First-Time Caller

Chapter 8

I thought people who worked in radio were supposed to be hideous.

That’s the saying, isn’t it? A face made for radio. The implication being that while a person might possess charisma and charm, they do not have the looks for a career in stardom.

It’s a stupid saying. And clearly, a saying that has no actual basis in fact or reality, because—

Because Aiden Valentine does not have a face for radio.

He has a face for those cologne ads that come on during the afternoon soap opera run. The ones where the guy is aggressively walking through the hallway of a hotel. Or a desert. Inexplicably rolling around in dirt while yanking his T-shirt off with one hand. Wolves, probably. Moody music. Lightning.

Aiden looks like a brooding Disney prince in a Carhartt hoodie. One who’s been shoved around a little bit, maybe. Straight nose. Dark messy hair. A full bottom lip and almond-shaped eyes that might be blue or might be gray. I couldn’t tell in the lobby and I can’t tell now, though I’m doing my best to figure it out. I keep sneaking looks at him through the window that makes up one wall of the booth he disappeared into quickly after shaking my hand.

I am flabbergasted that there’s a man who looks like that just . . . walking around. Talking on the radio.

He could absolutely be a cult leader.

“Don’t mind him,” Maggie says, waving her hand as she moves stuff around her desk to make room for me. The room is microscopic. More of a converted closet than a true workspace. “He’s a bit of a mess.”

He catches me looking at him through the glass, his dark eyebrows tugging together. Then he adjusts his headphones—the bulky ones that should make him look ridiculous but absolutely do not—and spins in his chair, hunching over the complicated-looking system in front of him.

I’m having trouble lining up the Aiden on the phone with the Aiden in the booth. I had a picture in my head. Someone older. Wise. Patient. Graying hair at the temples. Glasses on the very tip of his nose. A stack of relationship advice books at his elbow. Possibly sipping some tea while puffing on a pipe.

I didn’t think I was talking to a six-foot-something man with perpetual bedhead and a penchant for dentistry innuendo.

I drag my eyes back to Maggie. “I’m sorry.” I touch my fingertips to the bridge of my nose and tell myself to get it together. “What were you saying?”

Maggie frowns. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re uncomfortable—”

I wave the thought away. I am uncomfortable, but I imagine anyone in my situation would be. Sometimes a little discomfort is a good thing. A necessary thing. A thing that leads to better things.

Or so I’ve been told by every self-help podcast I’ve listened to while wheeling back and forth on a dolly beneath the undercarriage of a car.

Maggie taps her pen against the desk. She doesn’t look like she’s listened to a self-help podcast in her life. Her hair is perfect, her stylish blouse tucked neatly into perfectly pressed wide-leg pants. She looks like she just stepped off a runway and I look like . . . I just rolled out from beneath the undercarriage of a car.

With my self-help podcasts.

I sigh. “I’m not sure—” I swallow my doubt and try to find the version of myself that is brave, self-assured, and confident. “I’m not sure I’m what your listeners are looking for. I don’t have any experience with this sort of thing.”

Maggie studies me. “What are my listeners looking for?”

“I have no idea, but I’m fairly certain it’s not a twenty-nine-year-old mechanic with self-esteem issues and a preteen who calls in to radio stations to expose their lack of a love life at the drop of a hat.”

Her eyebrow arches high on her forehead. God, even her eyebrows are perfect. “Seven point four million people would disagree.”

I swallow. “The number went up?” I whisper.

“The number went up,” she confirms. “It keeps going up, Lucie.” She leans forward until her forearms rest against the desktop. “Aiden has had more callers this week than we’ve ever had. Even during our golden age when he first joined the station. It’s unprecedented and it’s because of you.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes.” She nods. “Because of you.”

I chew on my bottom lip briefly. “Are you sure?”

She leans back in her chair. “I’m never wrong.”

I believe her. I do. I don’t think this woman has ever been wrong in her life. I toy with some of the studs pierced through the cartilage of my ear, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake. “So, ah. What are you looking for? What do you need me to do?”

“I don’t want you to do anything.” Maggie studies me, eyes assessing. “I want you to be exactly who you are.”

I want to ask her, And who do you think that is? And then, Do you mind letting me know? Because I’ve got no clue. I’m so used to everyone else defining me, I need the help. Maya’s mom. Lu from the service garage. Damian and Celeste’s wayward daughter. The one who got pregnant so young. She had so much promise, didn’t she? Whatever happened to her?

This is what happened to her. She had an emotional breakdown live on the radio and now she’s here, sitting in a surprisingly comfortable chair, wondering what happens next.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“On the phone call, you were honest. You were vulnerable. You said things that a lot of people—” She clamps her mouth shut. Tightens her lips. The stern, bossy look on her face cracks, and I see something soft flash underneath.

