Page 96 of Symphony of Salvation

“I’d love to.”

We hadn’t discussed the implication of Timber Creek’s administration discovering our relationship, but in fairness, we hadn’t called it a relationship at all, nor had we discussed limits, rules, or boundaries as such. In fact, we hadn’t clarified how open we planned to be or not be, as it were.

That was on me, and every day with Niles was a silent test. He observed my reactions in public, noting every instance of willing contact and every ounce of restraint. Was I in or out of that supposed closet? Was I repressing my true self or opening the door to possibilities?

I didn’t know. So far, I’d been playing it by ear, the nattering voice of reason reminding me that one day soon, I would have to wake up and return to Chicago.

We landed at a kitschy soup and sandwich restaurant a short drive from the school. No sooner had we sat with our meals my phone chimed with an incoming text from Constance asking if she could go to the movies that night with friends.

On a Monday? I asked after relaying the inquiry to Niles, who smirked.

“She’s a hard worker, August. Cut her some slack. Let her go out with friends. Otherwise, she’ll lock herself in her room and practice all night.”

True. She would.

My phone chimed.Please!

“Would you like to come over if she goes out?”

Niles mock gasped, touching fingers to his breastbone. “On a school night? I’m not sure I’m allowed.”

I playfully scowled. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Just let her go.”

Still frowning, I typed,What friends?

It earned me a line of eye-rolling emojis. I tossed my phone on the table and took up my sandwich. “I hate teenagers.”

Niles read her response and laughed. “They’re not so bad.”

“Says you. I think teaching them and living with one is tremendously different.”

“She’s always seemed fine when I’m over.”

“And when you aren’t, it’s like I no longer exist.”

Five minutes passed with no response. Irritated, I typed,Names, Constance, or you can’t go.

Niles blew on a spoonful of soup. “Will you cook dinner if I come over?”

“Anything your heart desires.”

“Something Greek?”

“You’ve made it easy on me. Lamb?”

“Moussaka?”

“My specialty.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“Will you spend the night?” We hadn’t done that. Not at the cottage. Not fully or completely. Escaping at three and four a.m. didn’t count. The Christmas morning accident didn’t count.

“And Constance?”

I shrugged. My daughter wasn’t stupid, and I’d rather have Niles at my house than leave her alone.

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