Page 2 of First-Time Caller
“Because that guy was a piece of shit.” I dunk my croissant into my coffee. Some of it sloshes over the edge of my chipped mug to the weathered tabletop. I feel more emotionally connected to that spilled coffee than to any of the people who have called in to the radio station in the last three months. “He compared women tocattle, Jack.”
Jackson flinches. “I know. But you’ve had callers like that before.” I make a face and he throws up his hands in the universal gesture forChill the fuck out. “I’m not saying he was right. He was a douche-canoe, obviously, but you’ve always been able to handle people like that, not—” Jackson leans closer, eyes darting over my shoulder to the people crowded around us. He lowers his voice. “Not launch into a very creative and descriptive diatribe about what they should do with their opinions. Maggie has been waiting for a call from the FCC. The only reason she thinks we might get away with it is because it was after ten p.m. And I interrupted halfway through with an emergency weather update.”
Interruptedis a polite way to describe how he burst into the booth, ripped the microphone from in front of me, and started talking about low-pressure systems.
I rub my hand over my jaw. “You said there were storms rolling in. There weren’t any storms.”
“Because I lied,” he whisper-yells. “You made me lie about theweather, Aiden.”
I try not to laugh. I know how seriously Jackson takes his job. He wanted to work for the National Weather Service but had to drop out of his college program to take on full custody of his little sisters when his mom decided to join a traveling harmonica band. He stuck around for the girls. He said they deserved one permanent thing in their life.
Jackson stares at me. “What’s going on with you?”
I keep dipping my croissant into my coffee. I don’t know how to stop. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve been short-tempered.”
“Yes.”
“Irritated.”
“Yup.”
“Snappy and standoffish.”
“That seems like an exaggeration, but sure.”
Jackson raises both eyebrows as if to say,You called someone a piece of shit, then hurled your coffee mug across the room like you were competing in an Olympic trial. “Is something going on with your family?” he asks carefully. “Is your mom—”
“She’s good,” I interrupt. “She’s fine. The cancer is in full remission. Everyone is good.”Goodfelt like an impossibility six months ago.Goodfeels like too small a word for the balloon of relief that floats beneath my rib cage every time I think about how close I came to losing my mom. Again. How fucking terrible it was to watch her claw her way through a disease. Again.
I dig my knuckles into my temple and try to erase the image of her small body in a hospital bed, wires hooked up to her arms and a trembling smile on her face.
Everything is fine, Aiden honey. I’m okay.
I shake my head once. The cancer is gone. The doctors are hopeful. The cancer isgone. I clear my throat and glance at Jackson. “My mom and dad are doing a road-trip thing as a celebration. Up the coast. They planned it during her treatment and they’re following through.”
They keep sending me pictures of themselves in front of various state signs. Beaming on the beach in Delaware, wrapped in parkas. Matching threadbare baseball caps in New York. My mom clutching a bag of gummy worms to her chest in front of a half-bent sign in New Jersey, a knit beanie over the hair that’s just started to regrow. Their faces lined with untethered joy.
“And you’re upset you’re missing out? Is that why you’ve been a jackass?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m happy for them.”
“Then what is it?” Jackson asks. “What’s going on with you?”
I turn my coffee mug in one full circle. I’m a mess. Just as obstinate as Jackson thinks I am. I don’t know how to explain the dread I feel every time I slide into the booth at the station. The thick, heavy feeling that sinks like a stone every time I tap the blinking red button that lets me talk to listeners. It’s an ache. An absence. I don’t know. If my parents are the picture of joy, then I am the portrait of existential dread. I used to love talking to people. Hearing their stories and sharing mine. It made me feel connected.
But now I’m just . . . exhausted.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’ve been—”Struggling, I think, afraid to say the word out loud. Afraid to make it real. I’ve been struggling and I have no idea how to fix it. If it can even be fixed. I think I’ve—I think it’s possible I’ve fallen out of love with love, burned by one too many lackluster calls. Burned by the shitty circumstances my family’s been handed too. It feels like every time I get my hopes up for something good, reality comes out swinging. I don’t know how to be a hopeful person anymore.
It’s easier not to be.
I tear off a corner of my croissant. “Maybe I should think about doing something else.”
A groove appears between Jackson’s eyebrows. “You don’t believe that.”
I shrug. “I don’t know, man. Kind of.” I drop my elbows to the table. “You’ve heard Maggie in our staff meetings. Show numbers aren’t great. Sponsorship packages are way down. We get half of the callers we used to and every one of them is—”