“You said things that resonated with a lot of people. Things that other people are afraid to say,” she continues slowly. “That’s its own sort of magic, isn’t it? You and Aiden have good chemistry, and I think together you could help a lot of people. And if you’d like, I want to help you.”

“Help me how?”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. It looks downright devious when paired with her delicate features. That look could reduce a man to dust. Bring down an empire. Jump to the front of the line at the DMV.

“You’ve captured the attention of every single person on the Eastern Seaboard. Don’t you want to see what’s possible for you?”

“In terms of . . .” I let the rest of that sentence dangle.

“In terms of dating,” she says bluntly. She flicks a nonexistent piece of lint off the front of her blouse. “You could have your pick of the litter.”

I don’t want my pick of the litter. The litter sounds terrifying, frankly. I haven’t been on an actual, real-life date in two years, and I don’t know how to say that without sounding pathetic.

And a part of me, a teeny-tiny sliver of myself, is still waiting. To bump into someone on the street or pick up the wrong coffee order. For the right person at the right time in exactly the right place. To not have to try so damn hard at any of it. It’s the romantic in me that Aiden laughed at. And maybe it’s childish or naive or whatever , but it’s me. I’m allowed to want soft, special things.

Maggie seems to read my mind.

“Maybe this is it,” she says quietly. Earnestly. “Maybe this is how love finds you. I know you probably think I’m doing this for the ratings and the audience and the sponsorship, and part of that is true. This is a business. But what if . . . ?” She clasps her hands together so tightly her knuckles turn white, and I know, unequivocally, that this part is honest. This part is true. “What if this is what you’ve been waiting for? What if it’s all a string of choices and moments and events and decisions that have led you to exactly right here? And what if what happens next—what if what happens next is the good part? The part you’ve been waiting for.”

Somewhere in the hallway, a snack machine whirrs. Shoes squeak against linoleum. The tiny clock on the corner of her desk ticks out the seconds. The heater clicks on and then off and then on again.

“Wow,” I say, more than a little impressed. “You’re very good at your job.”

“The best,” she says with a grin. “How about I—”

A small man barrels into the room, a stack of paper in his hands. He’s breathing like he ran here, deep heaving gasps that end in a wheeze every time.

Maggie glances up with a frown. She doesn’t look surprised by the entrance. He looks like the kind of man who often enters the room in a chaotic sweep. “All good, Hughie?”

Hughie hands Maggie the papers he’s holding without a word. She looks at the cover and goes ramrod straight. Her eyes flick up to his form, still bent in half. I have no idea what’s going on.

“Where did you find this?” she asks.

“Fax machine,” he wheezes, a balloon losing air.

“Fax machine,” she repeats, eyes narrowed. “He sent it through the fax machine?”

Hughie nods. “When?”

“Just now.”

Maggie rockets out of her chair. One of the framed photos on the wall behind her slants at an angle. It’s a picture of an older man, laugh lines by his eyes. Both his arms are wrapped tight around a tiny girl who looks like a smaller, messier version of Maggie. She’s wearing headphones that are far too big. Her knobby knees crisscross-applesauced on a leather chair pulled up to a desk with a microphone. Toothy smile wide, front teeth missing.

“Lucie, I’m so sorry. I need to check on something quickly.” She yanks a still-panting Hughie behind her by his elbow. “Hang tight for me.”

“Sure. That’s no”—she disappears into the hallway—”problem,” I mutter to myself.

I study the pictures on her wall while I wait. I straighten a shiny microphone-shaped award on the corner of her desk. I count to ten and then ten again, listening for anyone in the hall.

Maggie is clearly not the type of woman who has knickknacks, but she does have seven different colors of Post-it Notes, an impressive array of paper clips, and a giant red novelty button that says STFU in bold white lettering.

I’m examining a letter opener that looks like it doubles as a teeny-tiny dagger when I hear a thump against the window of the studio.

I jump and glance over my shoulder, finding Aiden staring at me expectantly from behind his desk. I forgot he was in there. I also forgot he can see directly into Maggie’s office from his seat and he’s probably been watching me artfully arrange thumbtacks for the last six minutes.

We hold eye contact for several uncomfortable seconds. Did I imagine the sound of something hitting the glass? Isn’t he supposed to be working? Does he want to make another vague innuendo about dental instruments? Does he want to apologize for making vague innuendos about dental instruments? It’s hard to tell from twenty feet away with a soundproof glass wall between us.

He tears a sheet of paper from the notepad in front of him, crumples it into a ball, and throws it at the window. It barely makes a sound, then lands on the floor next to what looks like . . . a doughnut-shaped dog toy?

