powers he’d developed in teacher’s college that made him impervious to adolescent angst was a gift he took for granted. The few times I’d taken over instruction in the classroom, my frustration mounted in under five minutes, requiring restraint so I didn’t yell at the nonstop talkers to shut up and pay attention.

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