Chapter 11
MONDAY NIGHT
W hat sort of traits do you find attractive in a partner?”
Lucie’s face turns bright pink in the glow of the monitors. She goes to scratch at her ear, bumps against her headphones, then knits her fingers together in her lap instead.
“I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about it.”
“Really?”
She shrugs. “Is that something people keep a list of or something?”
“No.” I smile. “But they usually have an idea of what they’re looking for.”
“Aiden. I’m literally here because I’m garbage at dating. We’re going to have to walk before we run.”
I laugh. “Okay, fair point. Let’s start somewhere easy. Do you have a celebrity crush?”
Her blush intensifies. It’s unexpected and cute as hell.
“I don’t want to tell you,” she mumbles.
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” She sighs, looking anywhere but at me. “I don’t want to. Let’s start somewhere else.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What? Why?”
“Because now I’m firmly invested in knowing the answer. We can’t move forward until I do.”
She rubs her lips together. Crosses her legs and then uncrosses them. She leans forward and mumbles something into the microphone. I don’t catch any of it, and I know our listeners haven’t either.
“What was that?”
She looks over at me, resigned. “Alan Alda.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “What?”
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
I can’t stop laughing. Both at her answer and at the defiant look on her face. “How old is he? Like eighty?”
“He’s eighty-eight and I’m not crushing on him now, obviously.” She pauses. “Nineteen seventy-four Alan Alda. Hawkeye Pierce was a babe.”
“From M*A*S*H ? The old TV show about the Korean War?”
“Reruns are almost constantly on TV,” she defends herself sullenly.
I laugh some more. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.
Lucie tries to glare at me, but a smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Are you done yet?”
“No. I’ll never be done with this.” I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip. Another rogue chuckle rumbles out of me. “So I think it’s fair to say you’re attracted to a sense of humor.” I wait a beat. “And geriatric men in military uniforms.”
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
“What do you want to talk about tonight?”
“Not celebrity crushes, that’s for sure.”
“How about ideal date locations?”
She blinks at me, unamused. “Aiden.” She sighs.
“What?”
“I thought I expressed that I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“And I thought I expressed that I’m here to help you figure it out. How are you going to find your dream date if you have no idea what you want to do with them, hmm?”
Lucie’s eyes narrow. Her legs are tucked beneath her on her chair and she’s got both hands curled around her mug of coffee. My coffee, which she managed to find again despite its new hiding place. Steam drifts in tendrils around her face, her hair draped loosely around her shoulders.
“It doesn’t matter,” she grumbles.
A smile tugs at my mouth. “This again.”
“No. I’m not playing coy,” she says. “It shouldn’t matter what we’re doing, should it? I’m not picky about where we go or what we do, I just want to enjoy the time I’m spending with someone.”
I stare at her. She stares back.
“So . . . the Canton Waterfront Park?”
“I like taking walks.”
“It’s February.”
She shrugs. “There are things called coats, Aiden.”
“What about . . .” I try to think of the worst possible date location. “What if someone wanted to take you to a historical reenactment at Fort McHenry?”
She winces. “I’m sure that would be educational.”
“What if they wanted you to wear a bonnet and a petticoat?”
One eyebrow arches. “This is getting specific.”
“What if they wanted you to wave a flag? Sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?”
“Is this a fantasy of yours, Aiden Valentine?”
“No.” Then I think about Lucie in a bonnet, and I walk that statement back mentally. “What about the parking lot of the abandoned Burger King? Would you go on a date there?”
“Am I being murdered?”
“I just want you to admit that there is somewhere you’d like to be taken on a date. You’re allowed to have an opinion.”
She rolls her lips, her forehead creased in thought. Her thumb rubs around the rim of her coffee mug, back and forth. Her eyes dart to me and away again.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shifts. “Nothing.”
“Nah, that’s not a nothing look on your face. You know your answer.”
“No, I—”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t have an answer.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me.”
She ducks her head slightly. “I don’t want you to make fun of me.”
Something twists in my chest. I thought we’d moved past this, but Lucie is still so convinced the things she wants aren’t things worth talking about. Who made her feel so small? Who made her hide pieces of herself? Maya’s dad, maybe? Someone else?
I cross my heart with my index finger. “I won’t. I promise.”
“I’d really like it if . . .” I watch as she scrapes together her bravery. It might be the most incredible thing about her. How she’s always willing to try. “I think it would be nice to have a picnic,” she finally says.
