First-Time Caller (Heartstrings, #1)

by B.K. Borison

Aiden Valentine: Do you ever wonder what the point of it all is? Caller:…What? Aiden Valentine: What’s the point of all this? What are we doing? Are we just bumbling around? Hoping for the best? [pause] Caller: I asked if I should bring my girlfriend flowers more often. Aiden Valentine: Flowers die. Everything dies. Caller: I thought this was a romance hotline.

dying

All I do is try. All day long, I’m trying and I’m so tired. Why can’t this be the one thing I don’t have to try at? Why can’t it be a thing that just…happens? I don’t want—I don’t want to think about what I should say or how I should act or…or have talking points in the notes app of my phone for a dinner date at a restaurant that I don’t really like. I want to feel something when I connect with someone. I want sparks. The good kind, you know? I want to laugh and mean it. I want goose bumps. I want to wonder what my date is thinking about and hope it might be me. I want…I want the magic.”

“When the whole world tells you you’re silly for wanting the things you want, you start to believe them. You start to think you’re not worth it. That if the things you’re waiting for do exist, they’re not for someone like you.”

“But what’s wrong with being a romantic? I can be a confident, independent woman and still want someone to hold my hand. To ask about my day. It’s a good thing to want passion and excitement and care. Attention and affection. I don’t want to settle for anything less than that.

I don’t want to be with someone if they’re not giving me something I don’t already have. I don’t want to waste my time on things that don’t feel like everything I’ve always wanted for myself.”

“I want goose bumps. I want to be wanted. All this time and I—I haven’t given up. I guess I’m just waiting for it to find me.”

“What about you? Anything to say? Maybe, Sorry for putting a dent in your back door?” He shakes his head slowly. “No, I don’t think I’m going to apologize for that.”

“I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.”

“Maggie,” I say slowly, my voice calm despite the rage twisting in my gut. “Don’t you have some sort of database for the people who text that phone?” Grayson looks how I feel, his shoulders hunched to his ears and his mouth twisted in a frown. “An address, perhaps?” “I have an ice pick in my car,” Hughie adds from his spot by the door.

Underwhelmed and dissatisfied. Print it on my tombstone.

amen

I got my hopes up. All for a shitty guy in cropped chinos and boat shoes without socks. I should have known as soon as I stepped foot in the restaurant. He was blond, for god’s sake.

“Nah, Lucie.” In my dream, he brushes a kiss against my forehead. “I think you’re the magic.”

Grayson Harris: She is one of the most important people in my life. She’s got questionable taste in music, can’t bake cookies to save her life, but has the most generous, kind, beautiful soul. I would commit terrible, violent crimes on her behalf. Aiden Valentine: I don’t think you need to— Grayson Harris: But I’ll settle for finding her the match she deserves.

“Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”

Is it possible to die from the feel of a woman’s thighs? Maybe. It certainly feels like a possibility right now.

he rinses syrup off the cutlery and slots it neatly into the dishwasher. I notice he puts the forks prong-side up, the way god intended.

That half smile again. “I like a woman who can toss me around.”

And before he hung up, he told me, ‘Be nice, or I’ll kick your fucking ass.’ That’s a direct quote.”

I swear to god, I could probably power a generator with whatever this feeling is.

“That’s how it is,” I butt in, rude as fuck.

“I think that’s what I want.” “Strange men on the street who are bad at Skee-Ball?”

Two steps forward and then he sprints back, hurling himself into an emotionally destitute bush.

“But it’s fine, because he’s afraid of me now.” “He should be,” I tell her. “Most reasonable people are.”

“You worried about your car?” she calls, mistaking my distress for something reasonable. “Worried about my brain,” I mutter. I can’t believe I’m getting hard watching her load a tow.

“You said pineapple on pizza is disgusting.” “It is.” “Then why do you have it?” “Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.”

He sounds like he has a big dick.” “Patty. There are children in this house.” “There is one child in this house,

I spend my Saturday deteriorating on my couch in an old pair of sweatpants, a carton of Chinese food on my chest.

She said she wanted magic and I thought we found something better. Something real. But apparently there was a little magic, after all. A bunch of breadcrumbs dropped like pennies in a fountain, leading me right to her.