First-Time Caller

Chapter 13

T he phone won’t stop buzzing.

Aiden handed it to me last night as soon as he got back in the booth, his face fixed carefully in a blank mask. I don’t know what happened to send him from friendly to closed off so quickly, but I know the song had something to do with it.

Maybe he doesn’t like jazz? Maybe I said something wrong? I’ve picked it over in my brain like a misfiring engine, but I can’t find the misstep. I can’t find the piece that’s out of alignment.

It’s a good thing I have about seven million text messages to distract me. My road to love is now a highway to hell.

“Are you going to answer those or let it vibrate a hole through my countertop?”

“Undecided,” I tell Patty, blindly reaching for another cookie from Maya’s plate. She rotates it halfway so I can reach the thumbprint jam ones I like best while she still has access to her avocado toast. A flawless system. “The messages have gotten out of control.”

“Were they ever under control?”

“Also undecided.”

Maya drums her feet against the bar beneath the counter. She hangs out at the café after school sometimes, when my shift at the shop runs late and Grayson is teaching a class. Patty keeps an eye on her and helps her with her math homework, then sets her loose on the sci-fi section at the top of the stairs.

I used to feel bad about relying on the people around me, but Patty insists she enjoys Maya’s company more than mine, so I stopped arguing with her about it.

“Everyone at school says you’re doing great,” Maya tells me, dropping a gigantic hunk of avocado on her sweater.

I’m not looking for approval from a bunch of hormonal-addled preteens, but the praise makes me feel warm and cozy all the same. “They do?”

She nods. “Ms. Parker said you and Aiden have good vibes.”

Patty appears on the other side of the counter with my café au lait. “I agree with Ms. Parker. That man has a sexy-ass voice.”

“Patty.”

“Just stating facts.” She looks at Maya. “Do you find anyone sexy yet, or is that a thirteen-year-old thing?”

“Patty,” I say again, a warning in my voice.

Maya shrugs, scooping the avocado off her sweater. “I think books are sexy,” she says very seriously. “No one at school has quite lived up to Aragorn yet.”

God, I love this kid. I lean over and press a smacking kiss to her temple. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but no one ever will.”

Patty holds up a fist in solidarity as she drifts back to the coffee machine. “The truth,” she yells over her shoulder.

Maya’s shoulders slump. “That’s a bummer.”

The phone dances across the countertop again. Maya perks back up. “Can I look?”

I take a sip of my coffee. Maggie told me before I left last night that she’d flag any gross messages. I think she’s hoping that my text message game might be better than my on-air performance. So far, the only messages I’ve received are a series of truly awful pickup lines and another set of inquiries from the guy from last night who wanted to know about my face.

I looked at the messages for ten minutes this morning, got overwhelmed, and then shoved the phone to the bottom of my bag.

“Go for it,” I tell her. “But if you see something weird, I’ll take you in the back and bleach your innocent young brain.”

“Noted,” she says, her eager, grabby hands already thumbing the screen open. “Oh, whoa. You have like a thousand messages.”

Patty appears on the other side of the counter again. “Read the good ones out loud.”

I arch an eyebrow. There are two people not so patiently waiting at the counter for their drinks. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is more important.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“Life or death, babes,” Patty says. “They can wait.”

Maya and Patty duck their heads together, scrolling through the phone. I distract myself with more cookies, but my mind wanders right back to last night and whatever the hell I said that upset Aiden.

I thought we were doing okay. I know I was nervous on the show at first, but I thought I settled in easily enough. Maybe he’s not used to sharing his space. Maybe I was yelling into the microphone again. He came back to the booth after Jackson’s weather update and was a different person. Cold. Abrupt. We spent the last hour on the air fielding phone calls that went on far too long. I think he was trying to avoid talking to me, and I have no idea what I did to upset him.

“Yikes,” Patty says. “Is that a picture of a lizard?”

I try to look at the phone screen. “It better be a picture of a lizard,” I murmur.

“His name is Bartholomew, apparently.” Maya presses her nose to the phone. “Mom, these guys suck.”

“I told you.”

This is a waste of my time. I’m spinning my wheels with a bunch of faceless, aimless people shooting their shot over text message and it’s not going to go anywhere. What’s the likelihood that any of this does anything for me? Slim to none, if lizard boy is any indication.

“This guy is interested in what your feet look like.”

Gross. “You can delete that one.”

“Obviously.” Maya scrolls some more. “And this guy said you can stop by his snowball stand whenever you want. Free egg custard. It’s in the parking lot of that strip club. The one next to the pit-beef stand.”

