Chapter 12
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August
I tried.
Even with my lingering unease after the church service yesterday, I tried to be the open-minded, accommodating big brother Gabby wanted me to be. When she asked if she could help Tyler’s family with their renovations at the Twilight Theater, I agreed. By the sound of it, there were plenty of projects to last through the end of the year, and according to Gabby, the Pimentels had even offered to pay her an hourly wage for her time. And considering I wasn’t keen on her working a real job during the school year, it seemed a fair compromise.
But that was all before my discovery this morning.
For the most part, I do my best to avoid going into Gabby’s bathroom. For one, it’s usually a disaster of lotions and potions I want no part of, and for two, I have my own facilities on the opposite side of the house. But after squeezing the last drop of toothpaste from its tube last night, it was time for me to hit up the stockpile Gabby hoards in her vanity this morning.
Th at’s where I found her hearing aids.
At first I couldn’t make sense of why they’d be snapped into their protective case and shoved to the bottom of a drawer filled with extra toiletries. Until I did. Until the revelation ripped the tenuous seam I’d haphazardly mended after yesterday’s service wide open. It wasn’t the expensive price tag or even the threat to the delicate technology that had my blood pumping hot as I gripped them in my fist.
It was the fear it triggered inside me.
Between Aunt Judy’s push for a deaf college and Gabby’s infatuation with her new deaf boyfriend and her ever-increasing involvement within the deaf community ... I could almost feel her slipping away from me, losing hope in the whispered vow I made to her after the accident. I will find a way to fix this, Gabby. I swear it.
Once again, I was failing her.
Worse, I was failing our parents.
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.
So phie 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 realize that’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 want to , but it’s the why that 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.”
Fo r 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 I do know 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 wonder how for 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?
Wow. What a guy, August. Way to go.
“I didn’t say good-bye because I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with Portia.” It’s a lame excuse, and she knows it. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t owe me an apology.”
“You’re right, I owe you more than that. You’ve been a friend to me from day one, and if I’m honest, I haven’t quite figured out how to reciprocate that. I have one close friend and only a handful of acquaintances, most of whom I keep at arm’s length. I’m far from a natural when it comes to people—not the way you are, anyway. I don’t trust easily.” I pause the fire hose of honesty only long enough to cycle a breath before launching in again. “So maybe if you can tell me what’s bothering you, it will give me the opportunity to redeem myself from being a complete jack wagon.”
This brings a smile to her face. A real one. It’s so striking I commit it to memory and then save it to my favorites album.
She takes in a deep breath, then exhales. “My parents showed up at the winery yesterday after an extended trip away. I hadn’t seen my mom in close to a year and my dad in nearly three.”
I work to keep my face neutral. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”
“Worse than any of my roleplays with Dana before I left New York.”
“Who’s Dana?”
“She’s my...” She thinks, then gives a shrug. “She’s the equivalent of your Chip to me, I guess.”
I chuckle. “Got it.”
“When I left home at eighteen, it wasn’t on good terms. My father wanted a specific future for me, one that followed in his and my older brother’s footsteps, despite me being born with the complete opposite personality for such a career. I was set to go to Stanford, his alma mater, where I could be molded into the type of respectable daughter he could find pride in. That was the plan, anyway. And then...” She pauses, swallows. “Something happened when I was sixteen that caused me to take a hard look at my future. I was struggling and alone, and the only thing I had to look forward to was this drama camp I begged my mom to let me attend the following summer.” She looks at the wall, at the window, at the iPad, and then finally at me. “That’s when theater became more than something I wished I could do and became something I decided I would do. I researched schools and knew I’d do whatever it took to get accepted into NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, like many of my favorite actors. The application process was rigorous and stressful, but I did it, all on my own.” The pride in her voice is almost enough to drown out the catch I hear at the end of her statement.
“Y our parents weren’t supportive?”
She shakes her head. “They didn’t know until I left the acceptance letter on my father’s desk.” She sighs. “He tore it up and gave me an ultimatum. I either decline the offer and all that goes along with it—including my desire to be a glorified showgirl—”
“A glorified showgirl? Is that actually what he said?” It’s difficult to keep my frustration at bay as I watch the flash of pain in her eyes before she continues.
“Or I leave without his support—financial or otherwise. That was eight years ago, and not much has changed. Yesterday’s lunch notwithstanding.”
Still propped against the doorjamb, I shove my hands in my pockets. “What about your mom?”
