Page 46 of First-Time Caller
“Then you’re not who she’s looking for.” I roll my eyes and hang up. “We’re going to take a quick music break. Lucie, what do you want to hear?”
She’s relaxed in the chair next to me, her long legs kicked out beneath the desk. She smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back. “‘A Kiss to Build a Dream On,’ by Louis Armstrong, please.”
The smile falls off my face in increments, a sharp crack in the middle of my chest. I’ve heard that song a million times, in a million different hospital rooms. Through chemo treatments and MRI scans and doctor’s visits. Whenever my mom needed to go somewhere else, she chose that song. Every time.
It’s a painful reminder of memories that have always been easier to hide than handle. Disinfectant and sterilizer and the chemical-clean smell of hospitals.
“When Maya was a newborn, she’d cry half the night,” Lucie explains, oblivious to my mental spiral. “I’d try to sing her this song to calm her down, but I was so tired I could never remember the words. I ended up just singing the chorus over and over.” Lucie’s smile dims when she notices the way I’ve gone still. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and tug myself away from memories that still feel too sharp, the edges poking at wounds that I never figured out how to heal. “Nothing,” I say. I clear my throat and swivel in my chair to quickly flip through the music library. I’m operating on muscle memory as I pull up the song. “You really are a romantic, huh?”
It’s a barb I haven’t lobbed in her direction since our first night together. She lifts her chin and scowls at me. “You don’t need to say it like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m not,” I say, knowing that I am. I’m not being kind, but I’m also not in a place where I can make myself stop. I’ve always done better with a buffer around any strong emotion. It’s how I’ve survived. I’ve lost track of that with Lucie.
She’s here to find a date. I need to remember that.
“Louis Armstrong.” I hit the button for the transition harder than I need to. “As requested.”
I don’t bother letting our listeners know we’ll be right back. I start the song and then tug off my headphones so I don’t have to hear the opening notes. They hit the desk with a clatter.
I reach for the coffeepot just so I have something to do with my hands. “Need a fill-up?”
“No, thanks,” she says slowly, hesitant, probably trying to figure out why my mood plummeted as soon as she made her song request. The leather of her chair creaks beneath her as she shifts. “If I have coffee too late, I won’t get to sleep and I have an early shift in the morning.”
I grasp the conversation change with both hands. I need to get back to neutral ground, where I’m not such an asshole. “Is that— are you going to be okay in the morning? Not too tired?”
She shrugs. “I’ll manage. Having a kid and sleep deprivation go hand in hand. And the guys at the shop all know I’m doing this, so . . .” She shrugs again. “It’s been fine so far.”
“The shop?” I can’t believe we’ve been sitting here together every other night for two weeks and I don’t know what she does.
“Mm-hmm. I’m an auto mechanic. Hence the grease.” She wiggles her fingers and I see the smudge of something across her knuckles. “Hazard of the job. I think I’m perpetually grease-stained. I had a guy tell me once it’s off-putting that I have such a burly job.”
“Burly?”
“I think he was trying to say masculine.”
What a fucking idiot. “I hope you kicked him in the nuts.”
She sighs and shrugs her shoulders. That resigned look appears on her face again. Like she was silly for ever expecting anything different. I hate that look.
“I wanted to,” she says quietly. “I wish I was brave enough to.”
I fill my mug, still feeling buzzy and anxious. “Is your shop local?” I ask, half paying attention.
She nods. “Yeah. Down in Fells. The one with the blue roof?”
I know the place. I pass it all the time. “I think Jackson got his oil changed there once.”
“Really?” She smiles and cocks her head to the side. “What sort of car does he drive?”
“A Honda Civic,” Jackson answers from the door. I slosh some of my coffee over the rim of the mug. I didn’t even hear him come in. “It was the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety’s top safety pick for 2022. Superior marks in front crash prevention.”
“That’s great,” Lucie says, amused.
“Isn’t it?” Jackson pulls the door shut behind him, ignoring me completely. He has a box of Berger cookies on top of his clipboard. He holds it out to her. “Want a cookie?”
I double down on my bad mood.
