Page 22 of First-Time Caller
“No, it wasn’t when you threw the mug. Theatrical as that was.” Maggie hands me her phone. “It was your conversation with the girl last week. The girl and her mom.”
Lucie, my brain supplies instantly.Lucie and her honey voice.
I’ve been hearing the ghost of her laugh since she hung up with me seven days ago. I blame sleep deprivation and the string of bad callers we’ve had since, not a single person as compelling or as honest as Lucie was.
It only takes two quick swipes of my thumb to realize that viral might be an understatement. Link after link is posted, theHeartstringslogo in a looping red font. I tap one of the audio excerpts and cringe when I hear my voice on the playback.
“That’s all right. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Lucie’s response, her voice clear and bright.
“No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want totry.All I do is try. All day long I’m trying, and I’m so tired. Why can’t this be the one thing I don’t have to try at? Why can’t it be a thing that just . . . happens? I don’t want—I don’t want to think about what I should say or how I should act or . . . or have talking points in the notes app of my phone for a dinner date at a restaurant that I don’t really like. I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want . . . I want the magic.”
I read the caption that’s been paired with it:
Realest thing I’ve ever heard.
It’s been played more than 6.3 million times.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“Holy shit,” Hughie echoes with enthusiasm. Another shower of confetti rains down on us. I scroll through the rest of the comments while glitter slips down the collar of my sweatshirt.
BRING BACK THE MAGIC. This lady knows what’s up.
She’s gotta find HER PERSON. Please?? I’m dying here. She deserves the WORLD.
Lucie sounds hot. Is she hot?
This is romantic AF.
Where can I send in my application? They’re taking applications, right?
Oh my god, I think I believe in love again.
There must be thousands of them. And not just people from Baltimore. Strangers from all over the world have weighed in on our conversation. Comments about love and what it should feel like. Arguments about the realities of dating. Well-wishes for Lucie and her daughter. People wondering if she’ll find her match. Even more people volunteering to be her match.
I swallow hard and hand Maggie her phone. My palms are sweating. There’s an itch between my shoulder blades. My brain is spinning in circles. I can’t latch on to any thought long enough to examine it.
“This is good, right?” I rub my hands against my thighs. “This is what we want?”
Maggie nods, still giving me a look that’s faintly accusatory. “This is good. This is why I hired you six years ago. We need more ofthis.”
“All right.” I nod. My heart is somewhere in my throat. “I can do that.”
Possibly. Maybe. Nothing about the call with Lucie felt like a programming choice, but maybe I can re-create some of it. Maybe we can do a better job with screening calls. Maybe I’ll work on some new prompts. Maybe with an influx of new listeners, we can make the show more interactive.
“You absolutely can,” Maggie says. “You will.”
“Sure.”
“I imagine it’ll be easier when Lucie joins you in the booth.”
I go still. “What?”
I watch as everyone’s eyes shift from Maggie to me and back again. We are the world’s most interesting tennis match right now.
Maggie leans back in her chair with a smug look on her face. “I imagine,” she says, enunciating each word, “that it will be easier”—she brushes some glitter off the sleeve of her blouse— “when Lucie joins you”—she widens her eyes—”in the booth.”
