Page 7 of First-Time Caller
“She means it’s for you,” Aiden interrupts. That voice might work on whatever unsuspecting, innocent soul he’s trying to lure into his essential oil empire, but it’s not going to work on me. “It is a cry for help, but it’s for you. That’s why she called.”
“Help with what?” I snap, annoyed that he apparently heard that.
I am two seconds from hanging up this phone and dropping it down the garbage disposal in the kitchen. My patience is gone. Evaporated. Dust. Shoved in the tiny linen closet with the hand towels and the matchbox cars Maya tossed in there when she was six years old, never to be seen again.
“I host a radio show,” Aiden says calmly. “Maya called in to ask for dating advice.”
My hand clenches around the phone. “Dating advice? She’s twelve.”
“She didn’t call for herself. She called for you.” He makes a small huff of amusement. “My name is Aiden Valentine and you’re live withHeartstrings, Baltimore’s romance hotline.”
AIDEN VALENTINE:Welcome toHeartstrings. You’re live on the air.
CALLER:Really? Like right now?
AIDEN VALENTINE:Yup. Right this moment.
CALLER:Awesome.
AIDEN VALENTINE:You sound . . . young.
CALLER:Not that young.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Younger than our usual caller.
CALLER:Pretty sure your usual caller is a lady named Charlene who thinks you’re a Chinese restaurant.
AIDEN VALENTINE:Fair point. What’s your name?
CALLER:Maya, but I’m not calling about me. I’m calling about my mom.
Silence fills the airwaves.
It’s a fair reaction. I’m sure Maya’s mom didn’t expect to walk in on her daughter having a conversation past her bedtime with the host of a public radio show. I don’t know if Maya thought she wouldn’t get caught or what the plan was, but it’s clear her mom was not involved in the decision-making.
I watch the seconds tick by on the large clock we keep above the door.
Twelve seconds of completely dead air and it might be the most compelling programming we’ve had all year. I glance at the red light on the phone system to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. I told Jackson earlier this week I’d make more of an effort to enjoy the show, and this is me . . . making an effort.
Though I’m certainly not forcing my enthusiasm or interest tonight. The first thing Maya said when I took her call was, “Look. My mom might kill me, but it is what it is.” What it is, apparently, is a lot of dialogue about her mother’s lackluster love life, accusations about a cult, and—I look at the clock—a full minute of silence.
I haven’t had this much fun in the booth in months.
The other calls tonight have been our usual dismal fare. One woman called to complain that her husband doesn’t appreciate her potato casserole and another caller listed out the inaccuracies he found in a historical romance he picked up by accident at a library sale. One was a misdial for a cab company.
It’s been bleak.
I’m content to give Maya’s mom as much time as she needs. We certainly don’t have anything better to do.
“Lucie? You there?”
There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the line like she’s pressed her hand up against the phone. “You told him my name?” drifts through my headphones.
Maya told me a lot of things. Her mom’s name. The preferred brand of wine her mom drinks when she sits alone on the couch, binge-watchingDeadliest Catch. The way she cries if some of the crabs get stuck in the pot.
I know a lot about Lucie.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She also told me you haven’t seriously dated anyone for the entirety of her life. What do you have against dating, Lucie?”
