First-Time Caller

Chapter 14

S he picks a guy named Everett. Or Elliott. She told me his name once and I didn’t see the need to remember it.

He’s some investment banker who works for one of the financial firms with big, fancy offices down on the water. They make plans to meet for a late dinner during one of her shifts at the station, and that’s how I find myself alone in the booth on Friday night. It’s . . . good. Fine. Lucie’s first steps in the wide world of dating.

All systems go.

Excellent.

Two thumbs way up.

Jackson turns sideways in the chair next to me. “You wanna talk about it, buddy?”

“Talk about what?”

He pops a crab chip in his mouth and chews noisily. I was alone until Jackson decided to do a mental wellness check. He’s been sitting in Lucie’s seat for twenty minutes while I cycle my way through show programming. He told me he’s waiting for his weather update, but I know the truth.

“It’s cute you’re pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He finishes his last chip and crumples up the bag, tossing it toward the wastebasket. It gets halfway there and then flutters gently to the floor. I’m going to have to pick that up later and it’s another brick loose in my Jenga tower of frustration. “Lucie. Her date. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ve been talking about it.” All night. It’s all listeners want to discuss. Where she’s going. What she’s wearing. How long the two of them have been texting. I’ve been fielding the conversation the best I can, but I’m starting to lose my patience. If I say road to love one more time, I might throw up.

I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want the entire world speculating about whether or not she’s going to kiss someone tonight. I certainly don’t want to speculate about it.

Jackson wipes his spice-stained fingers on one of the wet wipes he keeps tucked in his front pocket. “How do you feel about it?”

“About what? Lucie’s date?”

He nods.

“I don’t feel anything about it. Maggie wanted us to be a dating show and Lucie is going on a date. Everything is happening exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

A little faster, maybe, than I thought, but whatever. It’s her choice. All of this is her choice. I’m not going to let anyone bully Lucie into doing anything she doesn’t want to do.

“What do you know about this Elliott guy?” Jackson asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him. We have about three minutes left in this song, then we’ll go straight into ads for another four. Seven blissful minutes of sweet relief. I’d like to use the time to stare unseeingly into the void, but Jackson is hell-bent on having a conversation.

“She didn’t mention him?”

“Nope.” It stings that she never brought him up, but I’m not entitled to know the details of her life. I hit a button harder than I need to. It sticks down on the control board and I have to use a disposable knife left over from someone’s bagel to pop it back up again. “She said they’ve been texting and he seemed normal enough. She thought it was a good place to start.”

Jackson’s eyebrows tug together. “ Normal enough isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“What would you like me to do about it?”

She’s here to find a date. Elliott is her date.

Jackson swivels back and forth in his chair, frowning. “I don’t like it.”

“We don’t have to like it,” I grumble.

But I don’t like it either, despite trying my best to feel exactly nothing about the situation. I open my mouth to suggest he retreat to the break room to give me a goddamned break from all his ruminating when Hughie suddenly appears in front of the glass window outside the booth. His shirt is untucked, his hair is sticking up, and he has a panicked look on his round face.

“Why does Hughie look like he’s about to be the first to die in a horror movie?” Jackson asks.

“He always sort of looks like that.” I watch as Hughie gestures wildly, mouthing something through the window. “What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know. Should we—”

I tilt my head to the side. “Let’s wait it out.”

Neither of us moves. Hughie bangs his fist against the glass once and then points in the direction of the lobby.

“He’s showing some urgency,” Jackson mutters.

We aren’t. We stay in our chairs, watching him as he bustles around the length of the soundproof room. He attempts to push the pull-open door for about thirty seconds, then finally figures it out.

The man is a mess.

He swings into the room, breathing heavily.

I stay exactly where I am. I only have three minutes left in my break. “What’s up, Hughie? All good?”

“Uh, nope. Things are not all good.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s an angry guy up front asking for you.”

Jackson lifts himself from his chair with a groan. “The guy who gets mad about the snow? I told him I can’t do anything about it. It’s not my fault it’s been an unseasonably dry winter. I can’t summon snow, no matter how much I’d like to.”

