Page 51 of First-Time Caller
I wait until the house is dark and Maya is asleep in her room— actually asleep, without a blanket tucked in the crack beneath her door, having secretive phone calls with equally secretive radio hosts—to pull out theHeartstringsphone again. There are about three hundred unread text messages. I read through a couple.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Do u like short kings?
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Meet me at the O’s game. I’ll be the one in orange.
I don’t know how I feel about a date planned two months in advance.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hoping you can help me find something.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:The key to your heart.
That one makes me snort out loud, snuggling down farther in my bed. If nothing else, this is excellent entertainment.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Hey Lucie. This is probably weird, but I heard you on the radio and it felt like . . . well, it felt like you were talking to me. I’ve had my share of dating disasters. Maybe we can get back out there together?
UNKNOWN NUMBER:My name would probably be helpful. I’m Elliott. I hope you reach out.
Elliott. Interesting. That was actually . . . not a bad message. I double-tap it with a little red flag and scroll some more.
There are more pickup lines. A couple of messages from listeners sharing their own stories. A heartwarming message from a woman in Tennessee who decided to jump back into dating after my first call with Aiden. A few texts from men who are less than happy with me because their partners are suddenly demanding more from their relationships. An order for Chinese food from a place in Federal Hill. A photo of someone’s tea towel collection.
It’s lovely and overwhelming and terrifying and not a thing I ever thought I’d be doing. I still don’t understand why all these people want to talk to me.
Aiden’s message appears again as I scroll. Someone at the station must have programmed his contact into the phone, because he’s the only one with his name listed, a little red heart next to it.
AIDEN:Hope you’re not being bombarded.
He sent it sometime this morning when I was pretending my phone didn’t exist. I bite my thumbnail, considering.
Depends, I write back.How many pictures of a lizard named Bartholomew constitutes a bombardment?
His reply comes back right away, even though I know he’s recording for the show. I wonder if he’s in the studio or the tiny break room, grabbing more of those cookies he seems to like so much.
AIDEN:I hope it’s actually a lizard.
LUCIE:Unfortunately the lizard is just the tip of the iceberg, my friend.
AIDEN:So we are friends. Interesting.
I grin at my phone in the dark.
LUCIE:Is it? How so?
AIDEN:Thought you might still be plotting my untimely demise.
LUCIE:That wouldn’t be very friendly.
AIDEN:No. No, it wouldn’t.
LUCIE:Would you prefer a different term? Colleague? Chum?
AIDEN:I’m actually pretty partial to “love guru.”
A laugh tumbles out of me. Three dots appear beneath his last message. I imagine him with his head ducked toward his phone hidden beneath his desk, his smile glowing in the light from his monitor. Shades of blue and gray.
On the street below my window, a group of people spill out of the bar on the corner. Music from a passing car pulses and then fades. A ship blows its horn across the water and another answers.
The whole world spins on, and I sit in my bed and wait for a text message.
