Page 43 of First-Time Caller
“Do Arnold Schwarzenegger next.” I request, my voice a rough scratch.
“No. Tell me a secret.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I sigh, eyes drifting to the ceiling. Jackson decorated the booth for my birthday last April and some of the streamers are still stuck up there. Bits of ripped, faded paper hanging on from where I yanked them down. “You want a secret right now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay.” I lean closer to the microphone and dip my chin to my chest, playing it up. Her smile blossoms and blooms, her whole face lighting up with it. “I’ve never told anyone this before. Are you ready?”
“This is a safe space, Aiden.”
“My dream job . . .” I hesitate. Lucie leans closer. I almost feel bad for what I’m about to say. “I’ve always wanted to operate those purple dragon boats they have in the harbor.”
She collapses back in her chair with a sigh, disappointed. “Aiden.”
“What?” I laugh. “That’s my secret!”
“That is not the sort of secret I was hoping for.”
“Well”—I push the appropriate buttons on the control panel to send us to a commercial break—”that’s the secret. Baltimore, we’ll be back after these messages from sponsors. Start thinking of your own secrets.”
I switch us to break and tug off my headphones, rubbing the heel of my hand against my ear. Usually during this time, I slip into the break room to see if anyone left any of the good snacks or stretch my legs with a walk around the parking lot, but I’m content to sit in the booth tonight.
Lucie nudges me. “You do that a lot, you know.”
“What?” I pick up my mug, check to see if I have any coffee left, then wheel sideways to refill it. “Confess to wanting to ride a little paddleboat around the Inner Harbor?”
“No.” She rolls her eyes and extends her mug. “Refuse to talk about yourself.”
I fill her mug before I fill mine. “I talk about myself all night long.”
“Not true,” she says. “You talk to people. You have opinions, but you hardly ever talk about yourself.”
“A good conversationalist is someone who knows how to listen.” I take a sip of too-hot coffee and stretch my neck.
She doesn’t like that answer. I can tell by the twist of her lips. I sigh and lean forward to put my mug on the table. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to give me something honest. Something about you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know,” she answers simply.
I drum my fingers against the desk. One of her feet is propped up on the chair beneath her, her chin on her knee. She watches me and I watch her, trying to figure out if I want to give in to her request or find a different distraction to hide in.
But I’m tired, and it’s the part of the night where secrets don’t feel like secrets and the world could be reduced to just this radio booth and I wouldn’t notice.
“Sometimes I’ll tumble down a wormhole and watch sad movie scenes on YouTube,” I say slowly. “Just clips, though. Never the full movie.”
“Just clips?” she asks.
I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie in its entirety. It feels like a waste of my time. I don’t know why. I take another sip of my coffee and hum around the lip of the mug. “Mm-hmm.”
She’s quiet for a long stretch. “Only the sad parts?”
