The Voice We Find

Chapter 1

1

August

I duck dive the nose of my surfboard under the next breaking wave using the same technique my dad endeavored to teach me back when I was a know-it-all punk who believed time was something to exhaust, not cherish. And back before I realized that practicing pop-ups with him at dawn wasn’t a punishment, but a privilege. But I suppose that’s the ugly truth about regrets: They never arrive until after it’s too late.

I paddle hard for the next surf-worthy lineup, timing the enormous swell ahead with the same precision I once applied to mastering albums for artists in Los Angeles. As soon as I close in on the shoulder of the wave, my adrenaline surges. Three, two, one. I pop up on my board. Despite my muscle fatigue, my core holds taut, ready for one last battle for balance. Fiery heat licks the length of my spine as I pick up speed to ride the wave’s power source.

The instant I slip into the pocket of the massive curl, the static in my brain is replaced by instinct. And it’s this moment that is both everything I crave and everything I need all at once. Here, in this temporary cocoon of peace, there are no overdue medical bills screaming for attention, no home-based business investments lacking clientele, and no teenage dependent relying on me to keep us afloat.

The familiar tremor in my quads urges me to ride this wave back to shore and recover on the beach with a bottle of electrolytes and a protein bar. Only I’m not ready to go back to the noise yet. I never am.

I maneuver the board and cut back into the pocket, riding high on the momentum and gaining confidence with every second I’m on top. But when the next swell crests and breaks, the calm inside my head begins to slip, uncovering each stressor I’d hoped to drown. A single misstep later and I’m on the wrong side of the churning foam.

I have less than a second to tuck my head before I’m plunged into the dark waters with a force that depletes my oxygen reserve. On impact, I tumble head over feet, plummeting deeper and deeper into the abyss of the Pacific until I’m nothing more than a disoriented tangle of heavy neoprene limbs and spasming lungs.

But it’s silent down here.

An enticing, addictive, weightless kind of quiet.

And for a moment, I will the panic clawing for my next breath to stop.

I will it all to stop.

The regret. The pain. The guilt. The grief. The shame.

My bearings and vision grow dim as a single thought closes in: What if I just let go?

The question barely has enough time to register before a spear of light illuminates the crashing waves above me, and with it, a primal, almost savage instinct takes over. I can’t leave my sister alone.

I grasp for the leash around my ankle.

Desperation drives me as I climb the safety tether with a strength that consumes me. It’s unnatural, and yet I’m positive it’s the very thing keeping me alive. With every pull toward the light, the burn in my lungs intensifies. The urge to inhale is relentless as my vision spots and tunnels.

And then I see it: the shadowy outline of my board directly above me.

I break the surface.

I gasp for air, but I’m too weak to do anything more than cling to my board like the lifeline it is until I’ve recovered enough to float on my back and breathe.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

I chant the words over and over again in my mind until I almost believe them.

Once the trembling in my chest subsides, I heave my upper body onto my surfboard and drag my dead-weight legs to follow suit. Though my body is thoroughly trashed, my mind fights to make sense of that suspended moment underwater. How close was I to...? I don’t allow myself to finish the question, but much like the waves rolling beneath me, my thoughts collide, one after another, and soon I’m picturing my sister outside the Welcome Lodge of Camp Wilson yesterday, waving good-bye.

The irony of our last conversation plays over in my mind.

I hadn’t even put the gearshift fully into Park before I’d started in on her again . “No surfing, no diving, no trampolines—on land or on water—” I amended after I saw the glint of mischief in Gabby’s dark brown eyes. “No go-karts, no rock climbing, no mountain trails without adult supervision, and no horseback riding without a secure helmet.”

“Do you really think I’m going to forget your long list of no-no’s the second you pull away?” My sister fiddled with her right hearing aid in the visor mirror before moving on to her left side. “I had a head injury, August. Not Alzheimer’s. Besides, I know you wrote an entire essay to the camp nurse about me already.” She flipped the visor closed and gave me a look that dared me to deny it. I couldn’t.

“I’m just saying, I know how difficult peer pressure can be at your age. It wasn’t so long ago that I was sixteen, and—”

“Oh wow, okay. I’m gonna go now.” She popped the passenger door open, and I felt a distinct pinch in the center of my chest.

“ Wait , Gabs.” I placed a firm hand on her knee . “If you need anything, and I mean anything 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 look like 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.

“I’m sure that’s true,” he readily agrees. “California wine country is certainly not Hollywood.” We’re only steps away from Maverick when I sense him hesitating. “I’m also sure you’ve had more outgoing expenses than what you’ve let on for a while now.” I don’t confirm his suspicions, but Chip continues, undeterred. “I know you don’t like talking about Gabby’s prognosis, but I’m not ignorant enough to believe insurance has covered the bulk of her medical bills.” He lowers his voice. “I know what you did to pay for her special hearing aids. And while that’s commendable, there’s only so many vintage guitars you can sell when it comes to—”

“Where is this going, Chip?” I can feel my defenses rising, and I’m certain Chip can, too. I grip my board and prepare to secure it to the roof of the Bronco.

“Audiobooks,” he replies triumphantly.

I pause mid-lift and stare at him blankly. “Audiobooks.”

“Yes.” He holds out his hands. “Hear me out.”

I say nothing as I swipe the damp hair from my eyes and hop onto the back bumper to tie down my board.

“Fog Harbor Books just gave me the green light to spearhead our first audiobook imprint, and you’re my top pick for a producer. I can do all the preproduction legwork—vetting the narrators and sending you demos so you can check the quality of their home studio equipment, and then once you approve them, I’d send you the raw cut recordings so you can do what you do best: produce a killer product.”

