Page 64 of The Voice We Find

“My point exactly.” I swing my foot until the toe of my sandal connects with his knee. “You and I already know each other.”

“I’m not an actor.”

“You don’t need to be. This part might as well be written for you. Blake is sarcastic and intelligent and a bit of a moody smart aleck.”

August lowers his hands and hikes a brow at me in challenge.

Not to mention thoughtful and kind and incredibly attractiveis what I finish in my head silently. “Don’t act like you don’t know it’s true.”

“So then what?” He stares at me incredulously. “You’re suggesting I just call Chip and tell him I’m the new Blake? You forget he’s known me since we were fifteen. He knows all my hidden talents, and acting isn’t one of them.”

“So don’t call him—not yet. Wait and send him a sample clip from whatever we manage to record today and then offer to save him the money of finding a local voice actor by playing the part yourself. Maybe you can even negotiate a higher rate as they’ll be saving whatever money they were paying Elliot, right?” I pause, studying the crease between his brows. “It’s more money that can go toward Gabby’s procedure.”

Thisis the moment his expression slips from incredulity to possibility. “And what happens if I ruin the whole performance becauseI don’t have a clue what I’m doing? I don’t want to be the reason this project fails. There’s a reason people audition for things like this.”

I push myself off his desk and plant my feet on the ground in front of him. I expect him to roll backward at my nearness, seeing as he’s offered me a wide berth since the beach, but he holds steady. Watching. Waiting.

“I know theater, August. It was my whole life for close to a decade. If I didn’t think you could do this, I would say so. But you’ve had this script for weeks now. You’ve been taking production notes, figuring out sound effects, and composing the theme music. At this point, you know it better than any potential hire sitting in an audition queue ever could.” My pulse picks up speed as he stares at me with none of the filters he’s been using these past few weeks. “And you know me,” I say softly. “And together ... together, we’re believable.”

August is locked inside his head for so long I’m certain he’s about to give me a list of every reason why he thinks this idea is terrible. “I’ll give it two hours. If we can’t get a decent cut for Chip by the time you leave today, then I’ll call him and tell him he needs to find us a new hero.”

I nod in agreement, although I know I’ve already found him.

Not five minutes into reading our first chapter together do I realize the gargantuan error in judgment I’ve made by suggesting this arrangement. And though that error has nothing to do with August’s talent or capability, it does have everything to do with the two of us smashed together in a teeny tiny space. Not only for the next two hours. But for what will likely be the better part of the next two weeks after edits and polishing.

When August exits the booth to adjust something on the soundboard, I close my eyes and try to recall what Bible passage I’ve been studying with Portia and Gabby in our time before ASL class. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the mind—on thinkinggood thoughts? Or was it noble thoughts? Lovely thoughts? Boring thoughts? At the moment, the last one feels the safest. Maybe if I could imagine August as a sniveling, dark academia type like Elliot, I’d be able to fight my attraction for him. I’m a good enough actress to pull off narrating this scriptandvisualizing August as an overgrown Harry Potter, right?

“Okay, sorry,” he says, strolling back inside and closing the door. “It’s weird being on this side of the glass.” He sits on the stool across from me, and our knees bump, shooting a jolt of electricity up my spine. What is wrong with me? I’ve been in far more up-close-and-personal scenarios than this with my onstage counterparts. I’ve danced, embraced, and sang directly into the faces of my pretend Romeos without feeling half of what one look from August makes me feel. So why can’t I shake this?

The answer comes swiftly: because this isn’t pretend.

He adjusts his microphone and wakes his iPad screen. “Before we start again, do you have any critiques for me?”

I shake my head dumbly.

He looks doubtful. “Sophie, if this arrangement is going to work, you have to be honest with me.”

I can’t be honest with you, August, that’s the problem.“I will be.” I nod overenthusiastically. “You’re doing great.”

“Let the record show, this is a continent away from my comfort zone,” he says with a sort of kiddish frown that makes my insides constrict.

When he scrolls to find his place on the digital script, I squint, trying to visualize what he’d look like in a pair of obnoxious nerd glasses. Only that doesn’t work. Because on August, those glasses would make him look like a sexy scholar.

He preemptively hands me my water bottle. “We’re already rolling. Your lines are first. You ready?”

I take a big swig of the lukewarm lemon water I prepared this morning and lie through my teeth. “Absolutely.”

The next seventy-four minutes are some sort of twisted math problem. August bumps my knee accidentally seven times. He smilesthree times during our back-and-forth banter. And he actually winks at me once, after I miss my cue and have to restart a paragraph because I was too busy watching him read.

This might be the longest two weeks of my life to date.

As soon as Blake and Noelle are forced together at the fictional wedding venue, working to reconcile their differing personalities and opinions with the job at hand, I’m completely absorbed in the plot again, and with these characters and their specific goals and challenges. Their banter is lively and addicting and laugh-out-loud funny at times, and nearly every page has at least one stand-out quip that makes my lips quirk into a grin. It’s what I’m focused on more than anything else right now—the disconnection of the here and now.

Only it doesn’t work, because no matter how invested I am in this script, I can’t forget what August shared with me on the beach that night. I can’t unhear his dedication to his family. I can’t unlearn the kind of son, brother, or man he is. Or how I’ve rarely met his equal.

My mind snaps to attention when August finishes a paragraph of narrative and jumps into his next line of dialogue.

“‘What on earth is this giant bubble maker thing for?’” August, as Blake, asks as he riffles through Noelle’s inventory of wedding supplies without permission. “‘Wait, is this for some kind of circus-themed wedding? Do you break out a red-and-white striped tent and spin cotton candy for that one? Gotta say, I think that’s an improvement on this mistletoe-obsessed thing you have going on inside here.’”

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