Page 30 of First-Time Caller
“On the phone call, you were honest. You were vulnerable. You said things that a lot of people—” She clamps her mouth shut. Tightens her lips. The stern, bossy look on her face cracks, and I see something soft flash underneath.
“You said things that resonated with a lot of people. Things that other people are afraid to say,” she continues slowly. “That’s its own sort of magic, isn’t it? You and Aiden have good chemistry, and I think together you could help a lot of people. And if you’d like, I want to help you.”
“Help me how?”
A slow smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. It looks downright devious when paired with her delicate features. That look could reduce a man to dust. Bring down an empire. Jump to the front of the line at the DMV.
“You’ve captured the attention of every single person on the Eastern Seaboard. Don’t you want to see what’s possible for you?”
“In terms of . . .” I let the rest of that sentence dangle.
“In terms of dating,” she says bluntly. She flicks a nonexistent piece of lint off the front of her blouse. “You could have your pick of the litter.”
I don’t want my pick of the litter. The litter sounds terrifying, frankly. I haven’t been on an actual, real-life date in two years, and I don’t know how to say that without sounding pathetic.
And a part of me, a teeny-tiny sliver of myself, is still waiting. To bump into someone on the street or pick up the wrong coffee order. For the right person at the right time in exactly the right place. To not have to try so damn hard at any of it. It’s the romantic in me that Aiden laughed at. And maybe it’s childish or naive orwhatever, but it’s me. I’m allowed to want soft, special things.
Maggie seems to read my mind.
“Maybe this is it,” she says quietly. Earnestly. “Maybe this is how love finds you. I know you probably think I’m doing this for the ratings and the audience and the sponsorship, and part of that is true. This is a business. But what if . . . ?” She clasps her hands together so tightly her knuckles turn white, and I know, unequivocally, that this part is honest. This part is true. “What if this is what you’ve been waiting for? What if it’s all a string of choices and moments and events and decisions that have led you to exactly right here? And what if what happens next—what if what happens next is the good part? The part you’ve been waiting for.”
Somewhere in the hallway, a snack machine whirrs. Shoes squeak against linoleum. The tiny clock on the corner of her desk ticks out the seconds. The heater clicks on and then off and then on again.
“Wow,” I say, more than a little impressed. “You’re very good at your job.”
“The best,” she says with a grin. “How about I—”
A small man barrels into the room, a stack of paper in his hands. He’s breathing like he ran here, deep heaving gasps that end in a wheeze every time.
Maggie glances up with a frown. She doesn’t look surprised by the entrance. He looks like the kind of man who often enters the room in a chaotic sweep. “All good, Hughie?”
Hughie hands Maggie the papers he’s holding without a word. She looks at the cover and goes ramrod straight. Her eyes flick up to his form, still bent in half. I have no idea what’s going on.
“Where did you find this?” she asks.
“Fax machine,” he wheezes, a balloon losing air.
“Fax machine,” she repeats, eyes narrowed. “He sent it through the fax machine?”
Hughie nods. “When?”
“Just now.”
Maggie rockets out of her chair. One of the framed photos on the wall behind her slants at an angle. It’s a picture of an older man, laugh lines by his eyes. Both his arms are wrapped tight around a tiny girl who looks like a smaller, messier version of Maggie. She’s wearing headphones that are far too big. Her knobby knees crisscross-applesauced on a leather chair pulled up to a desk with a microphone. Toothy smile wide, front teeth missing.
“Lucie, I’m so sorry. I need to check on something quickly.” She yanks a still-panting Hughie behind her by his elbow. “Hang tight for me.”
“Sure. That’s no”—she disappears into the hallway—”problem,” I mutter to myself.
I study the pictures on her wall while I wait. I straighten a shiny microphone-shaped award on the corner of her desk. I count to ten and then ten again, listening for anyone in the hall.
Maggie is clearly not the type of woman who has knickknacks, but she does have seven different colors of Post-it Notes, an impressive array of paper clips, and a giant red novelty button that says STFU in bold white lettering.
I’m examining a letter opener that looks like it doubles as a teeny-tiny dagger when I hear a thump against the window of the studio.
I jump and glance over my shoulder, finding Aiden staring at me expectantly from behind his desk. I forgot he was in there. I also forgot he can see directly into Maggie’s office from his seat and he’s probably been watching me artfully arrange thumbtacks for the last six minutes.
We hold eye contact for several uncomfortable seconds. Did I imagine the sound of something hitting the glass? Isn’t he supposed to be working? Does he want to make another vague innuendo about dental instruments? Does he want toapologizefor making vague innuendos about dental instruments? It’s hard to tell from twenty feet away with a soundproof glass wall between us.