After tightening the last strap, I drop down to the pavement and open the back of the Bronco. All I want is to peel this wet suit off, pull on my dry clothes, and drive to food. But first, I need to address Chip’s random request. “While I appreciate the thought, Chip, I’m a sound engineer. I work with bands. Singers. Musicians. Wannabe rappers with too much disposable income. I don’t do read-a-thons.”

“Listen, I get that you’re overqualified,” he challenges. “But that’s what makes it so perfect. You’re already set up with everything you could possibly need. Depending on the length of the book and the edits you might require, you could crank out several projects a month. It would be flexible hours you could work around your current studio clients and Gabby’s schedule.”

“I don’t know the first thing about books.”

“You don’t have to know anything about books. Some of these narrators are award-winning actors—their talent is incredible. I’m telling you, this gig is custom-built for you. And the pay is pretty great, too.”

“How much is ‘pretty great’?”

I swear his left eye twitches as he tells me the cut I’d make per finished book. It’s decent. Maybe even a tad better than decent. And by his grin, he knows I know it, too.

“What kind of commitment are we talking about here?”

Chip laughs. “How did I know that would be your next question?”

I toss my stack of dry clothes onto the bumper and yank the extended zipper pull on the back of my wet suit until it reaches the top of my swim trunks, then work to break the fabric’s suction on my arms and chest.

Chip leans his back against the Bronco, facing the water as he speaks. “I could start you off with a ten-book contract. That’s the minimum I can offer as there’s a good size list of bay-area producers who wouldn’t turn this opportunity down. Once you complete the first contract, we can renegotiate terms.”

Ten books. I multiply the number Chip gave me earlier by ten. That would go a long way in recovering some of our savings.

Just the thought eases something tight in my chest. When I became my sister’s legal guardian overnight, I didn’t have a clue how fast we’d burn through my life savings and the majority of the insurance policies our parents left to us. But between my relocation costs, funeral expenses, medical bills, and the home studio I was certain would take off just as soon as the dust settled on my renovations to our parents’ detached garage ... we’re running dangerously low.

It’s tempting to recall the cushy paychecks I left behind in Los Angeles and the recording studio that was more like a glorified amusement park for music and tech geeks everywhere, but I can’t afford to linger there for long.

The few highlights of that life had cost me so much more than they ever gave.

And that life never could have included Gabby.

A sixteen-year-old girl mourning the loss of her parents needs security: a real home in a good neighborhood with familiar friends at a familiar school. Not to mention the world-renowned medical care she’s received at Stanford Children’s in the wake of everything else the accident stole from her.

I pause my undressing and peer at the back of Chip’s head. “Is there really a market for people too lazy to read for themselves? I mean, I’m no expert here, but reading a book versus listening to one seem like two completely different experiences. Does it even count as reading?”

Chip whistles low. “I’d highly recommend never repeating that question, especially in the presence of a reader. Brawls have broken out over lesser aspersions in the publishing world. But to put it mildly, yes, audiobooks do count as reading. It’s been proven multiple times over in multiple studies. The brain responds similarly to the power of a good book whether it’s listened to with the ears or read with the eyes. Plus, think about what an audiobook provides for a reader with a vision impairment.”

The word impairment thumps at my shame.

Inch by slow inch, I peel down the thick layer of neoprene suctioned to my quads and calves until I can finally step out of my suit. I’m standing in nothing but my swim trunks when a convertible of college-age girls drives by. I reach for my T-shirt, but not quickly enough. The car reverses until it stops on the street near my Bronco. The driver honks her horn, followed by the waves and catcalls of her passengers. A scrap of paper is tossed in our direction. It flutters to the ground.

In two quick moves, I yank on my shirt and reach for a towel to dry my sun-bleached hair. The beep beep of an oncoming car causes the convertible to squeal forward.

“Well, that was exciting.” Chip jogs around the front of the Bronco and picks up the paper from the road. He opens it.

“Samantha says to call her.” He shows me the scribbled phone number next to a blotted lipstick mark. He tries to hand it off to me, but I give him a stare that has him wadding it up in his fist. “You’re not interested. Got it.”

“My life is complicated enough as it is.” I slam the back hatch closed. “And that’s without the added stress and misery of dating.”

“Ya know, my offer might actually help you uncomplicate some things if you were willing to give it a chance.” He quirks an eyebrow. “But since we’re on the subject of dating, might I also suggest you stop thinking that every woman could be Vanessa in disguise.”

He shudders, and I flash him a look that conveys exactly what I think of discussing my ex so early in the morning. I’m starving, but even the sound of her name brings back memories so nauseating they nearly kill my appetite altogether.

“Fine,” he chuckles. “If I swear not to bring her up again, will you at least consider producing for Fog Harbor Audio? I’ll need an answer soon.”

When I nod in acknowledgment, Chip strides to the passenger side and climbs in. But instead of moving closer to the SUV, I take a final glance at the water, as if in a private consultation with the ocean. But there is no mystery to the decision I will make. Spoiler: It’s not one where I keep trying to resuscitate a dying dream. The hours I’ve logged in a production studio don’t matter, nor do the artists who’ve publicly recognized my creative ingenuity. That August Tate doesn’t exist anymore. Truth is, he hasn’t existed since the day he got the worst phone call of his life and took custody of his adopted sister.

I might have declined opportunities in the name of ego and pride in the past, but I’m not foolish enough to do it again. I have enough regrets. So I cut my gaze from the ocean, yank open the driver’s side door, and accept the lifeline my friend anticipated I’d need even before he watched my head go under water.