Page 103 of First-Time Caller
She stands next to me and arches an eyebrow at the smears of chocolate pudding along the walls. It looks like the set of a horror movie. “Do I want to know?”
“I’m not even sure I could explain it if you asked.” I lean up against the small square of pudding-free wall outside the booth. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and her hair is down, a soft beanie tugged over her ears. I stare at her and my heart feels like it’s somewhere in my throat. A smile tugs at her mouth, growing the longer I look at her.
“What?” she asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just like looking at you,” I murmur quietly.
Her smile pulls wider and she ducks her face, trying to hide it. But I still see it. I still see her.
“You’re early tonight,” I point out, doing my best to keep everything in the lines we’ve established for each other. I had a plan. Not a very good one, apparently, but a plan nonetheless. I would kiss Lucie. I would scratch that itch and move on from this little fixation. But now she’s standing in front of me and all I want to do is thread my fingers through hers. Rest my chin on top of her head and wrap both of my arms tight around her shoulders.
I’m still itchy.
The plan did not work.
“I’m early.” Lucie looks back up at me, tilting her head to the side. She clamps her teeth down on her bottom lip and I am fixated on the plush pink of her mouth. “Do you want me to . . . I could go make us some coffee?” She glances at the pudding on the walls again with a frown. “Maybe grab some paper towels?”
“No. No, you don’t need to go anywhere.” I need to ask her about how she wants to leave the show, but I can’t find the words. I don’t want to. I don’t want to think about her leaving. I like her exactly where she is.
I stare at her some more.
She squints her eyes, studying my face. “Are you all right?”
I’m not all right. I’m a mess and I’m not doing what I said I would do. I look in the direction Maggie and Jackson disappeared to and then grip her hand in mine, striding the opposite way. There’s a tiny supply closet that Hughie calls his meditation suite right by the entrance. I make my way to it while Lucie hurries to match my strides.
“Aiden, what—” She stumbles and I slow down. She bumps into my back and steadies herself with one arm around my torso. A backward hug.
“What are you doing?” she asks with a puff of laughter, right against the back of my neck.
“I need to talk to you,” I tell her, elbowing my way through the door of the closet, dragging her in after me. She lets out a little squeak and tumbles into laughter again as the door swings shut behind us, cloaking us in darkness. I can’t really see, but I can feel the curve of her body beneath my hands. I can feel every one of her exhales.
“In the closet?” she asks, a smile in her voice. “You needed to talk to me in the closet?”
I can’t believe I ever thought I could kiss her once and not want to kiss her again. My conversation with Maggie has me feeling prickly and urgent. Lucie’s time here is moving too fast. I have no guarantee I’ll ever see her again when she steps outside those doors.
I press closer, backing her up against the metal shelf that holds printer paper and ink cartridges and a basket of incense for . . . whatever it is that Hughie does in here.
“Yeah, I need to talk to you in a closet. There’s not an inch of privacy in this place.”
“What do you need privacy for?” she breathes.
I cup my hand around the back of her neck and squeeze. A breath shudders out of her.
“For talking to you,” I say.
“This doesn’t feel like talking.”
“We’re having a conversation,” I mumble. My fingers squeeze again. “Words are happening.”
“Not many of them.”
There’s a ticking clock hanging over my head.Exit planis scratching like a record player that won’t stop skipping. I don’t want Lucie to slip through my fingers. It doesn’t matter that she’s never been mine to hold. I can’t stop myself from wanting her.
In my head, I say something coordinated and controlled. I tell her how I feel because I know how I feel and I approach this situation like a mature adult. I set realistic expectations. I keep to the plan.
But in reality, I push the soft poof-ball hat off her head and toss it on one of the shelves behind her. I drop my forehead to hers and say, “If you don’t want me to kiss you, tell me now.”
“I thought we said we weren’t going to do that again,” she breathes.