“A picnic,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she says slowly, still ping-ponging her attention around the studio. “It doesn’t have to be outdoors either. Maybe on the living room floor. Nothing fancy. Carry-out from a burger place and a fort made out of sheets. Maybe a movie in the background. I don’t know. The idea always seemed nice.”
“Eating on the floor seems nice?”
She narrows her eyes. “I told you I didn’t want you to make fun of me for it.”
I hold up my hands. “I’m not. I’m just trying to understand. What do you like most about that idea?”
She goes quiet on her side of the table. She’s quiet for so long I almost nudge her for an answer again. But something keeps me still. Maybe it’s the look on her face or maybe it’s the way she’s holding her body a little too tight. Like she’s never let herself think of these things before. Like she’s never let herself want them.
“I like thinking that I’d be worth the trouble of something like that,” she confesses quietly. Her shoulder shrugs up to her ear. “I like thinking that it doesn’t need to be fancy to be special. Maybe . . . maybe they’d remember I like fountain soda best or daisies instead of roses. Little things that’d let me know they’ve been paying attention.” Her eyes lift back to mine. That twist in my chest again, sharper this time. “I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.” She looks back down at her half-empty coffee mug. “That’s the sort of date I’d want.”
FRIDAY NIGHT
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You did not have blond hair.”
“Blond tips,” I correct. “During a very unfortunate phase in high school.”
Lucie tosses her head back with a cackle. It slices through the room like lightning, and my nails dig half-moons into the palm of my hand. I didn’t think I’d want anyone in this booth with me, but it’s nice.
I like having the company.
“Do you have pictures?”
“What?”
“Pictures,” she asks, still smiling, dragging me back to the conversation I’m supposed to be paying attention to. “I demand photographic evidence.”
“Ah, no. All pictures have been burned.”
MONDAY NIGHT
“I don’t want to talk about me tonight,” Lucie tells me somewhere in the middle of the show after a string of apathetic answers. She’s in a contemplative mood tonight. Cookies aren’t helping.
“That’s good,” I tell her breezily, “since this is a segment specifically about you.”
“It’s not about me,” she says.
I raise both eyebrows.
“Okay. It is slightly about me. But I need a pause. Tell me something about you.”
“Me?”
She nods. “Mm-hmm. A deep, dark secret.”
“Just . . . jumping right in there, huh? Right into the deep end.” I swivel back and forth in my chair. My knee taps against hers with every twist to the left. She doesn’t move away and neither do I. I’ve decided a little touching is okay. As long as she doesn’t mind. “If I remember correctly, I tossed a few softball questions in your direction before getting to the good stuff.”
“You still haven’t gotten to the good stuff,” she says, and I believe it. I believe with Lucie, there’s only good stuff . “You host the show, don’t you? Sharing your feelings might make you more vulnerable with your listeners.”
I make a face. “I don’t have those.”
“What? Listeners?”
“No. Feelings.”
She gives me a delighted smile. “Oh, you’re one of those, huh?” she says, mocking me.
“One of what?”
“ I don’t have feelings ,” she grunts in a deep voice, several octaves below her normal register. I guess that’s supposed to be me. “ I’m a big man and I don’t need feelings. ”
“You’re incredible at doing impersonations. You should pursue it as a career.”
“Aiden . . .” she drags out my name with a bit of a whine and something sharp settles at the base of my spine. I shift in my chair.
“Do Arnold Schwarzenegger next.” I request, my voice a rough scratch.
“No. Tell me a secret.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling. Jackson decorated the booth for my birthday last April and some of the streamers are still stuck up there. Bits of ripped, faded paper hanging on from where I yanked them down. “You want a secret right now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay.” I lean closer to the microphone and dip my chin to my chest, playing it up. Her smile blossoms and blooms, her whole face lighting up with it. “I’ve never told anyone this before. Are you ready?”
“This is a safe space, Aiden.”
“My dream job . . .” I hesitate. Lucie leans closer. I almost feel bad for what I’m about to say. “I’ve always wanted to operate those purple dragon boats they have in the harbor.”
She collapses back in her chair with a sigh, disappointed. “Aiden.”
“What?” I laugh. “That’s my secret!”
“That is not the sort of secret I was hoping for.”
“Well”—I push the appropriate buttons on the control panel to send us to a commercial break—”that’s the secret. Baltimore, we’ll be back after these messages from sponsors. Start thinking of your own secrets.”
I switch us to break and tug off my headphones, rubbing the heel of my hand against my ear. Usually during this time, I slip into the break room to see if anyone left any of the good snacks or stretch my legs with a walk around the parking lot, but I’m content to sit in the booth tonight.
