First-Time Caller

Chapter 16

I straighten my napkin. Rearrange my silverware. I take a sip of water from the fancy, impractical glass and then put it back in the same spot. My waiter is whispering in the corner with the hostess, but I keep my eyes firmly on the white cloth of the tabletop.

I’m supposed to meet William at seven p.m. That’s what the calendar invitation Maggie sent me said. Grayson picked the date and Maggie did all the scheduling, but I’ve been sitting here for forty-five minutes and no one has shown up.

I slip the Heartstrings phone out of my tiny, ineffectual clutch and swipe at the screen.

Duck Duck Goose , the calendar says, 7pm .

I look at the time: 7:48 p.m. blinks back at me.

Another basket of bread appears at the edge of the table, this time with a slab of fancy butter. A little bowl of mixed nuts too.

Great. I’ve inspired pity nuts.

“Are you sure I can’t bring you something from the kitchen?” my waiter asks, his face an embarrassing mix of apprehension and pity. There are only six tables in the restaurant and I feel like there’s a spotlight on mine. “Our French onion soup is really good.”

I’m sure it is. But I decided around the twenty-minute mark that sitting at an empty table waiting for a date who probably won’t show is less pathetic than eating soup at an empty table waiting for a date who probably won’t show.

“Can we wait just a few more minutes? Maybe he hit traffic.”

We both glance out the window to the cobblestone street. It’s empty.

“Sure,” the waiter says, nodding. There’s a woman behind him, slurping her soup and staring right at me. Her level of focus is unnerving. “I bet there’s an accident on the highway,” my waiter continues, oblivious to the attention I’m commanding in this tiny establishment. “We can wait. I’ll get you another glass of wine, okay?”

He drifts away from the table and I hold awkward eye contact with the woman who is still slowly eating her soup. She’s wearing a shirt with a bunch of printed cats on it, her hair in a severe bun.

I look down at my phone.

I could text Grayson, but I don’t need him launching another one-man assault against the radio station. He had been so excited tonight, sure that his pick was the right one for me. I don’t want to burst his bubble, and I also don’t want to explain I’ve been stood up.

I scroll some more. My thumb hovers over one of the few names programmed into the phone.

There isn’t a show tonight. I wouldn’t be interrupting him at work. I could shoot him a quick text. Just to confirm I’m at the right place.

Hey , I type out. Hope I’m not bothering you.

His message comes back right away.

AIDEN: Do you need me to call with a fake emergency?

I snort a laugh. The woman with her soup slurps louder.

LUCIE: Not yet. Can you confirm I’m where I’m supposed to be? It’s possible I got the restaurant mixed up.

Three dots appear, then disappear. I nibble on a tiny piece of bread.

AIDEN: Duck Duck Goose, right? The French place in Fells. They have good soup.

AIDEN: Where are you?

I sigh. At Duck Duck Goose .

AIDEN: Alone?

Not if you count the dining room full of people staring mournfully at me , I text back.

No dots appear. I stare at my phone for a long time, tapping at it with my thumb every time the screen goes dark, but Aiden never responds. I don’t know why that’s more disappointing than the empty chair across from me.

I finish my wine and eat all the cashews, then decide it’s probably time to call it a night. Maya is with Grayson tonight, part of our every-other-week switch off, but I think I’ll crash. Maybe I’ll crawl into bed with her and wrap my arms around her skinny body and listen to the sound of her breathing. Let my heart slow to match.

“You have all the love you need,” I remind myself with a whisper. I slip the napkin off my lap and fold it into a neat square. “You’re fine.”

My waiter appears at the edge of the table. “Don’t worry about the check,” he says.

“No, no.” I dig into my purse. “I had the wine. And the . . . nuts.”

The waiter shakes his head. He’s young. Bright red hair. An explosion of freckles across his high cheekbones. “No,” he says again. “Please. I—um, I know who you are. I’ll cover your bill.”

I wince. “That bad, huh?”

“No. Well, yeah. I guess. It’s shitty you got stood up. But I don’t want to pay for you because I feel sorry for you. It’s because— I—this is awkward. I don’t usually—” He blows out a breath and toys with the string of the half apron wrapped neatly around his waist.

“I was in a bad relationship,” he says quietly. My face must do something alarming because he shakes his head and steps closer to the table, ducking down a little bit. “No, no. It’s okay, I’m—I’m mostly okay. Figuring it out. But what I wanted to tell you, what I wanted to say is—” It’s like his thoughts are coming too fast to form words, like his bravery might run out before he can say whatever it is he wants to say. “I didn’t know it was a bad relationship before I heard your clip, talking about the things you want. I don’t think I realized everything I wasn’t getting and it was—” He shakes his head once, his lips pressed together. “Thank you,” he says again, voice a whisper now. “Just. Thank you.”