“That actually sounds promising. You can flag that one. I love blue raspberry.”

“Aiden is in here too. He texted you this morning.”

I grab the phone out of Maya’s hand. “What?”

Patty snickers. “Oh, look. Now she’s interested.”

I tuck the phone against my chest so she can’t see the screen. “Go make your drinks. They’re about to stage a coup.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Patty says, swinging her towel over her shoulder. But she gives in, sauntering her way over to the espresso machine at the front counter, going through the motions of fulfilling orders. “Say hi to Sexy Voice for me,” she calls.

Maya bounces in her chair next to me. “What did he say?

I pull the phone away from my chest and glance at the screen.

AIDEN: For the record, this was not my idea.

AIDEN: Hope you’re not being bombarded.

My phone has buzzed twice in the time it took me to read those messages. Bombarded is an understatement.

“Are you going to text him back?” Maya asks, her cheek pressed against my arm.

“I don’t know. I’m supposed to be texting with guys that are interested, right?”

“He wouldn’t have texted you if he didn’t want to talk to you.”

Oh, to have the optimism of a twelve-year-old. I swipe up with my thumb and silence the notifications, then darken the screen. I’ll deal with this later. When Patty isn’t watching me out of the corner of her eye and Maya isn’t bouncing in her seat.

“Pizza for dinner?” I ask, hoping it’ll distract her. Hoping it might distract me, too, from this pressure in my chest. The fog in my head and the itchy, scratchy feeling at the base of my spine. I’ve been shoved out of orbit and I have no idea what needs to slot back into place to make everything feel steady again. The pages of my instruction manual are faded and too hard to read.

Maya grins at me and it’s like looking in a mirror that only reflects good things back. My heart grows three sizes in my chest and not for the first time, I think maybe this is the only love I need. The best kind. The kind that won’t fade out or burn away. The kind that will stay.

“I am literally always down for pizza,” Maya says, looping her arm through mine and tugging. “Especially if you sweeten the deal with cannoli.”

I wait until the house is dark and Maya is asleep in her room— actually asleep, without a blanket tucked in the crack beneath her door, having secretive phone calls with equally secretive radio hosts—to pull out the Heartstrings phone again. There are about three hundred unread text messages. I read through a couple.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Do u like short kings?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Meet me at the O’s game. I’ll be the one in orange.

I don’t know how I feel about a date planned two months in advance.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hoping you can help me find something.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: The key to your heart.

That one makes me snort out loud, snuggling down farther in my bed. If nothing else, this is excellent entertainment.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey Lucie. This is probably weird, but I heard you on the radio and it felt like . . . well, it felt like you were talking to me. I’ve had my share of dating disasters. Maybe we can get back out there together?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: My name would probably be helpful. I’m Elliott. I hope you reach out.

Elliott. Interesting. That was actually . . . not a bad message. I double-tap it with a little red flag and scroll some more.

There are more pickup lines. A couple of messages from listeners sharing their own stories. A heartwarming message from a woman in Tennessee who decided to jump back into dating after my first call with Aiden. A few texts from men who are less than happy with me because their partners are suddenly demanding more from their relationships. An order for Chinese food from a place in Federal Hill. A photo of someone’s tea towel collection.

It’s lovely and overwhelming and terrifying and not a thing I ever thought I’d be doing. I still don’t understand why all these people want to talk to me.

Aiden’s message appears again as I scroll. Someone at the station must have programmed his contact into the phone, because he’s the only one with his name listed, a little red heart next to it.

AIDEN: Hope you’re not being bombarded.

He sent it sometime this morning when I was pretending my phone didn’t exist. I bite my thumbnail, considering.

Depends , I write back. How many pictures of a lizard named Bartholomew constitutes a bombardment?

His reply comes back right away, even though I know he’s recording for the show. I wonder if he’s in the studio or the tiny break room, grabbing more of those cookies he seems to like so much.

AIDEN: I hope it’s actually a lizard.

LUCIE: Unfortunately the lizard is just the tip of the iceberg, my friend.

AIDEN: So we are friends. Interesting.

I grin at my phone in the dark.

LUCIE: Is it? How so?

AIDEN: Thought you might still be plotting my untimely demise.

LUCIE: That wouldn’t be very friendly.

AIDEN: No. No, it wouldn’t.

LUCIE: Would you prefer a different term? Colleague? Chum?

AIDEN: I’m actually pretty partial to “love guru.”

A laugh tumbles out of me. Three dots appear beneath his last message. I imagine him with his head ducked toward his phone hidden beneath his desk, his smile glowing in the light from his monitor. Shades of blue and gray.

