Page 29 of The Voice We Find

My symptoms started off small at first—a shiver at the briefest touch of our hands, a twinge at the sound of her voice in my headphones, an ache at the end of every work session after she says, “Good-bye until tomorrow.”

Only every tomorrow feels like a fever dream I don’t want to wake from.

I know the prognosis should scare me—terrify me, even. I promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. I swore it. The last time I cared about a woman, my whole world came crashing down. And yet nothing about this, abouther, feels like a repeat of Vanessa.

And yet I’ve been wrong before.

“There you go, Mr. Tate,” Sophie says as she lowers my freshlybandaged hand to the gray sofa cushion wedged between us. We learned quickly that the studio bathroom isn’t large enough for two people plus a medical supply kit, and given that Sophie is a coworker, it hasn’t felt appropriate to invite her inside my house alone.

“From everything Bruce explained about the stages of healing, I think you’re ahead of schedule. You’ve been a superstar patient.”

While Sophie turns to sort the remaining supplies, I clear my throat and debate for the thousandth time if I should capitalize on the moment and make good on that dinner date Dr. Rock suggested in the ER.

I flex my healing hand for courage. No pain. I open my mouth, the words on the tip of my tongue, when she flips around with a huge grin on her face. “I think it’s time I give you this. You’ve earned it.”

She holds out a yellow paper star with the wordsSuperstar Patientwritten on the front in black, bold letters, complete with a safety pin through one of the points. At first, I’m speechless, but then I see the badge she’s pinned to her own shirt.

The badge I’d made and figured I’d lost in the unexpected shuffle to the hospital.

She must read the unspoken questions on my face.

“I found it in the pocket of your sweatshirt that night in the hospital. Hope I was right in assuming it was meant for me? I’ve been saving it for just the right moment.” She touches her wrinkled star. “Thank you for this, by the way. I’ll wear it with pride.”

I blink, nod. “You’re welcome.”

She holds up my badge. “May I do the honors? I’m not sure your hand has graduated to safety-pin dexterity quite yet.”

I try to laugh, but my throat dries out as soon as she touches my chest and tugs at my shirt. “First you bandage me like a pro, and now you’re coming at me with a needle. I think you’re more medically inclined that you realized.”

“’Fraid the closest I’ve come to nursing was playing Florence Nightingale in a musical several years back.”

“A musical,” I muse, hoping her fingers linger longer than necessary.

She pats the badge on my chest and pulls her hand away. “Yep. I actually majored in musical theater.”

“I’d guessed you were a singer.”

“Yeah?” She laughs me off as if I’m joking. “How’s that?”

“Because I’ve heard your voice.”

She pulls a goofy face. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember breaking into song in front of you, August.”

I fixate on her perfect lips as she says my name. “It’s in the way you speak—your pitch control and clarity, your resonance and range. You also have a reverence for enunciation and tone I’ve rarely heard in my field. It’s hardly a perfect science, but in the same way a coach can recognize a trained athlete by the muscle groups they’ve built, a trained ear can recognize a professionally trained voice.”

Her amusement slips into a stunned expression I’ve only seen her wear a handful of times. “You’re completely serious.”

“I rarely joke about what I hear in my sound booth.” I pause, wondering how far I should take this. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re a mezzo-soprano with a sweet spot similar to Adele’s range—A4–E5.”

Sophie’s jaw slacks. “How can you possibly know that when you’ve only heard me read fantasy fiction?”

I shrug again. “Am I wrong?”

Slowly, she shakes her head back and forth, but it’s the way her eyes shimmer and her words fall hoarse that makes me realize I should have stopped while I was ahead.“What are you?”

The question strikes me in the hollow of my throat. “I’m a sound engineer.”

“What else?”

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