Page 2 of The Voice We Find

“Wait, Gabs.”I placed a firm hand on her knee. “If you need anything, and I meananything at all, promise you’ll call me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning or if you have to walk half a mile to find cell coverage—you call me,alright?”

She stared at me for the longest time without saying a word and then finally laid her hand on top of mine, patting it twice.“I’ll promise,but only if you promise me something, too.”She raised both her eyebrows until I gave a slow nod in reply.“You have four whole weeks without me at the house, so please go do something fun. Live a little. I better not come back and find you ... well,like this.”She pulled a sour expression I assumed was meant to represent me and then proceeded to drill her pointer finger into my cheek.“Promise me you’ll free these dimples from the prison of your chronic grump face and find something real to smile about.”

I batted her hand away, but she held my gaze until I said the words out loud.“Fine,”I sighed.“I promise.”

And then she was gone, hauling her overnight bags to the Welcome Lodge as if being away from home for longer than the one weekend a month she spends with Aunt Judy was a normal part of our routine.

As the memory fades, I blink the shore into focus. I’m much closer than I realized. And so is the familiar figure standing on the beach: Chip Stanton. My oldest friend, and the one person who never fails to show up when I’m at my worst. I have no idea why he’s here or how long he’s been waiting for me on that shore, but I stopped questioning Chip’s uncanny timing years ago.

The surf approaches quickly, and though I’m as prepared as I can be, gravity hurts. There’s no way around it, the hike back to my dad’s rebuilt 1972 Bronco—affectionately named Maverick—is really gonna suck.

On rubbery, boneless legs, I limp my board onto the dry sand where Chip, in his pressed chinos and loafers, shields his eyes from the sun’s glare. He’s never been a fan of the beach, which makes his appearance here all the more curious.

When I speak, my voice sounds as torched as my lungs feel.“Hey.” I clear my throat. “If I’d known you were coming, I would have brought you my extra board.”

Given that roughly ninety percent of Chip’s worst fears reside in or around the ocean, I’ve spoken some version of this recycled joke more than a dozen times in the last decade. Only today, it falls flat.

“Dude, what happened out there?” He stalks toward me. “When your board surfaced without you ... well, I thought...” He stops and blows out a hard breath. “Are you okay?” For all Chip’s idiosyncrasies and quirks, he’s not typically a worst-case-scenario guy. That’s my role.

For a split second, I consider telling him about the light, and the superhuman strength that propelled me to the surface long after I should have been unconscious. But I can barely understand it myself. I need more time to sort it out. So instead, I shake my head and bend to disconnect the leash from my ankle. “I’m good.”

Chip steps in to stabilize my board.

“I misjudged the size of the wave,” I explain. “Lost my footing.” Droplets of saltwater drip from the ends of my hair and disappear into the sand at my feet. I work to mask the shake in my legs, my arms, my hands, my voice. “Wipeouts always look worse from shore.” The lie is so easily spoken, and yet it rebels inside my chest with the force of a hammer strike. Seeing as my smile’s been out of commission for the better part of two years, I reach for the next best thing. “I’ll try to work on my performance for next time.”

Chip ignores my sarcasm and scans the scarcely populated bay around us. Other than a few cars on the street and a couple kiteboarders on the opposite side of the tide pools, there’s no one else.

“Isn’t there some kind of warning in the Surfer’s Handbook about surfing alone?”

“Probably,” I quip. “I’m betting it’s right under the warning about wearing loafers in the sand.” I point to his shoe of choice. “Those are meant for a library, not a beach.”

He flexes the sandy toe of his shoe. “According to the website, these are considered a multipurpose loafer.”

“What website? BookNerdFashion.com?”

This earns me a laugh.

Chip has worked as an editor for a big publishing house in San Francisco since college, but the truth is, he’s one of those lucky guys who found a way to monetize the thing he loves most: reading. I suppose, in my own way, I was one of those guys once, too. Only, instead of books, it was music. Playing it, recording it, mixing it, producing it.

It’s strange to think that once upon a time music made up the bulk of my world.Before Gabby.

A cool breeze whips dry sand against our calves, and I motion to the backpack I left near a chunk of driftwood by the trail up to the Bronco. My body is in dire need of electrolytes. “How’d you know I’d be out here this morning?”

Years ago, I kept a consistent Saturday morning surfing routine, but my time for hobbies, as the sole guardian of a sixteen-year-old, is a rare luxury. There’s always something more pressing to focus on.

“Gabby’s away at camp,” Chip answers with a shrug before he takes my surfboard once again so I can swipe my backpack off the trail. I pull out my premixed drink and take a long pull as he continues. “When you didn’t respond to my text about grabbing breakfast this morning, I checked the surf conditions and tried my luck. As soon as I spotted Maverick, my rideshare driver pulled over and let me out.”

We’ve only just begun our trek, and already my legs have waved the white flag of surrender. Twenty-eight has never felt so old. “So you came all the way out for breakfast?” It’s certainly not the strangest thing he’s ever done, but the further we climb, the more I begin to crave a sausage omelet with a juicy side of bacon and hash browns smothered in—

“Not exactly,” Chip hedges from behind me. “Breakfast is just the vehicle to discuss a business opportunity with you.”

“How many timeshare presentations are involved in this business opportunity?” I toss back.

“None. Although, I hear Turks and Caicos is stunning.” He attempts to jog in the sand beside me, which only makes him looklike he’s mimicking a slow-motion cartoon chase. “Actually, I was hoping we could discuss your recording studio.”

I crane my neck and narrow a questioning gaze at him. I’ve been careful not to reveal too much when it comes to my work these days. Not because I don’t trust him or because I’m attempting to save face—an impossible task considering the number of spit-wad wars we’ve engaged in over the years—but because Chip’s the sort of guy who would auction off a kidney to help a friend in need. And I’ve been that friend more times than I care to admit since the accident.

“The recording market is different up here than it was in LA,” I say with more ego than I intend as soon as my foot touches the pavement. “Finding the right clientele has been ... challenging.” It’s why the bulk of my current workload is spent producing single EPs with run-of-the-mill studio musicians instead of engineering projects that could keep us afloat for an entire year.

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