Page 93 of The Voice We Find

I can’t possibly lower my eyebrows any further. “Explain all the words you’re saying right now.”

“Let’s just say it’s not only the audio excerpts ofMistletoe Matrimonyfloating around the socials that have quadrupled our downloads in the last week.” He pauses with a look of intrigue I want to douse with a cup of ice water. “Your face was polled and voted on as the character inspiration for Blake on the author’s fan page and now, well, it’s become a whole thing.”

I’m waiting for Chip to break character or at least throw in a well-timed “Dude,I’m just messing with you,relax,” but he keeps right on talking.

“Before I left the office, our marketing manager pulled me aside and told me that if this keeps up, it will be, and I quote, ‘Our most lucrative marketing campaign to date.’”

The earth must orbit around the sun forty times before I can find my voice. “This isn’t a joke?”

“I never joke about book sales.”

“That’s ... this is...” I fist my hair. “This is all completely insane.”

“Yes,” Chip agrees readily. “It is. But so are the mad subscription bonus checks you and Sophie will make at the end of the month. I’m basically Santa in this moment.”

Nowthisshakes me out of my stupor. “We made our bonuses?”

He waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you not hear a word I said? This thing is unstoppable. There’s already a hashtag: Augie.” When I say nothing to this nonsense word, he rolls his eyes and follows up with, “Your couple name. August plus Sophie.” His smile spreads as wide as I’ve ever seen it. “I hope you’re both up for what’s to come because these readers are going to demand more multimedia originals starring the two of you, and probably some livestreams from your studio as well. Thankfully, we already have some new scripts in the works—every major holiday plus one for the pumpkin spice season.” He laughs. “Plus, I think there are some real opportunities coming your way as far as original soundtracks go. I’ll say more when I know more, but trust me. The right people are talking about you.” He beams. “It’s crazy how things have a way of working out sometimes.”

I slump against the booth and fight to process what he just told me. My brain spins and spins until all I can get out is “You swear on our friendship you’re not messing with me?”

“August, I’m in the business of fiction, and not even I could make this up.”

It’s right then that the dam I’ve been fighting to hold back—since the night my aunt called with news that my only living family member was currently being airlifted to a medical research hospital in Mumbai—breaks. Two years of feeling utterly helpless in the face of so much despair whooshes out of me at once. I fall forward and catch my head in my hands, shoving the heels of my palms into my eyes.Breathe.Breathe. Breathe.The muscles in my back and shoulders constrict, as if they’re not sure how to let go of the stress they’ve been carrying for so long.

Not here, I think.Not now.

But grief has little respect for privacy. It doesn’t care that I’m in the middle of a deli in San Francisco. Heat builds behind my eyesand burns in my chest.Could this really be the moment I’ve been waiting for? The moment I can finally crawl out of the dark pit andfinallyatone for my mistakes?

I’m so deep in my head when Chip speaks that his voice offers an emergency portal back to the present. I take it gratefully and scrub my hands over my damp eyes.

“You needed that, the bonus check,” he says knowingly. “It’s for something important, isn’t it?”

Where I’ve given Chip limited access to these types of inquiries in the past due to my revulsion to pity, I can’t now. How could I, when the only reason I’m here is because of him?

“It’s for Gabby.” I blow out a deep breath, lift my head, and slowly fill him in on the experimental surgery I’ve been researching for the better part of the past eighteen months. I tell him how it’s been proven to work for cases similar to my sister’s. I tell him about the denial from insurance and the upfront costs in order to schedule the procedure after she has a consult with the surgeon.

Chip says nothing for several long seconds, and it’s not until I hear the break in his voice that I realize the reason. “I wish you would have told me about this sooner.”

“It wasn’t your problem to fix.”

There is no humor in his laugh. “And moving my fourteen-inch memory foam mattress down four flights of stairs last month wasn’t your problem either, but you did it anyway. Because that’s what friends do for each other. They show up when you need them.”

“You got me the work and paid me better than you promised. You’ve done plenty for me.”

He lifts his empty water glass, swishes the remaining ice cubes several times. Sets it down. And then does it all again, two more times. When he finally leaves it on the table, he asks, “Have you opened the box yet?”

His question couldn’t have been more alarming than if he’d stabbed me in the neck with his fork.

I don’t answer, which of course is answer enough.

He threads his fingers on the table. “This surgery might fix your sister’s hearing, but you know it won’t fix everything. It can’t.”

“My sister is my primary responsibility. I’m her—”

“Legal guardian? Yes, I know. I was there, remember? I answered your phone in the hospital for you when the attorney called.”

I bob my chin once. How could I forget? I was practically as catatonic as my sister in that moment.

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