Hughie shifts on his feet, impatient. It does seem like a masked man is about to leap from the storage closet with a steak knife. “No, it’s not the snow guy.” He looks at me nervously. “It’s someone looking for you. He’s threatening to handcuff himself to a radiator if he doesn’t get to talk to you.”

“Me?”

Hughie nods.

“What does want to talk about?”

“He says it’s about Lucie.”

I stand so fast my chair rocks back into the table with the coffee machine. The whole thing rattles. “Lucie? What about Lucie?”

“I don’t know, but you need to come up here and handle it.”

Eileen pokes her head out from her office down the hall, where she does all the real-time audio control. “Someone needs to stay in that booth,” she threatens. “We’re back on in less than a minute.”

I shove Jackson in the chair. “Talk about the weather,” I order. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t bother waiting for an answer. I make my way to the front of the station, my heart somewhere in my throat. Is it Elliott? Did something happen during Lucie’s date? I know some of the callers have been upset that she’s whipped up a romantic frenzy on the airwaves, encouraging partners to demand more out of their significant others . . . but no one would do anything to her, would they?

Maggie is supposed to vet the guys she goes out with. They’re supposed to be normal. Safe.

I slam my palm against the glass door and push through. There’s a tall guy standing in the middle of the lobby with his arms crossed over his chest, a furious look on his face. He starts moving as soon as he sees me, a mop of curly hair flopping over his forehead. He looks like he wants to plow his fist through my face. Maybe handcuff me to the radiator.

“You,” the stranger seethes, meeting my stride until we’re chest to chest. He digs his finger in the middle of my sweatshirt while Hughie flutters around us. I’m a fairly big guy, but so is the stranger. I might have an inch or two on him, but he looks like he could make up for it in sheer willpower alone. He pokes me again, harder this time. “I trusted you to take this seriously. You said you wouldn’t make fun of her.”

I push his hand away. I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. Make fun of her? Who? Lucie? “What are you—”

“She thought it was a real date, you asshole. Did you set it up? Hope to embarrass her?” He grabs the front of my sweatshirt, his face a thundercloud. “I told her this would be good for her and this whole time you’ve been playing her.”

I don’t know what I’ve been doing with Lucie, but it certainly hasn’t been playing her. I’ve been honest with my intentions, doing my best to help. Maybe I’m slightly cynical when it comes to the stuff she wants out of a relationship, but I’m not—I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.

I’m about to say exactly that when the door bursts open behind him and Lucie comes barreling through from the parking lot. She’s clinging to a dark wool coat that cuts just below her knees, her hair windswept, her cheeks pink. She’s breathing heavily, slipping and sliding in the heels she’s wearing. Heels that have a tiny delicate strap around her ankle. A little bow at the clasp. My eyes stick on that inconsequential detail while the mystery man does his best to whip me around like a rag doll.

“Grayson, I swear to god, I am going to detach your spine from your body.” She grabs the back of the man’s jacket and tries to haul him away from me. He reluctantly takes one step back, but he doesn’t let go of my hoodie. The three of us move together like some backward tug-of-war. Lucie slaps at his wrist. “What the fuck ,” she whisper-yells.

His eyebrows jump up his forehead. “You’re mad at me?”

“Of course I’m mad at you,” she manages through clenched teeth. She slaps at his wrist again and he finally releases me. I smooth my palm over the wrinkled material and clear my throat. Neither of them pays me any attention. “You didn’t even let me explain before you torpedoed out of the house.”

“You were crying, Lu,” he says quietly. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Maybe not rush out like Rambo and listen to me for a second,” she says back. “You didn’t give me a chance to explain.”

They argue some more, but I’m not listening. I’m looking at Lucie. The evidence is in the puffy redness around her eyes and the soft downward tilt to her lips. I thought her cheeks were red from the wind outside, but now that I’m looking, it’s like she’s been scrubbing her palms there. Trying to wipe away tears.

My body flushes hot. A low buzzing fills the space between my ears.

I wedge myself between them, tilted toward Lucie. “Have you been crying?”

