Page 48 of The Voice We Find

To an outsider, Gabby’s steady acceptance of her limitation was courageous. Admirable, even. But I knew differently. I knew that with a single phone call to Dr. Johnston’s office, her degenerative prognosis could be erased!—the hearing in her left ear saved!—if only I had the resources.

Now, more than an hour after the discovery, my hand still shakes as I jam my dad’s drill bit into the sheetrock of my studio wall, resolved to fix the sagging corner shelf and the impossible financial situation I’m in. Not for the first time, I consider the ramifications of taking on a second mortgage. Maybe it’s time I finally have a chat with Chip’s finance guy in Sacramento.

I’m testing out the shelf when the studio door opens and closes softly behind me.

I twist on my haunches, grateful for the positive distraction of Sophie’s arrival to offset my inner dialogue, when all she offers is a muffled “Hey, August” before she disappears around the corner without another word.

I’ve never claimed to be an expert on women, but clearly something’s not right here.

Sophie is usually a sunbeam of happiness when she enters the studio. I don’t think there’s been a single morning when she hasn’t initiated at least ten minutes of warm-up talking at my soundboard before traipsing back to the booth. It’s only in the lack that I realize how much I’ve come to rely on her charisma to set the mood of my whole day.

As soon as I’m up on my feet, I banish all thoughts of unworn hearing aids and medical expenses to focus solely on Sophie’s melancholy movements through the glass that separates us. Everything she does in the recording booth—from unzipping her backpack, to setting her iPad on the stand, to adjusting her stool, to sipping on her tumbler of lemon-ginger tea—looks strained and somber. She stares off into space as she gathers her thick hair atop her head, allowing the strays to cascade down her back. When she secures her headphones and moves her pink lips close to the mic, I study them for a beat too long before placing on my own headphones and pressing the intercom button. “Morning.” I narrow my gaze on the dark shadows under her eyes. “You doing

alright?”

Her gaze is fleeting, but she offers me a thumbs-up regardless. “I’m okay ... just ready to get rolling.”

I’m struggling to place her expression when I realizethat’s the problem. In all our time together, she’s never looked so ... unexpressive. I tap my iPad screen and jump to where we left off last Friday, only to read my notes and grimace at the poor timing.

Tentatively, I engage the two-way Talk button again. “So, unfortunately, we’re gonna need to roll back to the scene break in chapter thirty-nine. The mic picked up the tissue you used to wipe your cheeks, so we’ll need to rerecord that section.”

When she blinks and looks up at me, I feel a distinct tug in the upper left quadrant of my chest. “I don’t think I can do that scene today.” She swallows and rubs her lips. “Do you mind if we skip it for now and come back later?”

Her request is spoken with such tenderness that I have the urge to tell her she never has to read that scene again if she doesn’t wantto, but it’s thewhythat has me wanting to break through this window and beg her to trust me with what’s really going on.

But instead, I simply say, “Sure, we can start at forty, as long as you feel ready to—”

“I’m ready.”

Even though the resolve in her voice is trimmed in professionalism, the last thing I want to do is give her a countdown. But I do it anyway. Because whatever’s going on with her, it’s not something she’s chosen to share with me. And I can respect that. Or at least, I can try to respect that.

I cue the recording chime in her ear, but as soon as she reads the chapter title, I know this session is going to be a bust. Her voice is as flat and lifeless as her eyes. Two words that should never be associated with Sophie Wilder.

The main character in the scene Sophie’s narrating is currently making battle plans against the heinous beasts who left her mate, Rayun, for dead, and yet Sophie might as well be reading one of my textbooks on sound engineering.

I could engage the Talk button and attempt to coach her through the technical issues ... but instead, I remove my headphones and push away from my soundboard. I have no plan when I round the corner to the booth and open the door, but I hope she’ll invite me in. Not only inside this tiny room, but into whatever’s going on with her today.

I lean against the doorjamb without a word, taking in the sight of her linen overalls and pale yellow tank top, when her eyes finally snag up to mine.

“August?” She startles. “What are you—”

“I thought maybe you could use a break,” I say without preamble. “Figured I might take one with you. If you don’t mind the company, that is.”

Immediately, her bottom lip begins to quiver, and then she’s up on her feet, turning her back to stare at the wall. “I’m sorry, I know that take was terrible. I’ll get myself sorted, I promise. I can be a professional. I just ... I need a minute.”

For a woman who literally held my hand while I was on the verge of passing out in an emergency room, one would think I’d know how to be a comfort to her in this moment. But I’m at a loss. I don’t know what my role is here, or maybe Idoknow it, and that’s the problem. Too many lines have been blurred when it comes to Sophie to know which one I’m supposed to stand behind now.

I have a brief flashback to yesterday, to my last impression of a smiling Sophie at the kiosk with Portia. Did something happen after I left? Something with her family? I still knew so little about her life at the winery.

“Take all the time you need,” I start. “I know we haven’t known each other long, Sophie, but if ... if you want to talk, I’m here.”

As soon as she rotates to face me, I know I’ve screwed up. And, thanks to the accompanying bolt of lightning that zaps through my core, I don’t have to wonderhowfor longer than an exhale.

Sophie texted me after church yesterday, and I’d been too busy sulking around the house to call her back.

I bite back a groan. “I, uh, I never called you back yesterday.”

“That’s not why I’m upset,” she says with a kindness I don’t deserve. “I’m sure you were busy, and it was only optional—the calling me back part, I mean.” She rubs her lips together, and I worry it’s to keep her watering eyes from spilling over. “I only texted to check in on you. It felt strange not to say good-bye after sitting together. That’s all.” When she tries to smile, I want to ram my own fist into my jaw. Had Sophie checked on me while something in her own world was breaking?

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