Page 58 of First-Time Caller
Her cheeks are wet, her nose red. I’m feeling more than a little unhinged.
“Who the fuck made you cry?” I snap.
The pieces begin to slot into place. Lucie’s date tonight, this stranger’s insistence that the radio show had something to do with it, the thought that it was all a setup to embarrass her . . .
“Was it Elliott?” I ask. “The guy you went out with. Did he do something?”
She exhales a rattling sound. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Not if you’ve been crying.”
Lucie gently twists out of my grip, putting space between us. She reaches up and rubs at the studs in her left earlobe and my chest turns over.
She only does that when she’s nervous.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I cry when I’m frustrated. Or when I’m angry.” Her eyes dart to my left and narrow. “Something Grayson knows but decided to disregard when he bulldozed his way in here.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m not going to apologize.”
“You should,” she says.
“I was defending your honor. I thought this one”—he hitches his thumb at me—”had something to do with it.”
“He didn’t,” Lucie says. Her eyes slide to me and she takes a deep breath. When she exhales, her whole body seems to deflate. “He wouldn’t,” she adds, quieter.
“Fine.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and reconsiders. “Okay. Maybe I’m slightly sorry for dragging you across the lobby by your sweatshirt.”
“It’s fine.” I can’t stop looking at Lucie. I don’t give a shit about my sweatshirt. “Can someone please explain what is going on?”
Lucie looks like she’d rather take a dive in the Inner Harbor in her strappy little shoes. She sighs. “I had my date with Elliott tonight. It . . . didn’t go as I had hoped.”
She clasps her hands together in front of her and doesn’t say anything else.
“What does that mean?” My voice is a needle on a record player, skipping and scratching.
Her gaze slides to mine, reluctant. She looks tired, burned-out, like the weight she’s been carrying around has suddenly become too heavy to bear. I want to wrap her in a blanket and make her some of my secret coffee. I want to punch Elliott in the fucking face.
“What the hell is going on?” Maggie skids to a stop behind Hughie, shoving him out of the way. He folds like a wet paper bag. “Why the hell is Jackson talking about the difference between drifting snow and freezing rain? You’re supposed to be in the booth, Aiden.”
She takes in the chaos that is the front lobby. Lucie, in her nice clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Me, probably looking like I’m about to commit a murder. The guy with the hair, who tried to manhandle me into the radiator.
“Who are you?” she asks, tipping her chin at . . . I’ve already forgotten his name.
“Lucie’s baby daddy,” he responds without missing a beat, extending his hand for Maggie to shake. Lucie groans. “Grayson Harris.”
Maggie shakes his hand, face furrowed in concentration. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s an artist,” Lucie answers, resigned. “Also, a giant pain in my ass.”
“That’s it!” Maggie’s whole face lights up. “I have one of your paintings!”
“Which one?”
“It’s small. A canvas of wildflowers in bloom. I got it at an auction for—”
“The Living Classrooms fundraiser, yeah. I did that a year ago.” He nudges Lucie with his elbow. She looks like she wants to sink through the floor. “Small world, isn’t it, Lu?”
“Microscopic,” she responds, voice monotone. “Can we go now or would you like to add destruction of private property to breaking and entering?”