She blinks at me, surprised, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. She tries to wave me off, but I step closer, tipping her chin up with my knuckles to get a better look at her face.

Her cheeks are wet, her nose red. I’m feeling more than a little unhinged.

“Who the fuck made you cry?” I snap.

The pieces begin to slot into place. Lucie’s date tonight, this stranger’s insistence that the radio show had something to do with it, the thought that it was all a setup to embarrass her . . .

“Was it Elliott?” I ask. “The guy you went out with. Did he do something?”

She exhales a rattling sound. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Not if you’ve been crying.”

Lucie gently twists out of my grip, putting space between us. She reaches up and rubs at the studs in her left earlobe and my chest turns over.

She only does that when she’s nervous.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I cry when I’m frustrated. Or when I’m angry.” Her eyes dart to my left and narrow. “Something Grayson knows but decided to disregard when he bulldozed his way in here.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m not going to apologize.”

“You should,” she says.

“I was defending your honor. I thought this one”—he hitches his thumb at me—”had something to do with it.”

“He didn’t,” Lucie says. Her eyes slide to me and she takes a deep breath. When she exhales, her whole body seems to deflate. “He wouldn’t,” she adds, quieter.

“Fine.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and reconsiders. “Okay. Maybe I’m slightly sorry for dragging you across the lobby by your sweatshirt.”

“It’s fine.” I can’t stop looking at Lucie. I don’t give a shit about my sweatshirt. “Can someone please explain what is going on?”

Lucie looks like she’d rather take a dive in the Inner Harbor in her strappy little shoes. She sighs. “I had my date with Elliott tonight. It . . . didn’t go as I had hoped.”

She clasps her hands together in front of her and doesn’t say anything else.

“What does that mean?” My voice is a needle on a record player, skipping and scratching.

Her gaze slides to mine, reluctant. She looks tired, burned-out, like the weight she’s been carrying around has suddenly become too heavy to bear. I want to wrap her in a blanket and make her some of my secret coffee. I want to punch Elliott in the fucking face.

“What the hell is going on?” Maggie skids to a stop behind Hughie, shoving him out of the way. He folds like a wet paper bag. “Why the hell is Jackson talking about the difference between drifting snow and freezing rain? You’re supposed to be in the booth, Aiden.”

She takes in the chaos that is the front lobby. Lucie, in her nice clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Me, probably looking like I’m about to commit a murder. The guy with the hair, who tried to manhandle me into the radiator.

“Who are you?” she asks, tipping her chin at . . . I’ve already forgotten his name.

“Lucie’s baby daddy,” he responds without missing a beat, extending his hand for Maggie to shake. Lucie groans. “Grayson Harris.”

Maggie shakes his hand, face furrowed in concentration. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He’s an artist,” Lucie answers, resigned. “Also, a giant pain in my ass.”

“That’s it!” Maggie’s whole face lights up. “I have one of your paintings!”

“Which one?”

“It’s small. A canvas of wildflowers in bloom. I got it at an auction for—”

“The Living Classrooms fundraiser, yeah. I did that a year ago.” He nudges Lucie with his elbow. She looks like she wants to sink through the floor. “Small world, isn’t it, Lu?”

“Microscopic,” she responds, voice monotone. “Can we go now or would you like to add destruction of private property to breaking and entering?”

Grayson looks offended. “I didn’t break. I entered. The door was open.”

“Assault then.”

Grayson claps me on the shoulder and shakes me once. “He’s fine.”

Lucie frowns at me. “Sorry about all of this.”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.” I don’t care about canvas paintings or Hughie still shifting awkwardly in the doorway or why Lucie’s baby daddy is rushing to defend her honor in the middle of the night. I only care why Lucie has that look on her face and what happened. “Why don’t you come back? Have a coffee.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to be in the booth.”

I could not possibly care any less about the show. “You don’t need to be in the booth,” I murmur, taking half a step closer. My fingertips drift along her elbow. “You’re freezing. Warm up for a few minutes.”