On the street below my window, a group of people spill out of the bar on the corner. Music from a passing car pulses and then fades. A ship blows its horn across the water and another answers.

The whole world spins on, and I sit in my bed and wait for a text message.

AIDEN: What’s the formal title for “I unknowingly participated in a catfish scheme that resulted in someone being roped into a radio dating show that is now sponsored by Mr. Tire”?

I smile so hard it hurts.

LUCIE: I told you. I like the Mr. Tire thing.

AIDEN: That makes one of us.

I laugh again and it slips into a yawn. I’ve done more social interaction in the past week than in my lifetime. My eyes are heavy but my chest feels warm, and I cozy down farther in my blankets, letting sleep tug at me. My phone buzzes in my hand.

AIDEN: Hope you’re having a good night, Lucie.

I grin at my phone, then type out my message.

LUCIE: You too, Aiden.

“I think you should take this one for a spin,” Harvey yells over the sound of the radio. It’s Dan’s turn to pick the music today, and he almost always chooses Celine Dion. He says he appreciates Canadian performers, but I have never once heard him appreciate Drake.

I wheel out from beneath the Range Rover I’m working on and frown at Harvey. He holds up the Heartstrings phone in silent explanation. “This Patrick fellow,” he says. “I think you should go out with him for your first date.”

I have no idea who Patrick is. I’ve gone back to ignoring the phone since the first message I saw this morning was a picture of someone’s chewed-up wad of gum. Just sitting there. On a dining room table. No caption. No message. Just the gum.

People continue to elude me.

“Why are you looking through my phone?”

“You left it on top of your station. I thought you’d like my opinion.”

“I don’t want your opinion.” I wheel back beneath the car. I lie there with my eyes shut and count to ten while the chorus of “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” plays in the background. I have somehow managed to surround myself with people who lack boundaries.

“He seems sincere,” Harvey continues. “Look at this. You guys even like the same kind of music!”

I ignore him.

“And he says he wants to take you out to Captain James. That place is fancy, Lu.”

That place is a crab shack constructed to look like a ship that’s run up on dry land. Maya threw up on the side of it when she was four years old and Grayson made jokes about her getting seasick for two years straight.

I wheel out from beneath the car again. “Put the phone down, Harvey.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a bother for me.”

“I’m so glad it’s not a bother for you.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the phone.”

He slaps it into my hand with a frown. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun.” I tuck my phone in the front pocket of my coveralls and slide back beneath the car. The suspension on this thing is giving me hell. I inspect the wiring. Outside the car, Harvey clears his throat, his boots still in the place I left him. I sigh. “Did you need something else, Harv?”

“When is your first date?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Another pair of beat-up boots joins him. “Isn’t that the whole point?” adds Dan’s voice. “You’re supposed to be finding love. You can’t find love if you never actually go on a date.”

“I’ve only done a couple of shows.”

“Love waits for no one.”

Love has certainly been patient enough for me. Twenty-nine years and the closest I’ve come to romantic love is the way I feel about the armchair in the romance section at Patty’s. “Thank you very much for your insight, man who has been divorced three times.”

There’s a short huffing sound. “Okay, well, there was no need for that.” Dan pauses. “And I’ve been divorced three times because I still believe in love, Ms. Romance.”

He also believes the penny slots at the Horseshoe casino are the perfect place to meet women, so . . .

Still. Just because I’m frustrated doesn’t mean I get to be a shithead. “You’re right, Dan. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Apology accepted,” he replies easily. “We’re just trying to help you out. Can’t we be excited for you?”

That’s the problem. Everyone is trying to help. I have ten thousand opinions floating around and the roar of them is making it impossible to hear myself think. I have no idea what feels right, what feels true. All my pieces are scattered across the floor and I can’t think long enough to figure out which one will fit the best.

I push out from beneath the car and stare at them, upside down. Their heads are bent together, arms crossed over their chests.

“I didn’t realize you two had thoughts about this.”

Dan’s dark eyebrows collapse in a heavy line across his brow. “Of course we do, Lu. We love you. We want you to be happy.”

Harvey clasps his hands together across his barrel chest. “We want you to fall in loooooove.” He draws the word out and warbles around it, trying to match up with Celine on the radio. “We listen to your show every night. We even have a text chain about it.”

That’s a big deal. It took them roughly three years to get the hang of group messages.

Angelo appears at his side, rubbing his hands on the ratty towel he keeps tossed over his shoulder. “Did you think we didn’t care?”