This takes Sophie a bit longer to answer. “I think my mom is a good person with a good heart.” She nods almost as if trying to convince herself that this is true. “But she’s been under my father’s thumb for nearly forty years, and she rarely, if ever, goes against him, which means our relationship has suffered a great deal since I left.” I think she’s finished when she says, “They’re embarrassed of me.” She swallows. “Of my decisions and my failures. And now this—working as a voice actress, reading books.” She holds out her hands as if to indicate the studio. “I know I shouldn’t care what they think—I mean, I’ve lived on my own for years now. But my dad insists I should be working to build a real career at the winery, and I simply can’t imagine staying in a place that’s only ever made me feel worthless.” She groans and tips her head back to stare up at the ceiling. “So tell me why I laid awake half the night replaying his words over and over?”
“Easy,” I say without hesitation. “Because we never stop wanting our parents’ approval.”
When her eyes snap to mine, her expression is stricken. “Oh, August.” She covers her mouth. “I’m so sorry. This entire conversation is so insensitive of me. I shouldn’t be complaining about my parents when—”
“No, it’s okay. I’m saying I can relate to that struggle.”
He r next words marinate for several slow seconds before she speaks again. “I was under the impression your family was super close before the accident.”
My reply takes equally as long to formulate. “My parents raised us to be a close family, and we were.” Until I ruined everything and cut them off for a woman they warned me against. “But it’s difficult to stay as connected when you’re separated by distance.”
Her chin bobs in slow motion, as if she’s trying to decode what I haven’t said. “Does going to church remind you of them? Is that why you left without saying anything yesterday?”
My lips part, but no sounds follow. This is not a conversation I have often—and certainly not a conversation I’ve had with anyone outside a select few.
Sophie takes a step around the recording stool, watching me, and I don’t know how this conversation got flipped around so quickly, but her eyes are clear while mine feel ... hot. “In a way, yes. It’s complicated.”
“I’m sure it is.” She inches her way closer, so close I can see each of her perfect eyelashes as she blinks. “Gabby mentioned it’s not a comfortable place for you. And yet you still went yesterday. For her.” She appraises me. “I think that says a lot about you.”
Yeah, it says I’m a fraud.
I only have to look as far as my sister to see that. Her increasing faith since the accident has only shed light on my decreasing attachment to anything I once held true. In the days following her recovery, Gabby wouldn’t stop talking about those hazy moments between the train crash and when she blacked out and woke in a hospital halfway around the world. But unlike her, all I wanted was to never talk about it again.
“I suppose we all find comfort in different ways,” I try. “Gabby found it in her faith and in her church, and apparently also in some dude named Tyler.”
Sophie chuckles at this, and a thrill zings through me at the musicality of it. “And what about you? What brings you comfort right now?”
In a space this tight, there is no place to look other than at her, which makes my omission of the first thing that comes to mind ten times harder than it needs to be. “Surfing.”
She makes a contemplative sound. “I’ve always wanted to learn to surf. Maybe you can give me some pointers one day?”
I swallow. Just the thought of Sophie in a wet suit on a board next to me in the ocean blurs another line. But before I can summon a reply, my phone flashes and vibrates in my pocket. Gabby changed my ring settings to a visual alert notification like hers over the weekend, and I’m far from used to it.
It’s Chip.
I show Sophie the screen before I answer, and she blinks up at me with curious eyes.
I have to look away before I accept the call. “Hey, Chip.”
“Hey there, does Sophie happen to be at the studio with you right now?”
I spare a glance in her direction. “Affirmative.”
“If I’m not interrupting a session, would you mind putting this call on speaker where she can hear?”
I pull it from my ear and tap the Speaker icon, moving a step closer.
“We’re both here, Chip. Go ahead.”
“Great. First off, Sophie?”
“Yes?”
“Not only did Allie love the sample clip August sent over of your first few chapters, but after I shared them with our executive team, your name came up during our last meeting. In short, I have a business proposal for you and August both. Something I think will cater to each of your talents nicely.”
Her eyes look from me to the phone. I shrug as if to say this is all new to me, too.
“Full-scale, multimedia productions have become popular in the last couple years, especially around the holidays. Think 1960s radio shows with foley artists doing sound effects and multiple narrators. We just contracted one of our top authors for an original Christmas romance script that will be marketed in a limited-time promotion as a free download with any one of the audiobook subscription services we’ll be offering our readers starting November first. We’ve also just secured a multi-award–winning voice actor as the male counterpart, but our female lead fell through due to a timing conflict. The long and short of it is that we’d love for you to consider playing the female roles for this production.”
“Really?” Sophie asks, as if she truly doesn’t know how lucky they are to have her talent in their arsenal. “I listened to a couple of those productions last Christmas with my roommate. I’d be honored to be involved with one.”