I’m desperate to keep her here. I can feel it buzzing under my skin, the frantic desire to fix it . Whatever it is.

“She doesn’t need to be in the booth, but you do,” Maggie interrupts. “Jackson’s been in there too long. You know what happens when he gets antsy.”

He starts nervously talking in weather jargon and no one has any idea what he’s saying. I sigh, aggravated. Maggie must be able to tell, because she presses her palm to my shoulder, pushing. “The booth, Aiden,” she says again. “Lucie. Grayson. Why don’t you two come back to my office? We’ll see if we can figure this out.”

“Absolutely not,” I cut in.

Maggie arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t shove me back in the booth,” I say, on the verge of losing my fucking mind. I look over at Lucie again. She’s staring at the floor, arms curled around herself, eyes puffy. It’s breaking my heart. I clench my jaw and look back to Maggie. “Not until I know Lucie is okay.”

Grayson makes a considering sound somewhere to the left of me. “I like this one,” he murmurs to Lucie. To me, he says, “Apologies for almost punching you in the face.”

I wave my hand. I would have punched myself in the face too if I thought I made Lucie cry. “Don’t worry about it.”

The four of us—five, including Hughie—stand there in the lobby in an awkward standoff. I can feel the impatience rolling off Maggie next to me, but she doesn’t push Lucie to explain.

“This is an overreaction,” Lucie tries.

“Can’t be helped,” Grayson says, hands shoved in his pockets. “Might as well spill the beans, Lu.”

She gives him a half-hearted glare and then scratches above her eyebrow. She drops her hand to her side with a sigh.

“I’m fine,” she says, and everyone in the room makes different sounds of skepticism. “Elliott had a stupid bet with his friends, okay? He thought he could . . . trick me, I guess. By saying all the right things. He wanted to prove that women who want romance are silly or something. It was all very ridiculous. I left him at the restaurant and came home. He didn’t do anything. He made me feel stupid. That’s all.”

I’m going to kill that slimy piece of shit.

“Maggie,” I say slowly, my voice calm despite the rage twisting in my gut. “Don’t you have some sort of database for the people who text that phone?”

Grayson looks how I feel, his shoulders hunched to his ears and his mouth twisted in a frown. “An address, perhaps?”

“I have an ice pick in my car,” Hughie adds from his spot by the door.

Maggie presses her hand to her chest. “Jesus Christ, Hughie.”

“No,” Lucie says, her smile a fraction of its usual size. She looks at Hughie, then Grayson, then me. “No,” she says again, softer. “It’s fine. It’s over. I dumped a glass of fancy white wine on his lap so it looked like he peed himself. I would like to move on and never speak of this again.”

“You know how you should move on?” Grayson asks, still looking like he’d like to commit a crime but also like he’s just been handed his very favorite gift. Lucie is back to looking resigned to her fate.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me, Gray.”

He hardly waits for her to finish. “You should go on another date.”

“I’m not sure how that will—”

“You need to get back out there. I’m not letting you use this as an excuse to avoid dating for another decade. This guy was an asshole, but we’ve known for a while that your ability to choose an appropriate date is mediocre, at best.”

She stares at him blankly. “Thank you,” she deadpans. “Should I take this opportunity to remind you that I chose you as a date once upon a time?”

“I am the exception, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ve thought of a solution.”

Maggie is watching the conversation carefully, eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s formulating her next steps, already four decisions ahead. “What’s that?” she asks.

Grayson puffs out his chest and shoots Lucie a wide grin.

“I’m going to pick your next date.”

JACKSON CLARK: Freezing rain is when the layer of freezing air is so thin the raindrops don’t have enough time to freeze before reaching the ground. Instead, the water freezes on contact with the surface, creating a coating of ice on whatever the raindrops contact. Roads. Sidewalks. It’s dangerous stuff—uh, real tricky, tricky stuff. And you should be careful about it because it’s so . . . tricky. Not that it’s happening tonight. No. No freezing rain tonight. Clear skies all around and . . . [nervous laughter] . . . Aiden will be right back. He stepped away for just a moment. How about I tell you about drifting snow next?