Page 35 of First-Time Caller
“I don’t either.” I feel myself smile. “But that’s why our genius kid called in to a radio station, yeah?”
“About that. Maya says they want you to join the show. Are you going to?”
I shrug. On the other side of the kitchen, Mateo turns off the stove. Maya slips from her stool and grabs the stack of plates sitting on the edge of the counter. There’s comfort in this routine. In the sound of muted music and clinking glasses and the wobbly drawer that holds all the silverware slamming shut. Here, in this home, my loneliness feels farther away. Here, it’s easier to pretend I’m okay.
“I think—” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth. I think of the woman on the phone who talked about being brave. About Aiden and his messy hair and his honest eyes. The itch in my hands and the pull in my chest when I stood in the middle of that studio, hearing a whole new set of possibilities through those headphones.
I think you started something the other night, whether you meant to or not.
“I think I’d like to try something different.”
After dinner, we move from the kitchen table with the mismatched legs to the world’s comfiest sectional couch at the front of the house. Grayson and Mateo and Maya distract me with things that aren’t my sudden celebrity, and my brain drifts away from radio shows and romance. Grayson has a newly commissioned piece he’s been dragging his feet on. Mateo’s obnoxious boss at his advertising agency has decided to eliminate all the ice from the office break rooms. Maya chatters about her Indiana Jones cosplay that her drama club is doing and I sink into the couch, twisting her hair into braids and undoing them again. It’s lovely in a way few things are, warmth spreading through me with every too-loud laugh.
We drink the rest of the bottle of wine and brew a pot of decaf as Maya disappears upstairs to her room, her family duties fulfilled for the evening. She tosses a half-hearted wave over her shoulder with a grumbling promise of Danishes at Skullduggery before school tomorrow.
I tuck my legs beneath me and Mateo leans back against Grayson, his temple tipped to his shoulder. Grayson strokes his palm across his collarbone and presses a quick kiss to the side of his head. It makes me smile.
“So, are they going to send you on dates?” Grayson asks. “Matchmake you?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I can’t imagine many people want to date me from a snippet of a conversation going viral.”
Grayson arches an eyebrow. “You are vastly underestimating the power of the internet.”
“And the power of Aiden Valentine,” Mateo says around a yawn. His body tenses and then relaxes, his palm smoothing his jet black hair off his forehead. “He has quite the fan club among the receptionists at work.”
“Helen?” Grayson asks with a snort. “Isn’t she like . . . three hundred and seven years old?”
Mateo smacks his hand against Grayson’s chest.
“Tell us about him,” Mateo says. “Aiden.”
“He’s . . .”
Hot, my brain supplies.Also, kind of a disaster. I’m not entirely confident he knows how to talk to people when he’s outside the booth. He hosts a radio show about love, but he doesn’t believe in it himself and he wants me to help him remember how. I think. I keep sharing things with him I don’t mean to. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“He’s nice,” is what I settle on. I take a long sip of my coffee, feeling the warmth of it slide down my throat. I dig my sock-covered toes into the cushion I’ve burrowed into. “He’s really . . .” My mind drifts to the way he took up space in that tiny studio. His messy hair and that line on the side of his face from his headphones. “Nice,” I finish after a too-long pause.
Grayson and Mateo exchange a glance.
“What?” I ask. “What’s that look about?”
“Nice.” Grayson snickers, raising his voice to a higher pitch. “He’s reallynice.”
I toss my pillow across the room. “What? He is. He’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone vaguely Mr. Rogers–like? I don’t know. But it wasn’t . . .that.”
Grayson and Mateo share another loaded glance. I sometimes forget how annoying they can be when they slip into their couple-y silent conversations. I set my mug to the side and close my eyes, dropping back against the couch with a huff. The cushions shift, the floors creak, and suddenly Aiden’s voice is in the living room.
I peek open one eye. Mateo is standing in the entrance of the kitchen with the pocket-sized emergency radio they keep in their junk drawer. He shrugs. “I was curious.”
“Aboutwhat?”
Mateo’s smile is sly. “About how nice he is.”
I groan and toss my arm over my eyes. On the radio, Aiden’s low voice is rumbling along, interrupted by bits of static. Mateo must fuss with the ancient turn dial on the equally ancient radio because there’s another burst of static, a few wobbly notes of an old Whitney Houston song, and then Aiden’s voice is much clearer. It fills the living room, rough and scratchy.
