Page 100 of The Voice We Find

I drag my eyes from her to the garden shed, where I keep the lighter fluid. I march over to it, and within minutes, I’ve started a fire I hadn’t planned on, tending to it with a long, skinny branch. Sophie made use of the time by carrying out two crusty garden stools from inside the greenhouse. The tops are hand-painted with mushrooms, caterpillars, and butterflies—my mother’s handiwork from when I was still living under her roof. Seeing them out here is a painful reminder that she’s no longer here and won’t ever be again.

Sophie plants the chairs a safe distance away from the fire and gestures for me to join her.

She clasps her hands between her knees. “I’ve told you things about my brother and about my broken family dynamics that I’ve never shared with anyone,” she starts as soon as I sit and poke the stick in the ground beside my stool. “I told you what happened to me at sixteen and about the realities of my life when I lived in New York. You know my failures as an actress and insecurities about returning to the stage and the fears I’m currently facing. And do you know how you’ve responded to me each and every time?”

I trace the angles of her face in the firelight and wait for her to answer her own question.

“With kindness and understanding.”

I flick my eyes away from her as her cool hand closes around mine.

“Please give me a chance to show you the same. I hope you know you can trust me.”

I want to tell her it’s not as simple as she makes it sound. That some of these hurts are attached to strings with no ends. That if she tugs too hard on the wrong one, all of them,all of me, will unravel.

“I don’t know what more you want me to say.” It’s an honest answer, even if it’s not the one she’s hoping for. “There are multiple reasons I think the surgery is the best thing for Gabby’s future—”

“I don’t want to talk about Gabby; I want to talk aboutyou.”

Her declaration stops me short, and I twist on my stool, catching her eyes in the glow of the fire. “Okay. What about?”

“Tell me the story of how your parents died.”

The searing blade of a knife stabs me between the ribs. “You already know how they died.”

“You’ve told me the facts, yes. The train accident in India. The phone call from your aunt. Gabby’s hospital stays and diagnosis. An attorney informing you of your parents’ wishes for Gabby’s guardianship. The small inheritance they left to you both and your move back to Petaluma from LA.” Her gaze is pointed as she presses her hand to her heart. “But none of those facts tell me anything about what happened in here—what’s still happeningin here. I’m your girlfriend, August. I want to know you. Icareabout you. I...” Her lips stop, but her silence speaks for her, and it’s impossible not to feel every inch of the coward I’ve become. I drop my gaze to the patch of dry grass under my feet.

My head buzzes with the dissonance of conflicting thoughts.“I want to know you,”she said.But what’s lurking in my past is not a one-time confession. It’s not something that was done to me, but rather something I did. Something I chose and continued choosing even after I knew the hurt my deception had caused. There’s no light switch I can flip that will erase the years of heartache I caused my parents after I sold out my faith for a dream that never delivered. And there’s no redemption plan that will bring my parents back after they died serving a God who hadn’t bothered to answer their prayers.

“I don’t see how dredging up the past will fix anything,” I say, hoping the hitch in my voice is disguised by the crackling fire.

“It might not, but how can you heal if you’re unwilling to face whatever it is you keep shoving down?”

“Not all fears are equal, Sophie.” I can tell by her body language she doesn’t miss the defensive edge in my tone. “I’d never force you to go down to hang out in the wine cellar or audition on a stage. Not even in the name ofhealing.”

Sophie goes still beside me, and even when the fire pops and a board breaks, she remains tense. “I actually had an audition last week.”

Thisstuns me. “What?”

“Technically, it was a callback. It wasn’t on a stage, but it was in front of a casting director and his crew.” I remain frozen as she twists her body toward me. Her knee bounces in time with my hammering pulse. “Dana sent in an initial audition video of me without my permission, and strangely enough, the director emailed to ask if I’d do a live audition over their online platform.”

It’s everything I can do to keep my voice level. “And you kept this from me because...?”

“Because I didn’t think anything would come from it. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to perform a full song, let alone that they’d have a lead role in mind for me. They’ve asked if I would fly down to LA for a final reading but—”

I stand and move toward the fire, gripping the poker stick so hard I’m sure it will snap. “Is that where the show is—LA?”

“No,” she says softly. “It’s a traveling production that requires a twelve-month contract.”

Her words send a jolt of pain through me, and I wonder if she can see it on my face. “And you told them you’d go?”

“Of course I didn’t.” While firelight dances across her features, she stands and squares up to me. And without the slightest hint of reservation, she grips the poker stick, her closed fist brushing the top of mine. “I told them I needed time to talk to my boyfriend and figure a few things out before I gave them an answer. It’s whatI wanted to talk to you about tonight before ... well, before everything happened.”

The reminder of the mess I created with my sister does little to steady my mind. But soon I’m studying the perfect swell of Sophie’s lips, the thin line of her jaw, and the slight arch of her neck, and my desire for her flares brighter than the fire at my back.

I quickly tamp it down. “You want me to give you permission to go.”

“No, August.” She shakes her head and gives me a tentative smile. “I’m hoping you’ll give me a reason to stay. I’m hoping you’ll tell me you see a future for us. I’m hoping you feel the same for me as I feel for you.” Her grip tightens on the branch as mine begins to yield. “Because I love you.”

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