Pride like I haven’t felt in some time swells in my chest for the woman standing less than a foot away from me. I knew she was something special, and even though I have nothing to do with her talent or this offer, I want it for her. I want everything for her.
“. . . you in, too, August?”
“What’s that? I think I missed something,” I say, even though I feel Sophie eyeing me.
“Are you good with being our resident foley artist for sound effects? We’ll need an original music score for our intro and outro, as well.”
Dread pools in my core at this request. I haven’t created anything original since the accident, and Chip knows it. Sound effects are one thing, but a score is something else entirely.
“You know how I am, Chip,” I say without meeting Sophie’s eyes, mostly because I don’t want my answer to sway hers in any way. “I’d like to read over the details before committing.”
“Yup, I’ll be sending them over to you both soon, but I think you’ll be pleased with the compensation plan. There’s a generous signing advance, plus a percentage on each subscription sold for the duration of the promotion period. Based on the data we’ve run so far, we have every reason to believe this type of project will do quite well for everyone involved.”
“Do you have a production timeline in mind?”
“Once we finish editing the script, you should have two to three weeks to finish it. We’ll need it back by the beginning of October.”
Tw o to three weeks is not a lot of time considering the other contracts I’m producing or in light of my responsibilities to Gabby once the school year begins. But I simply say, “Great. We’ll both circle back with you soon.”
“Awesome,” Chip says. “Keep up the good work, you two. With your dedication to quality, your future possibilities are endless. You’re an audio dream team in the making.”
“Thanks, Chip,” Sophie chirps. “Talk to you soon!”
I end the call, but something isn’t sitting right, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“You don’t want to do it, do you?” There’s no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your face is saying it,” she challenges. “Expression is like fifty percent of communication, August.”
“I’m pretty sure that number is closer to ninety percent in your case.”
She tilts her head and scrutinizes me with a look that ignites an urge to reach out and pull her close. Instead, I stuff my hands in my pockets.
“I don’t want to push you into saying yes, but this kind of promo deal has the potential for a lot of visibility, especially around the time of year when every red-blooded American woman is looking for a heartfelt holiday romance. I think it could be a huge opportunity for us both, which is why I’ll help you however I can—errands, carpool drives, Gabby’s homework, whatever.”
“You already work two jobs.”
“So do you.” She crosses her arms and smirks in a way that causes me to fixate on the perfect pout of her lips. “You heard Chip. We’re an audio dream team.”
Why does that phrase trigger a mini avalanche inside my chest every time I hear it?
I study her, needing to say something I’m sure I’ll regret the second it’s out. “Chip’s wrong, Sophie. Your talent doesn’t need to be teamed up with anyone to be exceptional. And I can assure you, this op portunity has next to nothing to do with me. There are producers just like me with studios better than mine all over this state.” Though the very thought of her sitting in a booth while some other dude memorizes her every microexpression makes me want to run my fist through this drywall.
“August—”
“I’m serious,” I continue. “Whatever comes up, be it now or in the future, I never want you to miss out on an opportunity, even if it means I can’t be involved in it with you.”
Her nod comes slowly, but I see the sparkle of resilience return to her eyes. “But you’re still going to look over the contract, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll let me help with Gabby if you need an extra hand?”
I pause, and she raises an eyebrow.
“If you insist.”
“I do.” She smiles at me like I’m the one offering to do something kind when it’s actually the other way around. Again. She glances at the clock. “I’m good now—to record, I mean. Thanks for giving me a minute to be unprofessional.”
She moves to take her seat at the stool again, but I catch her wrist. It happens so quickly that neither of us seems to understand how it happened, even though it’s my hand that’s out of line and won’t let go.
“What you said before, about me not returning your call yesterday,” I say quietly. “It wasn’t optional. That was me being an idiot instead of being a friend. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
She acknowledges my words with the slightest of nods. “Thank you.” She drops her gaze to my hand. “And I promise to keep Unprofessional Sophie and all her personal drama out of the booth from now on.”
“So where can I see her?”
“What?”
I rub my thumb along her delicate wrist bone and watch the pulse point in her neck flutter. “I was hoping to ask Unprofessional Sophie to join me for a thank-you dinner in her honor. What do you think she’ll say?”
Th e playful way she bites her bottom lip makes me hyper-focused on her next words. “She’ll tell you to ask her again the second she’s out of this booth.”
“I’ll do that.”
