Page 47 of First-Time Caller
He keeps doing this. Appearing out of nowhere when I’m in the booth with Lucie, disregarding his schedule, giving me knowing looks. He’s trying to piss me off and I don’t know why.
It’s working though.
“There’s not exactly room in the booth for another person right now,” I snark, annoyed with the song and annoyed with Jackson and annoyed with myself for being annoyed. Lucie freezes with her arm extended toward the cookie box and they both turn to look at me. I stare pointedly at Jackson. “Did you need something?”
Jackson raises both of his eyebrows. “Traffic and weather together, man. You know the drill.”
I glance at the clock. “Not for another ten minutes.”
An amused smile appears on his stupid, smug mouth. He hands Lucie the entire box of cookies. “I usually do it after your music break.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Should I leave, or”—Lucie nibbles on her cookie, watching us go back and forth—”do you guys need the room to work this out?”
“No, I’ll leave. I need something to eat anyway.” I push back in my chair. What I really need is space, and I’m not going to find it in this microscopic room with three people crammed into it. I’m out of sorts, twisted up by that song and every painful memory it’s tugged to the surface. I just need a second to collect myself and I’ll be fine. I hand Jackson my headphones. “All yours.”
Jackson gives me a baffled look. “Thank you,” he says. “For allowing me to do my job.”
It takes everything in me to not punch his arm as hard as I can. But this room is full of very expensive equipment and I can afford to replace exactly none of it, so I back out calmly and stalk toward the break room.
I grab a Little Debbie oatmeal pie instead of the cookies Jackson confiscated and break it into tiny pieces, aggressively chewing while watching Jackson and Lucie in the booth, their heads bent together. Are they talking about Honda statistics? I feel like Jackson is the type of guy to have the owner’s manual memorized. She’s a mechanic. She’s probably interested in stuff like that.
“You’re a terrible wingman,” Maggie says, appearing out of nowhere. I jump and almost choke on my tiny oatmeal pie. She slams her fist in the middle of my back, but it doesn’t exactly feel altruistic. “You know you’re supposed to be finding her a boyfriend, right?”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”
She studies me. “Is it? You haven’t let her talk to anyone for more than three minutes.”
“Three minutes is our average length of call.”
“You’ve been on the air together for two weeks, Aiden.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“You’re cutting our callers short.”
“I’m letting her talk to a bunch of different people. This stuff takes time, Maggie. She’s not going to make a love connection right away. That’s unrealistic.”
“Is it unrealistic? Or do you want it to be unrealistic?” Maggie sets her hands on her hips. She fixes me with a stern look. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”
“What?”
“You know what.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what.”
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the station-issued cell phone. We use it for text message promotions and late-night Door-Dashing.
“I’m not an idiot, Aiden. I know you think this idea is stupid. Beneath you.” I open my mouth to respond, but Maggie points aggressively in the direction of the booth, cutting me off. That’s not what I think at all. “You’re supposed to be helping her find her happily ever after in there. Do I need to remind you that your job, and everyone else’s, depends on it?” She presses the phone into my chest. “So turn that frown upside down and go make some magic for that woman. She deserves it.”
She does deserve it. But her candidates right now aren’t exactly showstoppers. Maggie hits me with the phone again and I flinch. “Why are you trying to shove the bat phone into my chest cavity?” I ask.
