Page 29 of First-Time Caller
Because Aiden Valentine does not have a face for radio.
He has a face for those cologne ads that come on during the afternoon soap opera run. The ones where the guy is aggressively walking through the hallway of a hotel. Or a desert. Inexplicably rolling around in dirt while yanking his T-shirt off with one hand. Wolves, probably. Moody music. Lightning.
Aiden looks like a brooding Disney prince in a Carhartt hoodie. One who’s been shoved around a little bit, maybe. Straight nose. Dark messy hair. A full bottom lip and almond-shaped eyes that might be blue or might be gray. I couldn’t tell in the lobby and I can’t tell now, though I’m doing my best to figure it out. I keep sneaking looks at him through the window that makes up one wall of the booth he disappeared into quickly after shaking my hand.
I am flabbergasted that there’s a man who looks like that just . . . walking around. Talking on the radio.
He couldabsolutelybe a cult leader.
“Don’t mind him,” Maggie says, waving her hand as she moves stuff around her desk to make room for me. The room is microscopic. More of a converted closet than a true workspace. “He’s a bit of a mess.”
He catches me looking at him through the glass, his dark eyebrows tugging together. Then he adjusts his headphones—the bulky ones that should make him look ridiculous but absolutely do not—and spins in his chair, hunching over the complicated-looking system in front of him.
I’m having trouble lining up the Aiden on the phone with the Aiden in the booth. I had a picture in my head. Someone older. Wise. Patient. Graying hair at the temples. Glasses on the very tip of his nose. A stack of relationship advice books at his elbow. Possibly sipping some tea while puffing on a pipe.
I didn’t think I was talking to a six-foot-something man with perpetual bedhead and a penchant for dentistry innuendo.
I drag my eyes back to Maggie. “I’m sorry.” I touch my fingertips to the bridge of my nose and tell myself to get it together. “What were you saying?”
Maggie frowns. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re uncomfortable—”
I wave the thought away. I am uncomfortable, but I imagine anyone in my situation would be. Sometimes a little discomfort is a good thing. A necessary thing. A thing that leads to better things.
Or so I’ve been told by every self-help podcast I’ve listened to while wheeling back and forth on a dolly beneath the undercarriage of a car.
Maggie taps her pen against the desk. She doesn’t look like she’s listened to a self-help podcast in her life. Her hair is perfect, her stylish blouse tucked neatly into perfectly pressed wide-leg pants. She looks like she just stepped off a runway and I look like . . . I just rolled out from beneath the undercarriage of a car.
With my self-help podcasts.
I sigh. “I’m not sure—” I swallow my doubt and try to find the version of myself that is brave, self-assured, and confident. “I’m not sure I’m what your listeners are looking for. I don’t have any experience with this sort of thing.”
Maggie studies me. “What are my listeners looking for?”
“I have no idea, but I’m fairly certain it’s not a twenty-nine-year-old mechanic with self-esteem issues and a preteen who calls in to radio stations to expose their lack of a love life at the drop of a hat.”
Her eyebrow arches high on her forehead. God, even her eyebrows are perfect. “Seven point four million people would disagree.”
I swallow. “The number went up?” I whisper.
“The number went up,” she confirms. “It keeps going up, Lucie.” She leans forward until her forearms rest against the desktop. “Aiden has had more callers this week than we’ve ever had. Even during our golden age when he first joined the station. It’s unprecedented and it’s because of you.”
“Because of me?”
“Yes.” She nods. “Because of you.”
I chew on my bottom lip briefly. “Are you sure?”
She leans back in her chair. “I’m never wrong.”
I believe her. I do. I don’t think this woman has ever been wrong in her life. I toy with some of the studs pierced through the cartilage of my ear, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake. “So, ah. What are you looking for? What do you need me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything.” Maggie studies me, eyes assessing. “I want you to be exactly who you are.”
I want to ask her,And who do you think that is?And then,Do you mind letting me know?Because I’ve got no clue. I’m so used to everyone else defining me, I need the help.Maya’s mom. Lu from the service garage. Damian and Celeste’s wayward daughter. The one who got pregnant so young. She had so much promise, didn’t she? Whatever happened to her?
This is what happened to her. She had an emotional breakdown live on the radio and now she’s here, sitting in a surprisingly comfortable chair, wondering what happens next.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
