Chapter 23
23
August
I see my ransom note worked as planned.” Chip’s tone borders on cocky when he stands to greet me from the corner booth of Golden Gate Subs and Sandwiches.
He texted me a pin to this hole-in-the-wall deli yesterday, along with the ransom-style instructions that if I wanted the current metrics on Mistletoe Matrimony ’s performance, then I shouldn’t be late. And seeing as that bonus is the only thing keeping me from scheduling Gabby’s consultation with the surgeon, I didn’t balk at the demand. The multimedia audiobook went live on Fog Harbor’s website November first, a little more than two weeks ago now.
“Withholding payment for work rendered is a crime in the state of California, Chip.” My joke sounds drier than I intend, but I’m using all my willpower to keep the coiling tension from leaking out. My two-year search might be over in a matter of minutes.
He chuckles and slaps me on the back before we take our seats on opposite sides of the booth. He slides a plate with a hot pastrami sandw ich on rye toward me, complete with an extra dill pickle spear. I’d ask how he knows my lunch order, but my sandwich preference ranks low on the scale of weird facts we’ve retained about each other over the years. The pros and cons of meeting your best friend at fifteen.
It’s been at least a month since I helped Chip move apartment complexes, and though it’s hardly the longest gap we’ve had between our in-person meet-ups, a lot has transpired since the day he convinced me that audiobook production could be a viable side hustle. He wasn’t wrong. So far, the paychecks have been decent and far more consistent than the work I was picking up on my own.
“You want the good news or the bad news first?” Chip asks after swallowing a huge bite of his French dip.
I narrow my eyes. “If you made me drive all the way here so you could tell me the audiobook was a huge flop, then–”
“Good or bad,” he repeats with a jester’s grin.
“Bad.”
“Ya know, I was really hoping Sophie would change that pessimistic outlook of yours.”
“She’s my girlfriend, not a miracle worker.”
Chip laughs. “I suppose the fact that she even agreed to be your girlfriend in the first place is miracle enough.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Chip doesn’t need to tell me what I already know: I could never deserve Sophie. Not in a hundred lifetimes. Not with a thousand of her journaled prayers for me. I push my plate away, leaving only a quarter of a spear of pickle and a smear of Dijon mustard behind.
I stare him down and throw out the scenario I’ve feared most. “Is Fog Harbor Audio pulling the plug?” I know firsthand how brutal the first six months of any new business venture can be, including the make-or-break financial pressures. And if the sales and downloads haven’t met Fog Harbor’s expectations, it’d make the most sense for them to cut their losses as early as possible.
He gives a firm shake of his head. “No plug-pulling here. But I do think you should know that the whole of publishing slows down this time of year, which will affect contract negotiations between authors and narrators and will ultimately bring in less raw audio to master and produce until roughly mid-January.”
The pastrami I ingested turns to granite in the pit of my stomach. Guess I shouldn’t have been so quick to cross studio musician work off my schedule.
“But the good news is, you won’t need those audio contracts during this holiday season because you are ... hang on.” He holds up a finger. “Let me get the wording exactly right.” He picks up his phone and scrolls for what feels like twenty years. “‘The sexiest voice in entertainment since the Hemsworth brothers.’”
I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind.
“You’ve become a viral sensation, August. You .” He slaps the table and gut laughs. “I knew Sophie’s talent would secure a loyal following, but nobody expected the frenzied manhunt your voice would cause in the audiobook community. Also, you might want to think about locking down your old social media accounts.”
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 of Mistletoe Matrimony floating 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.”
Now this shakes 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 eyes and 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 and finally atone 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 th reads 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.
He lowers his voice. “Listen, I may not know what it’s like to be somebody’s guardian, but I do know what it’s like to watch the people I care for grieve.” I know he’s referencing a world much wider than the one I live in with Gabby. “The ones who suffer most are the ones who refuse to examine the source of their pain.”
