Page 105 of The Voice We Find

Sophie.

It’s been twenty-two days since I’ve seen her, and exactly none of those days have felt any easier than the day I lied to her face and told her I didn’t want her enough.

Even now, bile lurches up my esophagus at the memory.

For her sake, I hope to remain hidden within the crowd tonight. The last thing she needs is a reminder of the coward she dated.

I slip into the expansive lobby and into the auditorium with every intention to make a clean exit as soon as Gabby’s act is finished. There are too many opportunities to risk hurting the people I care about most by staying any longer than necessary.

At five minutes to curtain, a high school–aged usher at the door hands me a program and offers to help me find the best seat available. I politely inform him that I’ll be fine on my own. The place is packed—nearly every seat filled—but I’m hopeful to spy a spot near the back. I know Aunt Judy will be seated as close to the front as possible. I can’t think of a single music recital of mine as a boy whenshe wasn’t seated next to my parents in the front row, clapping for me with as much enthusiasm as if I’d just made the final touchdown in a championship game.

I locate an aisle seat in the second to last row. Head down, I do what I can to stay in the shadows, free from the gaze of the only blood relative I have in this auditorium. Once I’ve settled into my seat, I open my program in search of my sister’s name and cast picture.

“Hey, I know you.”

Dread prickles my spine. I haven’t heard Bonnie Brewer’s voice in months, not since that morning in church when she showered me with unsolicited advice. But I know it’s her. She has the kind of distinct vocal quality a subconscious doesn’t easily forget. And somehow, it’s directed at me.

“Hello again.” I rotate my neck just enough to give a diplomatic nod. “Ms. Brewer, isn’t it?” Though I’m certain my face portrays I’m in no mood for small talk, she is not deterred.

“Just Bonnie is fine.” She corrects me with a flick of her hand. “And you’re a calendar month.”

“Excuse me?”

She ticks at her fingers and mumbles, “Let’s see, it’s a weird one. Not October or March or...” She exclaims, “August! It’s August, right?”

I blink. “Yes.”

“I’ve been coming here for those ASL classes. Started a few months ago.” She shrugs. “I like to challenge myself.” Her fingers are hooked and arthritic, but even still, she finger spells her name—struggling on theN. “Turns out I’m not too old to learn new tricks after all.”

“That’s impressive,” I say, before turning my attention back to my open program. I’m relieved when she does the same with her own. I slide my eyes down the show’s lineup and then cringe. My sister’s act is dead last. This is going to be a very long night.

“You know any of these youngsters performing?” Bonnie shakes her program like the youngsters she speaks of might fall out of theglossy pages onto her lap. It’s an effort not to give in to my urge to lie so we can avoid finding a commonality of any kind.

“My sister,” I admit after a moment’s hesitation. There’s no chance I’m going to tell her that I also know the woman whose headshot is on the second page. Sophie’s photo and bio have her listed under the title of assistant director. A tiny, unexpected hope zips through my melancholy at the thought of her using her talent here, in this capacity. Of course, directing is not the same as acting. And I doubt the Pimentels are set up to offer her the kind of job security she desires, not with all the renovations they’ve done and still need to do.

Even still, I can’t help the movie reel that plays in my mind at the hope of her choosing a life here. I see it so clearly: me, taking Sophie’s face in my hands and begging her to forgive me, telling her how the idea of facing another hour, much less another week without her, makes me want to turn my skin inside out.

And yet I must face it. For her.

She deserves more than I can give her.

“Which one is she?” Bonnie asks, examining the cast’s headshots and bios.

Before I can answer, Bonnie wagers a guess. She taps on a picture of a blond girl listed under the second act of the night. “Going off your looks, I’d guess this cutie with the dimples right here—Emily Adams. You two share a similar eye color.”

I take the path of least resistance and point to a picture beside the eighth act of the night. “My sister is Gabby Tate.” I watch Bonnie’s eyebrows rise at the distinct lack of resemblance between me and my Colombian sister, and when she doesn’t immediately comment on our differences, I wrongly assume this interaction has fulfilled the required small-talk quota for seatmates.

Bonnie continues to study Gabby’s picture for longer than what feels comfortable. “I’ve seen her at the classes on Tuesday nights. Her smile is infectious.” She presses two arthritic fingers to her chest. “It comes from her heart. My daughter had that same type of smile.”

I note the past tense of her sentence and freeze.

“Cancer,” she confirms softly. “A quick battle.”

I shift my gaze to her profile. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” she amends. “Should have been me.”

A feeling I know all too well.

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