Pressure nestles behind my eyes and across the bridge of my nose. I don’t think I realized that because I was choosing to be brave, other people might decide to be brave too.

“You’re welcome,” I manage, my voice tight. “You deserve good things.”

“Yeah. I’m getting there.” He nods. “Okay. So you’re—you’re good to go.” He smiles and claps his hands together. “And fuck that guy.”

“Yeah.” I laugh with a sniffle. “Fuck that guy.”

It’s the heels, I decide as I carefully walk down the sidewalk, making sure to dodge loose stones. It’s the heels that are bad luck. I’ve only worn them twice, and both times have ended in disappointment. Next time, I’ll wear flats.

I brush my bangs out of my face. Next time. Do I want to go on another date? I’m not sure. The long-buried romantic in me screams, Yes! while the always pragmatic part of me whispers, Maybe take some time .

I do know that Grayson is off the date-picking roster. That’s for sure.

“Lucie!”

Someone shouts my name from down the street and I almost tumble head over ass into a trash bin. Is it the soup lady? Someone from Duck Duck Goose demanding I pay my bill? Maybe it’s my date with an explanation and an arm full of daisies. He’s late because he was rescuing a family of ducks or trying to perfect his sourdough starter.

The hopeless romantic in me is ruthless, apparently.

But it’s not my date, or the ma?tre d’ from the restaurant, or anything remotely reasonable.

It’s Aiden, jogging down the sidewalk until he reaches the glow of the streetlight I’m standing in, stupefied. Dark jeans. His beat-up boots. A wool coat I’ve never seen before with the collar turned up. A white T-shirt underneath that clings to his body.

He stops half a foot away from me, his chest rising and falling. “Hey,” he says with a gusting breath. “I was hoping I’d catch you.” His eyes quickly skim down my body before flicking back up again. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “You look nice.”

I glance down at my bare legs and my dainty bad-luck shoes, then back at him, confused. Aiden is . . . here. Running, apparently. With his hair . . . wet?

Maybe I fell down the stairs in my fancy shoes?

“Your hair is wet,” I point out dumbly.

His left hand reaches up, touching a spot right above his ear.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I took a shower. There was an incident with some penne pasta and a lukewarm beer and . . . You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

There’s a single droplet of water on the column of his neck. I stare at it for a second too long.

“You’re here.”

He nods, his forehead scrunching. “Yeah.”

“You came to the restaurant?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

He looks amused now. “The soup is really good.”

“Oh.” I frown, then look back down the street at the restaurant. “Did you want to go back inside? Get some?”

He shakes his head. “No, Lucie. I don’t want to go back inside for the soup.” He halves the space between us. My stomach swoops and—it’s the wine, probably, that has me feeling this way. All I’ve had to eat is the fancy bread with the fancy butter . . . the cashews . . . and Aiden is here. Inexplicably. “I was thinking I’d take you for a beer. You look like you could use one.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you implying I look haggard, Aiden?”

He blinks at me. He doesn’t answer the question.

“What, specifically, makes it look like I need a beer?”

Aiden sighs and tilts his head back, staring up at the night sky in exasperation. I stare at the expanse of his throat, the dip between his collarbones, and the gold chain looped around his neck.

“You’re gonna make me work for it, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

“You like it when I make you work for it,” I fire back. Something liquid hot clenches in my belly. “I really don’t have much else going for me tonight.”

He lets his head drop back with a sigh, stepping closer. “Your sad little face makes it look like you need a beer. Happy?”

I frown. “I don’t have a sad face.”

“Is that why you’re frowning?”

“I’m not frowning,” I tell him, still frowning.

“Your sad-girl walk, then,” he says. He turns me around and presses his palm to the small of my back. “You looked like you were marching to the gallows when I was coming down the street.”

“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, letting him guide me to the bar on the corner. The one with flower baskets spilling from the windows. Flame-lit lanterns flickering by the entrance. “There are plenty of sad girls in Baltimore.”

“Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”

CELIA BLYTHE: Welcome back to Primetime Pussycats , Baltimore’s only cat-focused programming. Before the break, Genevieve and I were discussing another Baltimore radio show. Have you guys been tuning in to Heartstrings ?

GENEVIEVE POWERS: We’re obsessed.

CELIA BLYTHE: Obsessed.

GENEVIEVE POWERS: There’s definitely something going on between Aiden and Lucie.

CELIA BLYTHE: You think?

GENEVIEVE POWERS: I think.

CELIA BLYTHE: Should we ask Peanut Butter? Peanut Butter, do you think there’s something going on between Aiden and Lucie?

PEANUT BUTTER: [faint meowing]

GENEVIEVE POWERS: I told you.

CELIA BLYTHE: You did. You told me.

GENEVIEVE POWERS: Peanut Butter is never wrong.

CELIA BLYTHE: Never.