Page 130 of First-Time Caller
Aiden shoves his hands in his pockets. It looks like he wants to say something, but then he glances at the door again, drags his hand over his jaw, and I watch as he forces it away.
He gives me a half smile. “Sure,” he says. “We can do that.”
Voices drift from down the hallway. Jackson and Eileen are seemingly arguing about three things at once. They drift closer and I catch: “Old Bay goes on everything, don’t be ridiculous,” and “I wish you’d use the termhaboobmore often in your weather reports,” and finally, “If Mercury isn’t in retrograde, then how do you explain Aiden’s attitude?”
The last one makes me laugh. Aiden rolls his eyes, but I see the smile he tries to hide as he takes a step back and puts some space between us. Jackson and Eileen tumble into the room, still arguing, and head for the coffeepot in the corner while Aiden bends to collect the napkins I dropped when he kissed me.
Everything is exactly as it always is.
Aiden and Jackson bicker about coffee. Maggie bellows from her office about start times. I slip into my seat next to Aiden in the booth and his body bumps into mine beneath the table. I scoot closer and tuck one of my feet behind his, delighting when he presses both of his feet against mine. Like a hug. We drink coffee and talk to callers and I sneak glances at him out of the corner of my eye until he drops his hand to my knee and drags his thumb against the tear in my jeans.Be good, he says without saying anything at all. Then I just stare blankly at my notepad with various doodles on it and try not to breathe too heavily into the microphone. At the end of the show, he walks me to my car and presses a kiss below my ear. Small. Quick. He pairs it with a wink and a squeeze of my hand. A secret. A promise.
It’s not until I’m home, bundled up in my blankets, wearing Aiden’s sweatshirt like a nightgown, that I think about that look on his face again.
For a second, I could have sworn he looked disappointed.
AIDEN VALENTINE:This next bit is sponsored by Matthew’s Pizza. Stop by on Tuesdays for half-price carry-out pies.
AIDEN VALENTINE:I’ve heard their pineapple is very good.
LUCIE STONE:Oh, so you like pineapple on your pizza now.
AIDEN VALENTINE:I’m coming around to it.
Ihum while I do the dishes from our dinner, Maya somewhere behind me hunting down her shoes from wherever she flung them when she got home from school yesterday. The window is cracked, the cookies we made after homework are still warm, and there’s a feeling wedged under my rib cage that expands with every breath in and out. Like floating but better. Like a hug just shy of too tight.
Like a sweatshirt that smells faintly of wintergreen draped over my shoulders, a thigh pressed tight to mine.
“I’m a mastermind,” Maya says the second I shut off the water, her face pleased and more than a little smug. She looks like Grayson when she makes that face, but I keep that to myself. Apparently twelve-year-olds don’t enjoy being compared to their parents, no matter how bold the similarities.
I towel off my hands. “Yes,” I agree, and her smile widens into something toothy and crooked. A flash of the youth she’s quickly tumbling out of. I grin back. “Would you like to be more specific?”
Maya twirls her finger in my face, poking at the corner of my mouth. “This,” she says.
“What?” I laugh, swatting at her hand.
“Also this,” she says, poking me once in the middle of my chest. Right where that bubbly, warm feeling lives. “I had high expectations for my plan, but I think I’ve exceeded them.”
Her plan. The show. The manipulation of my love life.
“What is it you were hoping for?”
“Maybe a few dates,” she says, slipping into a beaten-up pair of Converse with the backs folded down. I told her I’d buy her the slip-ons, but she insists on mangling her footwear for some inconceivable reason. “Once he was looped in, Dad was hoping for a makeover moment.” I make a short, offended sound. “I was excited about a bunch of dudes duking it out for your affections. That part seemed pretty cool. Tier-one goal was to get you to believe in yourself.”
“There are tiers?”
“Tier two was some free meals and a doting public.”
I canfeelthe wrinkles forming on my forehead.
“And tier three was bumping uglies.” She blinks at me. “What? Don’t make that face. It’s an important goal.”
God help me.“Do you know what that means?”
“I have some ideas.”
“From who?”
“I’d rather not say.” She shrugs like I’m not having an existential crisis in the middle of my kitchen. “Let’s move on. Tier four was a hope but never an expectation.”
