Page 62 of The Voice We Find

“You never let me guess your favorite taffy flavor,” she says a bit unsteadily as she reaches into her bag and pulls out an orange-and-white piece of taffy. “Is it creamsicle?” It’s as if she’s suddenlybecome a character in a play and not the woman I’ve been pining after since we met.

“Sophie.” I want to rein her back in, ask her to explain what’s going on inside her head, but she’s already slipped out of my reach. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Or maybe,” she continues on without acknowledgment, “you don’t much like the combo flavors. Give me a hint?” She speaks as if we’ve been transported back to ten minutes ago when we were still playing cat-and-mouse on the beach. And maybe that’s where she wants to be, but I’m still here. Still hoping she’ll let me in. Still hoping she won’t push me away.

“Please don’t say its root beer. That’s the worst flavor. Well, maybe not as bad as lime. That one smells like bathroom cleaner.”

“It’s blue,” I say with some reluctance.

“Blueis technically not a flavor, but I’ll allow it. Its given name is actually blue raspberry.” She sifts through her taffy bag while I search for clues as to what changed. To how I read her so wrong.

“Here it is,” she says, plucking it out. “One blue raspberry with your name on it.” She sets it into my open palm, her act dropping away long enough for me to hear the answer to my unasked question. “I’m grateful for your friendship, August. I hope you know how much it means to me.”

As I watch her retreating down the beach under a September moon, I close my fingers around the taffy, knowing that one piece of Sophie will never be enough to satisfy.

16

Sophie

Should I have let him kiss me?

This is the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times since the night August fake-lassoed me off the tide pools. And it’s the same question I’m still asking, more than two weeks later, even while I banter with another man about the correct usage of the termmistletoein August’s studio.

Elliot Sanderson, the award-winning voice actor and my official male counterpart inMistletoe Matrimony, a Fog Harbor Audio original, showed up three days ago with a marked-up script in hand. The first day was spent discussing production notes with our executive producer, who also happens to be the man whose lips I’ve daydreamed about each and every time I’ve sat in this booth.

Which is pretty much the only perk since starting this project.

“Cut.” August’s voice breaks into our headphones.

Elliot halts mid-sentence and, not for the first time, peers over his right shoulder at said executive producer. I shrink in my seat.Not again, I think.

“Your pace on that punchline is too sluggish,” August asserts.

Elliot, a twenty-something dark academia type, pulls his trendy reading glasses from his face, which I interpret to be the equivalent of a cowboy’s hand on his holster. “So first, you accuse me of jumping her line, and now I’m too sluggish?”

August stares him down through the glass. “That’s correct.”

Seemingly exasperated from all the starts and stops, Elliot looks to me for backup, only August isn’t wrong in his assessment. Despite his less-than-tactful delivery method, August sees what I’ve been trying to overcompensate for. The chemistry between Elliot and me is all kinds of off. Which means the timing and delivery of our dialogue is off, too.

Elliot has tried to blame the awkward flow on the script, but I think the script is exactly as it should be: funny, romantic, and full of holiday hijinks. And while the man-child sitting opposite me may have a trained voice with solid inflection and tone, his execution falls flat on every page. A critique August has made more than once in the last two hours.

“I’m reading these lines exactly as they’re written,” Elliot argues. “What more do you want from me?”

“Believability,” August counters coolly.

I groan.

“You’re sayingI’mnot believable?” Elliot’s chilly laugh echoes in the tiny space we share. “I have almost a decade of experience in voice acting—I’ve worked with Pixar and Disney!” He locks eyes with me then, as if to ask,Is this guy for real?Only, August Tate might be the realest person I’ve ever known. A fact I’ve been failing to edit from my heart since the moment I rejected him on that beach. And for all the moments since, when he’s given me space as if that’s what I want when all I really want is to protect us both from the heartache of starting something we can’t finish.

August can’t leave California, and I have no desire to stay in a place that has more bad memories than good. I don’t wish to stay at the winery a day longer than absolutely necessary. Which is why I’ve been job hunting again. Not for another fill-in job, but one that will use my background in the arts.

I’ve applied to several school districts and theater programs across the nation. Perhaps if I can’t act on stage, it might be time for me to teach others how to.

“Show me you actually care about what you’re sayingto her.” August delivers the challenge from the opposite side of the glass. “Because right now you sound like you’re delivering these lines to a random stranger in the produce section.Notlike someone you have a vested interest in.Notlike someone you’ve been pining after since you first met.”

Despite the clammy atmosphere inside this closet-like space, goosebumps race down my arms at his words. It’s impossible not to recall the imprinted memory of August with the ocean at his back—the way his eyes studied my mouth, the way his voice grew husky with want, the way he leaned in—

“Fine,” Elliot spats. “You think you can do it better? Be my guest.” He jerks his arms wide open as if he’s just pushed all his chips to the center of the poker table and expects his opponent to fold in intimidation. But I know August well enough to know there’s no way he’ll back down. Not now.

---