Lucie nudges me. “You do that a lot, you know.”
“What?” I pick up my mug, check to see if I have any coffee left, then wheel sideways to refill it. “Confess to wanting to ride a little paddleboat around the Inner Harbor?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes and extends her mug. “Refuse to talk about yourself.”
I fill her mug before I fill mine. “I talk about myself all night long.”
“Not true,” she says. “You talk to people. You have opinions, but you hardly ever talk about yourself.”
“A good conversationalist is someone who knows how to listen.” I take a sip of too-hot coffee and stretch my neck.
She doesn’t like that answer. I can tell by the twist of her lips. I sigh and lean forward to put my mug on the table. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to give me something honest. Something about you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know,” she answers simply.
I drum my fingers against the desk. One of her feet is propped up on the chair beneath her, her chin on her knee. She watches me and I watch her, trying to figure out if I want to give in to her request or find a different distraction to hide in.
But I’m tired, and it’s the part of the night where secrets don’t feel like secrets and the world could be reduced to just this radio booth and I wouldn’t notice.
“Sometimes I’ll tumble down a wormhole and watch sad movie scenes on YouTube,” I say slowly. “Just clips, though. Never the full movie.”
“Just clips?” she asks.
I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie in its entirety. It feels like a waste of my time. I don’t know why. I take another sip of my coffee and hum around the lip of the mug. “Mm-hmm.”
She’s quiet for a long stretch. “Only the sad parts?”
I shrug.
“Do they make you cry?”
The scene from Field of Dreams where his dad shows up in the cornfield certainly does. “Sometimes.”
Lucie frowns at me. Her face is so damn expressive. I wonder what it’s like to walk around with your heart on your sleeve. Mine is buried so deep in my chest I’m not sure I could find it if I wanted to.
“That’s sad, Aiden.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” she says, still looking at me. “That’s really sad. It’s a weird secret.”
“That’s why it’s a secret, Lucie. It’s supposed to be weird.”
Her frown turns contemplative. “Do you have any other ones?”
“That one wasn’t enough?”
She shakes her head.
“Fine. My name isn’t really Aiden Valentine.”
She rolls her eyes. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“Is it James Bond? Perd Hapley?”
“I wish I had a name as cool as Perd Hapley.”
“All right, Aiden-who-apparently-isn’t-named-Aiden.”
“My first name is Aiden.” I take another long sip of coffee. “But my last name is Valen. Valentine is my radio name. Because of the romance thing.”
I liked having the differentiation when I first started. Aiden Valen might struggle with believing in good things, but Aiden Valentine never did. Not until the world beat the optimism out of him.
She blinks at me. “You’re serious.”
I nod. “I told you I was.”
I turn my chair back to my monitor. She stares unseeingly at the coffee machine. I check the countdown and adjust my headphones.
“Are you processing?” I ask.
“You’ve handed me a lot tonight.”
“I understand.” I gesture at her headphones. “Can you process and listen at the same time? We’re about to head back on.”
She nods, but she doesn’t move to put her headset on. I can hear Eileen in my ear counting us down, but Lucie doesn’t. Because she’s still not wearing her headset.
I reach forward and brush my hands beneath her hair, my knuckles ghosting against her neck. My hands must be cold because she shivers, her eyes jumping to mine. They really are the prettiest green. Pale emerald in the center, a dark ring at the edges. Like treasure beneath still waters. I tug her headphones off her neck and push them carefully over her ears, making sure I don’t catch any of the shiny silver hoops looped around her earlobe. I tuck her hair beneath the band and my hand lingers.
“Good?” I ask. My thumb rests at the hollow beneath her ear. I can feel the faintest flutter of her pulse there, steady and sure. She’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle she doesn’t know how to solve.
I know the feeling.
“Yeah,” she says. She gives me a small, tentative smile. An assurance, maybe. Or her own type of secret, I don’t know. All I know is it feels like something different and delicate. Something tremulous. Secrets shared in the middle of the night. Dark pressing in on the windows. A whole city spinning out at our feet.
She reaches up and adjusts her headphones. “Yeah. We’re good, Aiden.”
I let my hand drop, listen to the countdown, and we start again.
LUCIE STONE: You guys, Aiden told me he watches YouTube videos and cries.
AIDEN VALENTINE: [sighs]
LUCIE STONE: Big, fat tears.
AIDEN VALENTINE: What’s the point of a secret if you’re going to share it with the world?
LUCIE STONE: [laughter]
AIDEN VALENTINE: It’s not funny.
LUCIE STONE: Then why are you smiling?