I study my hands, wishing for the life of me that I could have held all this in a few more minutes until I made it out to the car.
He releases a breath, and with it, I feel him throw me a bone I’m not too proud to take.
“How are things with Sophie?”
“Better than I deserve,” I say honestly. “She’s home with Gabby now. They’re working on some big project for a class they take together.”
Chip’s deflated optimism is slowly refilling. “I figured they’d get along well.”
“I’m pretty sure if you asked my sister, she’d choose Sophie ten out of ten times over me.”
“Smart girl.”
We both chuckle at that.
“So what’s your next move?” he asks. “As far as the surgery goes.”
“I make the call to the surgeon’s office and set up Gabby’s consultation.” I glance at my watch—only a quarter after three. “Which I plan to do today.”
Chip nods. “You’ve both waited a long time for this.”
“Actually, Gabby doesn’t know yet.”
Chip’s eyebrows take on a life of their own. “As in, she doesn’t know about the bonus or the surgery?”
“Eith er.” I drum my fingers on the table. “I should probably think of a good way to tell her tonight.”
Chip raises his hands. “Don’t look at me. Allie says I’m terrible at reading what women want.” He shrugs. “I can only assume that includes teenagers, as well.”
I smirk. “Do you always talk about such personal matters with your authors, or is that exclusive to Allie?”
“No, yes. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s more that we both tend to work odd hours ... or we used to, anyway. Things are different now.”
“Different how?”
Chip suddenly looks as if he’s more interested in the construction of this booth than having this conversation, but after everything I just divulged, it’s only fair.
“Marketing’s been working on a big collaboration between Allie and Bo Jensen and—” Chip stops as if realizing who he’s talking to. “He’s a—”
“I know who Bo Jensen is.” I may not be a reader myself, but I see that dude’s books everywhere. Gabby even has a few on her bookshelf. “His novels are massive.”
As if this comment is somehow a personal affront, Chip stretches his neck. “Actually, they’re about average size for an epic fantasy.”
“Oh, o-o-okay,” I draw out. “And this collaboration’s a problem because ...?”
“Never said it was a problem. They’re just pretty focused. On each other. And the booklover’s cruise they’ll be featured at together next summer.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say a booklover’s cruise ? As in a cruise where people sit around and read books together? Sounds thrilling.” I tip my head back and pretend to snore.
He presses his palms to the table and begins to exit the booth. “Perhaps I’ll let marketing know that the sexiest voice in entertainment has graciously offered to create an ad—pro bono—for said cruise for all the wonderful things Fog Harbor has done for him.”
I give a short laugh as he waits for me to scoot out from the entrapment of this booth.
Once I’m freed, we make our way to the parking lot, and Chip’s gaze falls to his loafers before we go our separate ways. “All jokes aside, I hope you know I only want the best for you and your sister.”
“I do,” I say. “I also know I couldn’t have done any of this without your help. You’re a good friend, Chip.”
His nod is slow but sincere as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
He’s already turned to walk back to his office when I call after him. “You have to keep me updated, too, ya know?”
He swivels his neck with a questioning eyebrow.
“On the other collaboration. For the record, I don’t think Bo Jensen and his beefy books have anything on you,” I reply.
His only response is an eye roll and a two-finger salute.
I tuck into my car, grateful for the solitude.
I suppose a civilized person would have waited until they were home to make the phone call they’ve imagined making since the audiologist first spoke the words “I’m afraid her condition is degenerative. You’ll need to make the necessary adjustments to her daily life as we work to test her for hearing aids. Of course, they will likely be a temporary solution.”
No, civilized is far from what I feel when I click into the email I’ve read a dozen times and tap on the contact number near the bottom and place the call. I breathe in the mix of relief and triumph as the medical admin searches for the surgeon’s next available consultation date, but it’s the sense of absolution I’m still waiting on as I make my way to my sister’s favorite bakery to pick up the sugar supply a celebration like this demands.