When I first came to Dan for a job almost a decade ago, I was an exhausted mother to a rambunctious toddler. I had a high school diploma, no formal work references . . . and a limited knowledge of how to change the oil of a car. Grayson had just started at the Maryland Institute College of Art on a full scholarship and I—I decided to defer my admission to the University of Maryland to work instead. We needed the money, and Grayson wasn’t going to get a second chance at a full ride. I saw a HELP WANTED sign in the window of the garage and stopped in on a whim.

Dan took one look at me sitting in the chair across from his desk with dried vegetable puree on my shirt and gave me a chance. He taught me everything I know about cars and patiently supported me through the hardest time of my life. He’s more of a father to me than my own is. Angelo too.

“No. I know you guys care. I just didn’t realize you were invested.”

All three of them frown. Harvey props his hands on his hips.

“That’s insulting, Lu. I’m insulted.”

“I’m also insulted,” Dan adds.

Angelo narrows his eyes. “Consider the three of us thoroughly insulted.”

I bite my cheek against my smile. “I’m sorry. I won’t underestimate you guys again.”

“You better not. We’re in this for the long haul.” Harvey holds out his hand right as someone rings the bell in reception. He nods toward the half door. “You go handle that customer and I’ll look at your phone. I’ll give you my top three choices.”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair trade.” I reluctantly hand him the phone.

“It perfectly fair,” Harvey says, nose already pressed to the screen. He was prescribed reading glasses a year ago, but he refuses to wear them. He’s also scrolling at an alarming pace. “This is hard work, Lu. You’ve got the better end of the deal here.”

It doesn’t feel like the better end of the deal. Especially when I see the man waiting in reception, a fierce frown on his face and both of his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looks like a linebacker. Or a particularly distressed lumberjack.

“You handle historic cars here?” he asks as soon as the door swings shut behind me. No Hello . No How are you?

“Sometimes,” I answer, reaching for patience instead of the frustration that instantly roars to life. I hate when people don’t even bother with pleasantries. I grab an intake form from beneath the counter and snap it to a clipboard. “What are you looking for?”

He’s a younger guy. Younger than most of the customers we get in the shop. Dan likes to joke that his client base is primarily people who have lived here for this life and all of their past lives too. But I don’t recognize this man. Tall. Short blond hair that fades to a dark, honey bronze at his neck. Not a lick of humor in his stern face. A square, angular jaw and bright blue eyes. He looks like he snaps people like twigs in his spare time. Maybe competes in some sort of underground fighting ring.

“I want to add underglow to my ‘58 Chevy,” he says.

I don’t gasp, but it’s a close thing. I stop scribbling across the top of the form and stare at him. “You want to add underglow to your vintage Chevy?”

His mouth doesn’t so much as twitch. “That’s what I said.”

“Okay.” I drop my pen back in the cup. “No.”

His eyebrows jump up. “No?”

Dan will probably murder me, but it’s a no. I can’t. I refuse to put something as abrasive as underglow on the undercarriage of a vintage Chevy. I won’t do it.

“What color were you thinking?”

“Blue,” he answers immediately.

“What color is your truck?”

“Red.”

I make a distressed sound. God, what an absolute atrocity. I rip the intake form off the top of the clipboard and crumple it into a ball.

“We won’t take your car here. I can refer you to another shop in the city, but just so you know, what you’re doing is an insult to historic vehicles and you should be deeply ashamed of yourself.”

He uncrosses his arms and props one palm against the front desk. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” I tell myself to leave it at that, to let it go, but I can’t. Maybe Aiden’s surly attitude is rubbing off on me, or maybe I’ve hit my breaking point for the day. I don’t know. “A vintage Chevy ,” I continue. “Why do you even care if we service historic vehicles if you’re just going to desecrate it with an underglow? A blue underglow on a red Chevy. You should be reported to some sort of vintage car police. You should—what? What are you smiling at? Is this funny to you?”

“Nah.” He rubs his palm across his grin, but it only spreads farther. His whole face changes when he smiles. He looks softer. Younger. Handsome, even. “Shit, I think I just fell in love.”

I blink at him. “With what?”

“I’ve been looking for somewhere to take my car—my Rosie— for weeks. I’m new to town and you’re the first shop to refuse to put underglow on her. Thanks, by the way.”

I blink some more. “Uh, you’re welcome?”

He nods at the clipboard I tossed on the other side of the desk. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d love it if you could look after my girl.” At my blank look, he continues. “My truck. She needs some routine maintenance and she’s got a few other aches and pains too. I want you to do it if you have the availability.”