I look back at Aiden. He’s writing on the notepad with his head ducked down. Then he lifts his face, gives me a devastating half smile, and holds up his sign.

COME HERE , it says.

I point at my chest.

His smile twitches wider. Who else? that face says. He scribbles on his notepad some more.

COME HERE, PLEASE

The please is underlined twice. I stand on shaky legs and pretend he’s not watching me the whole time I wander my way over to the booth. There’s a little glowing red right above the entrance. A faded Heartstrings sticker stuck in the middle of the tiny window. I try the handle and the door swings open.

Cold air and stale coffee. Warm flannel. Evergreen with a hint of brown sugar. Everything is buzzing in here, machines and microphones and an old coffeepot balanced on top of a file cabinet with an EAT BERTHA’S MUSSELS bumper sticker slapped on the side. It makes me smile to see it. A reminder that my city is Aiden’s city and we might have something in common after all. Like a love for shellfish that’s been cooked in sixteen pounds of butter.

Aiden and his broad shoulders take up the entirety of the desk he’s sitting at, his long legs pushed out under the table. He waves me in as he tinkers with something on the audio controls in front of him, sliding one thing up while simultaneously sliding another thing down. It all looks very complicated, but then I remind myself I repair heavy machinery for a living and curiosity tugs me closer.

I’ve always loved learning how things work. Loved examining all the bits and pieces beneath the surface. When I was a kid, I was always taking things apart just so I could put them together again. The television remote. The toaster. Grayson’s Ricochet remote-controlled car. It calmed me down to understand how something worked. I liked knowing that if something broke, I could look at the parts that were left and figure out how to make it whole again.

Much to the disgruntled amusement of my parents.

And Grayson.

Especially after I discovered his Spider-Man collection.

“That was very brave of you,” Aiden says, watching me from the corner of his eye, talking to someone on the other end of his headphones. His voice sounds different here. Deeper. More assured. Maybe it’s because he’s channeling his on-air persona or maybe he’s just more comfortable with some warm-up time. Whatever it is, he’s more at ease here than he was in the lobby of the station.

Aiden reaches for something and I watch the way his arms flex beneath the sleeves of his hoodie. The graceful way his big hands work at the controls of the audio board. I flush when I realize I’m watching the way his body moves, grateful for the low light and the cramped, crowded room. He picks up a pair of headphones and holds them out to me.

I point to my chest again. He rolls his eyes and leans farther across his desk, nudging my arm with them.

I curl my hand around the headband and his thumb brushes briefly across my knuckles. His eyes are examining some nonexistent point by the far wall, head cocked slightly to the left as he listens. He blinks and his eyes clear, finding mine. He nods at the headset in my hand.

Put them on , he mouths.

I slide them over my ears and hear a woman’s voice. I catch her mid-sentence.

“—and I’m not sure, you know?”

Aiden hums, agreeing with some point I didn’t hear.

“I just . . .” The woman’s voice trails off and I hear a sigh. Exhaustion and exasperation and frustration too. All wrapped up in one tiny sound. I understand that sigh in my bones. “I don’t want to feel like this anymore. And I didn’t even realize I was feeling this way until I heard you talking to Lucie. I was nodding in my kitchen with everything she said. I think I just . . . I think I got so used to putting myself and my needs on the back burner that I didn’t notice I was doing it anymore.”

Aiden is watching me from the other side of the desk. Our eyes catch and hold. “That can happen sometimes,” he says.

“It feels silly to have a life-altering realization from someone else’s conversation, but I—I’m tired of not getting the things I deserve. I’m tired of settling. I want more.”

Something warm flares to life in my chest. I press both of my palms to the outside of my headset like I can contain this woman’s voice and tuck it close. Somewhere near my heart.

“She made me brave enough to want that,” the woman continues. “I hope she knows. Lucie. I hope she knows how much that means to me. Wherever she is. Thank you for waking me up. Thank you for giving me the hope that there’s something better out there for me. It really means the world.”

“Well, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his eyes still right on me. I smile back. Tremulous and unsure but hopeful. “Wherever you are. Thank you.”

They move on to something else, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too focused on the thrum of my heart in my chest and the buzzy, staticky sound in the back of my head. I did something for someone, and it wasn’t fixing their muffler or changing their oil. It wasn’t cutting the crusts off a peanut butter sandwich or . . . reading the same book seventeen times in a row. I did something for someone just by—just by being myself. Sharing my fears. Being vulnerable. Exactly like Maggie said.

Aiden taps some other buttons on his board and slips his headphones from his ears. His hair is sticking up on the left side, a red mark on the corner of his jaw from the headset. He nods at me and I pull the headphones from my ears too.

