Page 137 of First-Time Caller
Istay in the booth until everyone is gone.
Jackson spent ten minutes trying to get me to go to a bar with him, and Maggie glared at me through the window with her arms crossed over her chest, mouthing,Team Lucie, with her fist thrust in the air. Her face softened when I dug my finger in the middle of my chest and said,Me too.
I haven’t moved since, watching the lights on the machines around me blink in the dark. If I stay here, I don’t have to acknowledge the last couple of hours. If I stay here, I can trick myself into believing that Lucie will walk back through the door. If I stay here, I can keep everything exactly where it’s supposed to be.
Contained. Managed. Subdued.
But she doesn’t and I don’t.
Lucie was right. About everything. I manage my expectations to keep myself from getting hurt. I keep a careful distance from anything that threatens my ambivalence. But Lucie snuck in through the cracks when I wasn’t looking and made herself at home in the corners of my heart. She ruined all the plans I made for myself with a smile on her face.
And then I fucked it up.
By sayingnothing.
By pushing her toward someone else.
I sat in this chair while she held her heart out to me and I couldn’t scrape together enough courage to say a damn thing. I’m no better than that asshole who left her at Duck Duck Goose. Or the dipshit who made her cry. I think I’m worse. I told her she was safe with me, and then I broke her heart.
I drag my hand over my face and press my palms against my eyes until I see spots. I just need another second. One more minute and I’ll know what to do.
Except a revelation never comes. I’m just as lost as I’ve always been. I hesitate, then reach for my phone and dial.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Aiden?” His voice is scratchy with sleep, sheets rustling in the background. The sharp click of the lamp next to his bed being turned on. “Are you—is everything okay?”
My eyes cut to the clock above the door.Fuck.It’s after midnight. I’ve been sitting here in the dark of the studio longer than I thought.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, embarrassed. “Everything is fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I’m awake.” I hear a muffled voice in the background. My mom rolls over in bed and asks who is on the phone. Dad shushes her gently and then I hear the squeak of the floorboards in the hallway. The ones I knew to step over when I was a teenager and didn’t want to disrupt my mom’s fitful sleep.
“I’m here,” he says with a sigh, and I imagine him lowering himself down to the bench seat in the bay window on the west side of the house. There’s a giant oak right outside the warped glass with branches that scrape against the glass. I used to climb in his lap in the middle of the night in that seat. He’d comb his fingers through my hair and tell me the tree was my protector. That at night, it wrapped its arms around the house and kept us safe.
On the other side of the phone, my dad muffles a yawn. “What is it, son? Having trouble sleeping?”
“I’m still at the station.”
“Do you need a ride home?” A rustle of fabric. I imagine him looking for his slippers and smile at nothing.
“No, Dad, I don’t need a ride home.” Though I don’t have a car and Jackson was the one to drive me in today. A problem for future me.Anotherproblem for future me. “I’m—” I release a breath. “I could have come on that trip.”
It spills out of me in a rush, a curveball from somewhere between my head and my heart. Good to know I can be honest about some things.
“What was that?” my dad asks.
“The trip to Acadia,” I tell him. I have to clear my throat. “I could have come. I told Mom I couldn’t. Because of work.”
“I know you’re busy at the station,” he says slowly. “But that’s okay. Maybe next time. I’m trying to convince your mom to go on another arboretum tour. We can always go back.”
“I wasn’t busy. I could have found someone to cover my shifts. I didn’t even try. I could have—I should have come on the trip.”
My breathing is too harsh, my throat too thick. My dad stays silent on the other end of the phone, giving me the space to work out my knots.
“I know I keep doing this. I . . . make excuses every time you guys invite me somewhere. I skip out of family dinners and I—I don’t always answer text messages.”
“Aiden—”