That evening, as I pretend to review the Christmas contract Chip sent over from the comfort of my living room sofa, I’m actually spying on the flirty teenagers sitting at my dining room table, eating pizza and “going over curriculum notes” for the introductory ASL class next week. And wonder of wonders: Gabby’s hearing aids have magically returned to her ears. She, of course, is none the wiser to my knowledge of her master scam, but I refuse to die on that hill. I’d rather climb a new one. And with the help of this contract, that epic hike might be happening sooner than I’d dared to hope.
My phone flashes bright with an incoming text, and I smile as soon as I read the sender’s name.
Sophie:
So ... will I be working with a random producer in a random studio next week or will I be decking the halls with you?
I’m reading the contract over now but keep getting distracted. Chaperoning.
Sophie:
?
I snap a covert photo of Gabby and Tyler and send it.
Sophie:
Ah, they are the sweetest! ??
On second thought, I think you might be better off working with a random producer.
So phie:
?? You can’t tell me you’re not impressed with this comp plan! The earning potential could be huge for us both. Also, here’s my availability to help with rides for Gabby in September if you find yourself double-booked.
She sends over a calendar she’s made on a spreadsheet app, showing the dates and times she’ll have the Escalade at her disposal for the next month, as well as her work schedule. I can’t help but note her availability next weekend. Partly because she’s circled it three times in red. I smile at the not-so-subtle hint.
Am I safe to assume next Saturday night is open for me to take After-Hours Sophie to dinner?
Sophie:
What if I told you that’s my monthly date night with Phantom?
Then I’d tell you my previous offer has been revoked due to irreconcilable differences.
Sophie:
Your cat prejudices are not charming, August. I WILL change your mind about him. Mark my words.
I smile at her cheekiness.
Are you working at the winery now?
Sophie:
Yeah. It’s a slow shift, though. Mondays usually are.
She sends a selfie, only she’s cross-eyed and standing with her back to a counter of wine racks. I shouldn’t be nearly as charmed by it as I am.
Might want to take it easy on the wine tonight, looks like it’s affecting your vision.
She sends another picture of her pretending to sing into a mop handle, and it’s so ridiculous, I laugh. It’s only then I notice Gabby and Tyler’s eyes have shifted from each other to me. No idea how long they’ve been watching me smile at my phone like a goon, but I’m immediately self-conscious.
They give each other a knowing look, and then Gabby fingerspells Sophie’s name. I watch the silent shake of Tyler’s shoulders.
Ha ha, yeah, so funny.
I set the phone down and work to concentrate on the contract details in front of me. Sophie isn’t wrong about the deal points—between the higher rate and the projected promotional subscription commissions, there’s some potentially life-changing money to be made if all goes well. And I know exactly whose life it should change.
I glance up at the table again and watch my sister copy a sign Tyler is teaching her, and I feel the familiar stab of guilt at all she’s lost. And all that I haven’t been able to fix for her. Yet.
After she was denied eligibility for a cochlear implant last summer due to nerve damage, I’d gone on a deep dive in search for alternative answers. Whenever Gabby slept, I would be out here on my laptop. Researching. Bookmarking. Submitting requests to otolaryngologist specialists, asking them to consider reviewing Gabby’s unique case.
Fourteen never replied.
Eight sent auto rejection emails.
And one responded with a secure link to submit Gabby’s medical file through a confidential portal for official review.
I exit Chip’s attachment and click into the digital folder in my inbox.
Dear Mr. Tate,
Thank you for submitting your request through our secured medical portal. After careful examination of Gabriella Tate’s case by our trained staff, we’ve determined her eligibility to participate in the next steps of our experimental procedure (please see attached waivers for detailed liabilities and explanations) to restore hearing after traumatic nerve damage.
Due to the high demand of this advanced, groundbreaking surgery, our next available appointment to meet with the surgeon would be in the December/January timeframe. As mentioned in our extensive terms and conditions policy, we require a 50 percent deposit at the set appointment time. Please refer to the cost breakdown and payment plan attached to this email, and call our office at your earliest convenience to schedule her appointment.
Kindest regards,
Julie Lox Medical Administrative Staff
Doctor Susan Johnston Otolaryngology MD
Refiner’s Pediatrics San Francisco, CA
I open the secure attachment for what is likely the tenth time since I received the email at the start of June. No big surprise that the cost breakdown looks the same—an exorbitant, untouchable figure no insurance coverage plan will even look at due to the key word: experimental . And up until now, I’ve had no way to even imagine covering the deposit, much less the proposed post-surgery payment plan.
Until this multimedia Christmas production.
After a second scan through the proposed contract from Chip, I don’t care how creatively numb I feel regarding writing an original score. I send back an affirmative reply and then pick up my phone to text the talent.
Looks like the dream team will be fa-la-la-ing together come September.