Page 37 of The Voice We Find

August glances at the ceiling, and I do my best not to look at his bandaged hand.

“Our mom loved to garden and cook,” she continues. “She taught us both.”

“Who’s the better cook between the two of you?” I ask, leaning my back against the sofa.

Both siblings point to themselves.

“Right.” I laugh. “Got it.”

“Maybe Sophie should be our judge?” Gabby offers.

“You’re the only one cooking tonight,” August says.

“That just means she’ll have to come back when it’s your night.” She looks to me. “He’s a messy cook.”

August hitches his thumb to his sister. “And she over seasons everything.”

Gabby slaps a hand to her chest as if she’s been struck, and then promptly signs something to him that’s incredibly animated.

“You know I didn’t catch any of that,” he deadpans.

“And whose problem is that?” She smirks before she moseys her way into the kitchen, where she begins unloading the three bags of groceries sitting on the counter. She tosses a jar of sun-dried tomatoes to August, and without any further instruction, he opens it and sets it next to her on the counter.

I watch their lively dynamic and wonder if it’s always been like this between them—easy and comfortable. I can’t imagine having a sibling I could joke with, let alone cook and eat a meal with without it feeling like a punishment. I wonder what their relationship was like prior to the accident and how it’s changed since.

The thought replays a scene from two weeks ago in my mind: a sleepy August with an IV in his arm, telling me it’s much harder to be the one in the seatnextto the hospital bed.

How many times has August sat in that bedside chair?

My heart is heavy in pondering when August asks if I want to venture to the greenhouse with him.

As we head into the backyard, I confess that I can’t identify many of the herbs without their labels, and August confesses that he doesn’t know the difference between red and white wine food pairings. We agree that both these confessions can be easily remedied with time and experience. Two things I find myself hoping for more of when it comes to August Tate.

Over the next hour or so, the house is filled with delectable aromas as we’re all put to work by Chef Gabby. She makes homemade fettuccine noodles while August and I chop, mince, and grate. But most of all, we laugh as she regales us with the hilarious mishaps from her weeks at summer camp. I’m not sure if I’ve wiped more tears from laughter at her irreverent expressions or from the potent white onion I was directed to dice earlier. But even as she entertained us with stories of teenage drama, she managed to concoct a glorious cream sauce with fresh herbs and veggies and enough Parmesan to make me grateful I’m not lactose intolerant.

Once everything is ready, Gabby asks me to show her how I’d plate each item on tonight’s menu if this were a fancy restaurant. She focuses on my hands as I drizzle olive oil onto the rim of the porcelain plate and arrange the fresh herbs and then the food in each quadrant the way I was shown when I was around her age.

“You made it look so pretty,” Gabby says.

“Not too pretty to eat, I hope,” I say, spooning a bit of the cream sauce onto the steamed broccoli.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and realize my mistake. I’m standing on her bad side and was speaking to the plate, not to her. At the greenhouse, August informed me how her aids weren’t a perfect science and how female voices can be especially difficult for her to detect without line of sight due to the particulars of her hearing loss.

“Sorry,” I say and then immediately repeat my earlier comment to her.

“No way,” Gabby counters. “I think we shouldonlyeat pretty food.”

Which makes us all laugh as we carry the plates to the table.

We’re a little over halfway through our delicious meal—Gabby on one side of the table while August and I sit across from her—when her phone begins to flash and vibrate next to her water glass. And it’s not the only thing that lights up. Gabby’s entire face breaks into a huge, giddy grin, and I don’t have to wonder long about the person who’s calling.

It’s one hundred percent a boy she’s crushing on. Chances are good it’s the Tyler guy she mentioned at least a dozen times during dinner prep.

She answers the phone, and I feel August go still beside me.

“Hi,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.

I pause my fork, waiting to hear his reply. But none comes. At least not that I can hear. Gabby laughs at the screen she’s holding and nods.

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