Page 3 of First-Time Caller
“Challenging?” Jackson offers.
“Miserable,” I say instead. We are a romance hotline with zero romance.
He leans back in his chair. “I know, but . . . Maggie has ideas. She’s pitched a ton of new segments that have promise. And she launched the show as a podcast so people can listen whenever they want.”
“The podcast has fourteen subscribers,” I tell him. “One of them is my mom.”
He snorts a laugh. “Three of them are my sisters.”
Heartstringshasn’t pulled in a decent audience for months now. We’re hanging on by the skin of our teeth.
The door to the café bangs open and a brisk wind tunnels through the tables. This close to the harbor, it’s like sitting in the middle of a polar vortex. There’s a chorus of complaints from the people closest to the door, and it slams shut again, the bells jingling their protest. The cupid with the demonic eyes glares at me, swinging back and forth wildly. It’s bow and arrow points right between my eyebrows.
Poetic.
“Radio was never the long-term plan,” I say slowly. “Maybe this is the universe telling me I should move on.”
Jackson reaches across the table and snatches the rest of my croissant. I let him. “You believe in signs from the universe now? The guy who snorted when Maggie suggested he do a bit on horoscopes?”
“Well, horoscopes are ridiculous.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Typical Taurus.”
I ignore him. “Something needs to change.”
I think it’s me.
Someone jostles behind me for a place at the counter and their elbow sinks between my shoulder blades. I slip farther in the booth with a grunt. “Have you fulfilled your interrogation requirements for Maggie? Can I go get another croissant now?”
Jackson’s lips flatten into a line. “Sure. I’ll tell her you don’t know what’s going on, you don’t know if you’re going to stick with the show, and you don’t know if you even really like people anymore despite hosting Baltimore’s most popular late-night radio show.”
“Formerly most popular,” I grumble, tilting my half-empty coffee cup back and forth, hoping it might magically refill itself. “I think we rank behind that public broadcasting show now. The one with the cats.”
“Primetime Pussycats?”
“That’s the one.”
He looks confused. “It’s actually about cats?”
I give him a look. “What else would it be about, Jack?”
“Pussycatis a weird term,” he says defensively. “And they air late at night. Stop looking at me like that.”
I snicker into the last pull of my coffee. ThePrimetime Pussycatsplay songs exclusively containing lyrics that make use of the wordcat. The rest of their airtime is dedicated to litter comparisons and where to find the best catnip in the Baltimore area. It’s oddly soothing.
I’ve seen their metrics. Their numbers are triple what ours are.
I sigh and collapse back in my seat, narrowly avoiding a handbag across the back of my head. It hasn’t gotten any less crowded in this tiny shop since we arrived, more people packing in at the counter to escape the heavy clouds rolling in over the water. The loft space at the top of the stairs is crowded too, people settling for spots on the floor, books open in their laps.
“Consider your responsibilities fulfilled,” I mutter, watching the sky turn gunmetal outside. February is a dreary month in Baltimore, and I don’t think the headless dangling cupids are doing anyone any favors. “I have been properly chastised. Et cetera, et cetera.”
“That wasn’t the purpose of this conversation.”
I know it wasn’t, but I feel a lick of embarrassment as if it was. I didn’t realize anyone else had noticed my deteriorating enthusiasm, though hurling a coffee mug across the booth in violent frustration isn’t exactly subtle.
“I know,” I say. Jackson is a friend, and he probably volunteered to check on me because he cares. Thefriendship thing, as he so aptly put it. “I’ll try to be better. You’re right. Maybe the podcast will do something for us. I’ll brainstorm. See if I can come up with any new concepts.”
“Maybe try meditation too,” he suggests. “I have an app you can try.”
