Page 67 of First-Time Caller
GENEVIEVE POWERS:There’s definitely something going on between Aiden and Lucie.
CELIA BLYTHE:You think?
GENEVIEVE POWERS:I think.
CELIA BLYTHE:Should we ask Peanut Butter? Peanut Butter, do you think there’s something going on between Aiden and Lucie?
PEANUT BUTTER:[faint meowing]
GENEVIEVE POWERS:I told you.
CELIA BLYTHE:You did. You told me.
GENEVIEVE POWERS:Peanut Butter is never wrong.
CELIA BLYTHE:Never.
Itake her to a tiny bar right next to the docks with a crooked front stoop and a jukebox in the back corner that plays only one song. The bar is full, but there’s a table in the back corner wedged right up against a foggy glass window and the beleaguered jukebox. Lucie studies the musical selections while I grab us two beers and a basket of French fries, her face cast in blues and pinks from the neon lights above the bar.
“It’s an interesting choice,” she says as I hand her a beer. “To only feature ‘Thong Song.’”
She takes a long sip from her glass and sighs happily. A bit of foam clings to her bottom lip. I drop myself down at the table before I can do something stupid like wipe it away.
“Well, it is a classic,” I tell the table.
“That’s true.”
“It used to playHairspraytoo. But I think someone slammed their glass into it after one too many rounds of ‘Good Morning, Baltimore.’ It’s been playing Sisqó ever since.”
She hums in mock sympathy. “A grim fate.”
“I don’t know. He has been called the Tchaikovsky of our time.”
She tips her head back and laughs. It sounds different outside the radio booth. Less contained. Rougher at the edges but better because of it. She settles in her seat and the length of her thigh presses against mine. We don’t have the excuse of the close quarters of the booth tonight, and I wonder if she did it on purpose. I don’t move away.
“Thank you for this,” she says, pushing her bangs out of her face and shifting in her chair. She’s wearing more makeup than usual tonight. Her eyes look like they’re glowing. “Were you in the area?”
I’m too busy watching her slip out of her coat to answer her question, a soft-looking emerald green dress beneath that’s draped over her shoulders. I can see freckles I’ve never seen before. Right below her collarbone and in the hollow of her throat. I take another long pull from my beer.
“What?” I ask in a rasp as I pull the bottle away from my mouth.
“You must have been close by when I texted,” she says.
“Oh, no. I mean, yeah. I live over here. Up on Fleet.” And I hurled my body into the shower as soon as she texted that she was waiting at the restaurant, not bothering to look at the T-shirt I pulled out of the dresser before tugging it over my head.
“It’s not a far walk,” I add, feeling a rush of embarrassment for the way I rushed over. Lucie is a grown woman and she can handle herself. But all I could think about was the hopeful tremble in her voice when she asked me if she thought she’d find someone, the two of us sitting alone at that picnic table. I clear my throat. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
She keeps staring at me, her beer lifted halfway to her mouth.
“What’s your deal?” she asks suddenly, after the silence stretches so thick it feels like I’m going to choke on it.
I blink at her. “My deal?”
“Yeah.” She takes a heavy gulp from her beer. This time she wipes the foam away with her thumb. “What’s up with you?”
“Why does it sound like you’re asking what’swrongwith me?”
“You’re a radio host,” she says, ignoring me, holding up a single finger in explanation. “Of a late-night romance hotline.” She holds up another finger. “You told me you don’t believe in love, yet here you are. Helping me find my match. What gives?”