I reach for the clipboard, flustered. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at anyone before and had them enjoy it. No one’s ever requested me specifically for their car either. “Um, my schedule is booked for the rest of the week and most of next too, but I’m sure we could move some things around.”

“I’ll wait,” he says easily. “You’re worth it.”

He gives me a quick wink and something flutters in my chest. Not quite butterflies, but almost. Something. A flicker.

“Just to be clear, you don’t want the underglow, right?”

He laughs. “Yeah, no. I don’t want to get arrested by the vintage car police.”

I grab a pen and another sheet, biting my bottom lip against my smile. I should probably be insulted he decided to test me, but I’m sort of . . . charmed? I start filling out the form again. “All right. Let’s see when we can fit your girl in.”

Harvey, Angelo, and Dan write their choices in chicken scratch on the back of a grease-stained inventory list for spare parts while I finish the intake on Chevy Guy. Maya adds her thoughts and Mateo makes an Excel spreadsheet that he shares with the whole family as soon as I get home, rating text messages by three scoring criteria and averaging out the number. Patty tells me I should start asking for dick sizes, then walks that back when she theorizes that most men will probably lie about that anyway. Grayson refuses to give his opinion at all, saying it’s my choice and my choice alone. I give him a smacking kiss on the cheek for that while Maya and Mateo boo from the kitchen counter, tossing popcorn at us.

I’m still no closer to a decision by the time I’m sitting next to Aiden again, a pair of headphones tucked right behind my ears and the good coffee brewing in the pot. I’m staring a hole into the desktop while he sets up for the show, humming under his breath and mumbling about acoustics. There’s no lingering sign of the weirdness we parted on last time or acknowledgment of our late-night text messages.

“I think I’m going to pick a date,” I tell him abruptly. My voice sounds too loud in the room. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing the headphones properly yet. Aiden pauses and looks at me over his shoulder. His profile is cast in shadow, his headphones slung around his neck.

“A date,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“A date for what?”

What else would I do with a date? “For . . . dating,” I say.

His eyes squint; he looks confused.

“Stop looking at me like that. Isn’t that why I’m here?” I gesture around the studio. The faded posters on the wall and the handwritten sign by the clock that says PLEASE SHUT YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU’RE TALKING TO ME . Three guesses as to who put that one up.

“Oh. You made your choice,” Aiden clarifies. “Your Mr. Tire choice.”

“Yes. I have,” I say slowly. “I think.”

One dark eyebrow rises on his forehead. He’s wearing another sweatshirt tonight. A crewneck that’s worn at the collar. I can see the glint of a gold chain around his neck, but it’s mostly tucked beneath his shirt.

“You think?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes?”

“You sound very convinced.”

I straighten my shoulders and flatten my palms against my thighs. Confidence, or the closest I’m able to get to it. “I am. I would like to pick someone for a date tonight.”

“So, you haven’t picked a specific someone. This is just your plan.”

“I’m going to pick someone. Tonight.”

He watches me carefully, his blue eyes heavy. They drift along my face. Eyes. Cheeks. Mouth. His gaze lingers there the longest before snapping away. I have no idea what he’s thinking. “That’s what you want?”

I nod and the headphone band slides forward over my forehead. I push it back and Aiden’s mouth tugs up at the right side. A half smile.

Butterflies flutter to life in my chest, but I stomp down on them. Ruthlessly.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I want.”

I want to find a date. I want someone to ease the ache of loneliness pressing down on my chest. I want a connection with someone that feels real, and I can’t do that if I keep sitting here in the booth with Aiden, talking to people on the phone. This whole thing is about being brave, taking chances. I’ve gotten comfortable with Aiden. I need to get out there.

Aiden’s jaw tightens, then releases. He’s still watching me.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head and turns back to his control board. I stare at the back of his neck, the dark hair that’s just starting to curl behind his left ear. He pulls his headphones up and it feels like he’s just pulled a door closed between us.

“Nothing,” he says, tap-tap-tapping his buttons. Pulling his levers. Doing whatever it is he does. “You’re right. That’s why you’re here. Let’s find you a date.”

AIDEN VALENTINE: Big news, Heartstrings listeners. Lucie has picked her first date.

LUCIE STONE: It’s not a big deal.

AIDEN VALENTINE: You’re right. It’s just half of the reason you’re on the show.

[pause]

LUCIE STONE: What’s the other half?

AIDEN VALENTINE: Hmm?

LUCIE STONE: You said half of the reason I’m on this show is to find a date. What’s the other half?

AIDEN VALENTINE: To keep me on my toes.