Page 11 of The Voice We Find
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” the woman blurts as we both attempt to collect the flying objects before they begin their final descent onto the driveway and roll into the street.
She catches the two at her feet while I jog after the ones that got away. In an instant, we’ve become teammates, successfully retrieving my recycling and making goal shots into the bin I’ve set against the outside wall to deal with later.
When I finally stand upright and face my surprise visitor, I can’t even pretend not to notice how arrestingly beautiful she is—like some sort of fairy-tale maiden straight out of the princess books my mom used to teach my sister English. Her caramel-brown hair is long and wavy with streaks of light and dark, half bound with a thick blue ribbon tied near the crown of her head. The tails swish every time she moves. With that and her intriguing wardrobe of layered fabrics and colors, there’s literally too much for me to capture in a single glance. I’m not even sure a full five-minute study of her would do the job.
“Hello,” she says with a voice that seems to pry open a chasm in my chest. “Are you August Tate, the audio engineer?”
“Yes, I’m ... August.” I have never sounded so unsure of my first name. Was she here to inquire about my marketing ads online? A singer, maybe?
“Oh, good.” She sighs and smiles at me in a way that makes my lips follow suit of their own accord. “I’m glad I found you. I’m Sophie Wilder.” She adjusts her stance, then holds out her hand to me in greeting. I hesitate before taking it, but when I do, our hands remain connected a beat longer than two strangers meeting for the first time should. The instant we break apart, I’m already hoping it won’t be the last time I get to touch her. “I believe Chip Stanton scheduled me to record a demo here today at two?” She glances at her watch. “I was worried I’d be late, but since there was little traffic out this way, I’m actually here a few minutes ahead of schedule.”
Wait.Sophieis the narrator Chip scheduled? Had he mentioned that she was a ...she? If so, he’d conveniently left out a few key adjectives.
She hooks her thumbs under the padded straps of her backpack and gives me a questioning look. “I’d be fine to wait outside until Chip arrives.”
It’s only then I realize I haven’t uttered a single word since I caveman-spoke my first name.Pull it together, Tate.“No, no. That’s okay. Please. Come in.” And just like that, I’m suddenly regretting not doing a more thorough cleanup of the studio. It’s been a long time since I’ve invited an outsider into the messy state of my life, longer still since that outsider has been a woman unrelated to me. “I’m afraid I don’t get many guests, but you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable on the sofa there. I doubt Chip will experience the same traffic luck, coming from the city.”
As soon as she steps past me, I’m hyper-aware of the sweet, intoxicating fragrance that trails after her. Something floral maybe?
“Traffic is so fickle, isn’t it?” She gives a half laugh, half groan. “In New York, it seemed like the more pressed for time you were, the more delays you were sure to have.”
“New York?” I ask, surprised. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Originally? No.” She takes in the various instruments on my wall with curious eyes, and I suddenly wish I was a mind reader. “I actually grew up just outside of Santa Rosa, but I went to college at NYU and lived there for the past eight years. I only moved back recently.”
There’s a story there, I’m sure of it. But seeing as I’m probably the last person on earth to ask a stranger something so personal, I just say, “That’s a big change.”
She lowers her eyes to her metallic gold sandals that tie in bows at her ankles. One peeks out through the slit in her long denim skirt every now and again as she gently sways left to right. “It’s been an adjustment, to be sure.”
I pick up on the somber note in her tone even as her lips tip north. I rarely allow myself to think about what I might miss about living in LA. Instead, it’s easier to focus on the traffic, the smog, the constant crime and ridiculous crowds, the ex-girlfriend who exploited my regrets like trophies. But there were other parts, more significant parts, that feel as if they were amputated from my life without permission. I suppose, in a way, they were.
“May I offer you a drink?” I open my fridge and then immediately wince, wishing I’d taken the time to restock the sparkling waters Gabby always adds to the grocery list. Or, you know, shopped at a grocery store. “Unfortunately”—I run a hand through my hair—“my selection is fairly limited at the moment.”
“Unless I’m in the mood for an energy drink, you mean?” she says with a smirk. “You know, the first step to help is admitting you have a problem.”
“Then I’m definitely not on that step yet.” I hold up my favorite flavor. “But I am willing to share.”
She flashes me another grin, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve been so affected by, well, anyone. Maybe this is a side effect of the caffeine. If so, I might never stop. “Thanks for the offer, but I try to stick to water as much as I can—vocal chords are pretty boring that way.”
I watch her twirl a long strand of hair around her finger as shestudies the framed pictures on my wall: Most of them are bands I worked with in LA, some of them are album covers; all of them are signed to me. Gabby had found them shoved into a moving box around the same time I was finishing up the renovations on the detached garage. She’d come to me one night with an armful of frames and an idea of how to hang them. I couldn’t say no to her. She was too happy to find something she could do to help that didn’t require her being in the center of a construction zone.“It’s good marketing to show your work history, August,”Gabby said as if she was keen on good business practices at her age.“You never know who might wander in here someday and need a sound engineer with your exact qualifications.”
I can only imagine what Gabby would be thinking if she could see Sophie in here right now. Undoubtedly, she’d like her. The woman’s artsy style alone would draw my sister in like a—
“Wow,” Sophie says. “You’ve worked with a lot of artists. Where was this big studio located?”
“LA,” I say, working to scratch the thoughts about Gabby meeting Sophie from my head. This woman will be here and gone in thirty minutes with nothing but a demo to show for it.
I’ve just fished out the single bottle of water from the back shelf of my fridge to give to Sophie when a peculiar sound pricks my ear. A low, soft rumble.
The volume increases incrementally as I approach Sophie standing near the picture wall. I hold out her water.
“Here’s your—” But I can’t finish the sentence because I’m too busy seeing something that simply can’t be. I blink to clear my vision, but the transparent orb strapped to Sophie’s back is still there. And so is the purring black-and-white cat inside it.
I leap back. “That’s a cat.”
The words come out stilted, only there is nothing stilted about the memory of my aunt’s demon tabby attacking me in my sleep more than a decade ago.
Sophie twists to face me. “What?”
