Page 116 of First-Time Caller
He braces one hand against the passenger side door and ducks down. I get a glimpse of gold against the tan skin of his neck, dark hair falling over his left eye.
He smiles at me, more than a little rueful. “I’m going to attempt to shove all of my dirty laundry under the couch and hope you don’t notice.” He taps the top of the car. “Seven minutes,” he says again.
He jogs his way up his front steps and disappears through the front door, a wreath with dried magnolia leaves swinging back and forth with his enthusiasm. The wreath doesn’t seem like something Aiden would put up. Maybe his dad gave it to him. He said he liked plants—the pilgrimage for mushrooms—but I don’t know much about Aiden outside the radio station.
I hope to know, though. I hope I get to learn more about Aiden.
Like what’s on the end of that necklace I’m always getting glimpses of. Why he gets a faraway look on his face when he plays certain songs at the station. If he still thinks I’m naive for wanting the things I want or if maybe—if maybe he could want them too.
I’m still thinking about it six minutes and twenty-three seconds later when I’m standing on his small front porch, my hand raised to knock. The door swings open before I can, and Aiden appears, hair sticking up in every direction, one of the sleeves of his hunter green T-shirt twisted up. He’s slightly out of breath and I watch the rise and fall of his broad chest beneath his T-shirt with enthusiastic interest.
“Hi,” I tell his chest, and I suddenly sympathize with the version of Aiden I got earlier.
“Uh-oh,” he says. He curls his fingers around my elbow and gently tugs me inside, shutting the door behind me. “That’s not a good look. Do you not want the pizza?”
“No. I want the pizza,” I murmur, distracted. I unwind my scarf from around my neck and toss it over the hook where his jacket is. I look at our things tangled together for a second too long. “I was just thinking.”
“About the dog commercial again? I told you I’d reach out. See if they can record something different.”
The other night at the station, I quietly teared up over an ad for the Maryland Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I sniffled into my coffee cup for ten minutes. Aiden couldn’t handle it.
“I don’t want you to ask them to record something new. That was very effective. And no. That’s not what I was thinking about.”
He helps me out of my coat and folds it carefully over the wooden banister. His house is like most other row homes in Baltimore. A small foyer with a staircase to the left. A narrow hallway that leads to a living room. I expect the kitchen is at the back of the house, just like mine. Aiden tucks a knuckle beneath my chin and guides my face to his until I’m looking at him. His eyes are soft. Patient. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I can give you your pizza to go.”
I shake my head and grip his wrist. “I want to stay. I’m just—” I chew on my bottom lip, considering. I’ve given Aiden so many of my secrets, and he’s hardly handed me any of his. I nod toward his chest. “Your necklace. You always wear it.”
He glances down at himself.
I trace over the gold chain at the back of his neck with a single fingertip.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says. “I don’t like to take it off.”
“What is it?”
“It’s, ah—” Twin spots of color appear on his sharp cheekbones. “It’s a good-luck charm.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s very sentimental for a man who doesn’t believe in luck.”
“I never said I don’t believe in luck.”
“You implied it.”
“When?”
“Every time we’ve ever had a conversation.” I lower my voice in a pale imitation of his rough register. “Fate and magic are things we’ve constructed in our minds so we can feel better about ourselves. The only truth is what we can see, blah, blah, blah.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. I am distracted by the stretch of his T-shirt over his bare arms. It really is a crime he wears so many sweatshirts. I haven’t spent nearly enough time with his biceps.
A little line appears on the side of his mouth. He’s trying to fight his grin and doing a poor job of it. “Is that what I sound like?”
I nod. “Yes.” I poke him once in the chest and he quickly grabs my hand before I can pull it away. I crawl my fingers up and slip one beneath his gold chain. It’s warm from his skin, the charm at the bottom hidden beneath his shirt. My eyes flick to his and hold. “Can I?”
He nods and I tug at it carefully, my other hand against his ribs. It’s almost as close as when we were in the closet, but my mouth isn’t on his and his hands are passive at his sides. I frown when I see the empty circle at the bottom of the chain. “It’s a key ring.”
“Yep.”
I was expecting some sort of charm. Maybe a medallion. Grayson’s mom had all sorts of saintly pendants around the house when we were growing up. She’d hang them from everything. Picture frames. The pull on the ceiling fan. The sink in the guest bathroom.
