Page 21 of First-Time Caller
I sit down in the chair. She doesn’t blink.
“You’re freaking me out,” I whisper.
“I have no idea why. I’m being perfectly normal.”
She’s being perfectly terrifying. Smooth, shiny hair. Shrewd, all-knowing eyes. Maggie is a force of nature in the body of a petite, well-dressed woman. And it’s entirely possible I have somehow pushed her past her breaking point.
“I didn’t mean it,” I try. “I don’t really think you sound like a white bellbird.”
A laugh bursts out of Jackson. He quickly tries to cover it with a cough. In the corner, Eileen’s lips twitch with a smile.
Maggie’s eyebrows tug together in confusion. “A what?”
“Never mind. What’s the emergency?”
Eileen tucks her tablet back into her bag with a sigh, a baby blue braid dangling over her left eye. She brushes it back with her hand. “Did someone loop the wiener commercial again?”
“No. No one looped the wiener commercial. It only happened once and it was an honest mistake,” Maggie says primly. Jackson snickers again. Maggie ignores him. “Have any of you checked the show’s social media accounts this morning?”
“I try not to,” Eileen offers. “Ever since that guy spammed us with like forty-seven thousand pictures of his feet.”
“God, El.” Jackson tosses the pillow across the room at her. “I forgot about him.”
“How did you forget about him?” She picks up the pillow and tucks it behind her head. “It’s burned into my brain. I have nightmares about it. I might never look at a foot again. I intend to bill the station for my therapy.”
I shudder in my seat. That guy was fuckinggross. “Is that the emergency? Pictures of feet?”
Maggie massages her fingertips against her temples. “No. There are no pictures of feet and there is no wiener commercial. If you bozos would let me speak, I’ll tell you. We—”
Hughie bursts through the door. “We’ve gone viral, baby!” He lifts his arm and tosses a handful of confetti in the middle of the room. “101.6 LITE FM is back!”
Maggie leans up to high-five Hughie as tiny bits of colored paper float around us. I look around the room, bewildered. Jackson’s glasses are covered in glitter. Eileen looks like she doesn’t know if she wants to stay in the room or bolt from her seat.
I brush some confetti off my arm. “Back from . . . where?”
“From the edge of the hell you dragged us to,” Maggie seethes, all her goodwill melting to reveal the bone-deep exasperation beneath. I know she hasn’t been happy with me, but it is very clear I underestimated how much. “I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but you’ve been an absolute nightmare on the air lately. I’ve considered changing the name ofHeartstringstoHeartbreak Hotel.”
I hold up both hands. “I’ve been better, haven’t I?” I glance at Jackson for support. “Jackson gave me a pep talk. I’ve been trying to be better.”
She puffs out a breath and collapses in her chair, more glitter fluttering off her shoulders. She looks like an angry, somewhat violent fairy. “Yeah, you’ve been better,” she reluctantly agrees. She picks up her phone and unlocks it, thumbing across her screen. “And I guess I can’t blame you for the quality of calls we’ve been getting.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly what I told Jackson.”
“Right, well. Regardless of who is to blame”—she scrolls and scrolls some more—”this is exactly the kind of attention we need.”
Jackson leans forward, trying to see her screen. “The show went viral?”
Her eyes flick up to me briefly and then back to her phone. “A segment of the show went viral.”
I don’t like her careful word choice and I don’t like the look on her face. I cup my hand around my jaw and wish I saved a cookie for emotional support because it feels an awful lot like I’m in trouble. Confetti notwithstanding.
“Which segment—oh.” Jackson leans closer, pressing his glasses up his nose. A smile hikes up one corner of his mouth and he lifts his head to stare at me.
I wish I had two emotional support cookies.
“Oh,” he says again, more knowing, raising both eyebrows.
I shift in my seat. I left my phone somewhere in my car and everyone is staring at me with varying degrees of amusement. “Was it when I threw the mug? I didn’t use any profanity this week.” No one says anything. “Did someone remix me to a Celine Dion song again?” Nothing. “I’d love to know what’s going on.”