“How did you know she was going to say that?” I ask.

Aiden studies me, his maybe-blue, maybe-gray eyes shadowed in the muted light of the studio. “I paid her in Berger cookies.”

My stomach twists. “Did you?”

He shakes his head, a smile hidden behind the fist he brings to his mouth. “No. I don’t know how much you think radio hosts make, but it’s not enough to bribe someone.”

I frown at him. If this was all some big joke—a ploy to get me to take the job and boost their ratings—I’ll walk right out the door and keep walking. I don’t want to be manipulated. Not with anything, but especially not with this. Not with this thing that feels like cracking open my ribs and exploring all the soft parts beneath.

I couldn’t stand it.

He seems to realize how serious I am because he straightens in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his big body. “I’m just messing with you. I didn’t know she was going to say that, but I had a feeling she might.”

“Why?”

“Because every caller we’ve had for the past week has more or less said the same thing.” He scratches his jaw and then yawns, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. In the background, I can hear the faint sound of a jingle. Commercial break, I guess. “I know you’re looking for love and I don’t know if I’m the right person to help you with that. But I think you started something the other night, whether you meant to or not.”

I set the headphones down on the edge of his workstation. “I didn’t mean to do anything. I was just talking to you.”

“And I was just talking to you.” He studies me, his pretty eyes assessing.

“How would it work?” I ask slowly.

He shrugs. “However you want it to. I could be your love boat tour guide, if you wanted.”

I watch his face carefully. “You don’t like that idea.”

He shakes his head and twists back and forth in his seat. “It’s not that.” He fixes me with a look. “I’m going to tell you something, okay? And it stays between us, yeah?”

I nod. It feels like a fair trade, after I’ve already handed him so many of my secrets.

He blows out a breath. I steel myself for some lurid confession.

“I’m struggling with the concept of love,” he finally says, his words slow and measured.

I stare at him. “What does that mean?”

He rubs his hand along his jaw, long fingers fanned out. His gaze jumps from my eyes to the corner of his desk to the screen of his computer, then back again. “I’m not sure it’s real?” he says, like it’s a question. Like he still hasn’t untangled his thoughts on the matter.

I’m skeptical. “You host a show about love, and you don’t believe in it?”

“Please lower your voice.” He frowns. “It’s more complicated than that. I’ve been struggling with callers. With the stories I’ve been hearing. When I talked with you the other night, it was the first time that I—” He cuts off abruptly, but holds my eyes with his. I want to know the rest of that sentence so badly .

Did he feel even a fraction of what I did?

But he doesn’t finish his thought. I watch as he mentally packs it away, whatever it was. “Maybe we can help each other,” he continues, his voice controlled. “You can help me keep my job, and I can help you find your magical Prince Charming. Maybe watching you fall in love with someone will give my cold, dead heart some hope.”

“You wouldn’t—” I swallow around the anxiety making my throat feel tight and force myself to say it. I don’t like the flippant way he said magical Prince Charming . “You won’t make fun of me, right?”

His face collapses. “You think I’d make fun of you?”

I shrug. “I know the show needs ratings. I know we’ve gone viral. And I know sometimes there’s a part to play. You just said you don’t believe in love, Aiden. I don’t want to be made into a joke and I don’t want to be embarrassed.”

He clenches his jaw, the sharp line of it jumping once. “It’s not that kind of show and I’m not that kind of person. It’s not just my job I’m trying to save, all right? You have the unique opportunity to prove this cynic wrong.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but the words stick in his throat. He releases a breath and ducks his head, keeping his eyes heavy on me. “I promise, Lucie. This isn’t a joke to me.”

I nod once. He’s telling the truth. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll think about it.”

He rubs his palm along the back of his neck. “Great.”

He checks the screen of his computer and tugs his headphones back over his ears, that stubborn piece of hair on the left side of his head still sticking straight up. He drags the controls up and then down and I take that as my cue, backtracking toward the door.

My hand is on the knob when he calls for me, chin tucked against his shoulder. “Lucie?”

I turn to look at him. “Yeah?”

“While you’re thinking, if you need someone to talk to”—he taps his finger against the headphone pressed to his left ear—”I’ll be listening.”

Some of my hesitation cracks, splinters, caves. I bite the inside of my cheek against my smile. “I’ll be listening too,” I tell him.

The last thing I see before I shut the door to the booth is his face in profile, cast mostly in shadows. Strong lines and sharp angles.

But I do manage to catch the very edge of his smile, glowing blue in the light of his screen.

CALLER: I want to believe in it, you know? That there’s something—someone—out there waiting for me. But it can be hard. Sometimes I lose hope.

[pause]

AIDEN VALENTINE: Yeah. Me too.