First-Time Caller (Heartstrings, #1)

by B.K. Borison

I don’t know how to explain the dread I feel every time I slide into the booth at the station. The thick, heavy feeling that sinks like a stone every time I tap the blinking red button that lets me talk to listeners. It’s an ache. An absence. I don’t know.

I used to love talking to people. Hearing their stories and sharing mine. It made me feel connected. But now I’m just…exhausted.

“Why does it suck?” “I hate it. It’s like everyone is doing some dance that I never learned the steps to. I’m clueless, and I’m not using that as an excuse. I am genuinely clueless. I don’t understand all of the…stuff you have to sift through before you can be yourself.” She sighs. “It feels like that dream. You know? The one where you’re walking down the hallway in only your underwear.” “I don’t think that’s how dating is supposed to feel.”

“How do you package yourself to be appealing?” she asks quietly. “That should have been my first sign, I guess. I had so much trouble with the questions, setting up my profile.

The whole time I was on that app, I felt like a cartoon version of myself. It felt like—it felt like gamifying my heart, and I didn’t like it at all. I’m so glad so many people have found partners that way, but I couldn’t ever figure out if I was doing it right. It wasn’t for me, and I wish so badly it was. It made me feel like…like maybe I wasn’t the right type of person.” “For dating?”

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.”

“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 think that’s why I’ve been sitting on my couch. That’s why I’m home all the time. Because I’m tired. I’m tired of trying so hard at something that comes so easily for everyone else. I stopped dating because it wasn’t working for me and I think I hoped that another option might materialize.

“You don’t have to be alone to be lonely.”

You don’t have to be alone to be lonely. I’ve got all sorts of love in my life, but I’m still yearning for something more.

the real reason I don’t date, the anxiety that there might not be someone out there for me to fit into the life I’ve made for myself, that maybe I want too much, that I’m being too whimsical and naive, that it’s too late for me—I

‘There is truth in wine and children.’

I can feel it buzzing under my skin, the frantic desire to fix it. Whatever it is.

“You ready? You okay?” He’s always doing that. Asking me. Checking in.

pregnant. It was what our parents demanded, but I said no.” “Why?” I smile softly. “Because I knew I wasn’t the love story Grayson deserved. Gray and I have spent our entire lives together, but we were never in love.

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.

“You’re gonna make me work for it, aren’t you?” he murmurs. “You like it when I make you work for it,” I fire back.

“I started to see this common thread with callers. How love could make them miserable. How it could tear them to absolute pieces. And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. I think I started waiting for it. Bracing myself for it. It felt easier that way.” “Why?” Lucie asks again, her body curving closer into mine. “Because I saw it with my life too. With my…with my dad. My mom got sick,”

“He loved her so much, and it was killing him the same way the cancer was killing her. After that I thought it would be easier if I just never—if I didn’t let myself feel that.”

The tight grip I usually keep on myself is too loose tonight, undone by half a dozen drinks and Lucie.

I realize I’m fucked. Because it would be one thing if I only enjoyed spending time with Lucie because of how her legs stretch for miles beneath the flimsy material of her skirt, or how her nose scrunches when she laughs, or how she looks at anything and everything with unflagging optimism. But it’s all of those things and a bunch of other stuff too. How smart she is. How sharp. How generous and open and lovely and kind. I like all of those things and no single part rises above or sinks below the rest.

“I want to feel it first and think about it second. I want to be in the moment and not worry about what’s coming next. I don’t want to twist myself into circles over the idea of a partner.”

I have fantasies where I bend her over this table. Others where I wrap her in a blanket and feed her toast.

“You might not be what I’m looking for, but you’re what I want. And that’s enough for me. Trust me to decide for myself.”

I’m not going to beg him to be something he’s not. I won’t beg him to want me.

“She’s been missing you, not needing you. You’ve met all of her needs with unfailing precision for the past twelve years. Now it’s time to do something for you.”

“What she needs is to see her mom prioritizing her own happiness for once. So she can learn to do the same.”

“I kissed you because I wanted to, Lucie. I’ve been wanting to and I think—I think I got tired of pretending I don’t. My crush isn’t going anywhere. I think it would be easier for us both if it was, but…it’s not.

I can’t touch you a little bit. Because if I feel how wet you are for me, I’m going to fuck you in this closet.”

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to want more. I don’t know what the rules are. I don’t know the next steps. I’ve never cared enough to figure it out.

“Then why do you have it?” “Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.”

Because my brain has been rewired to only think about one thing, apparently, and she’s sitting next to me in a tow truck looking a combination of bewildered and bemused.

I could not sound more like a dumbass if I tried. Who is this person? Why can’t I connect my brain and my mouth?

Maybe Lucie doesn’t make me stupid. Maybe she just makes me honest. Everything sits right at the surface with her, waiting to bubble over.

“I’m going to need a second before you come in,” he says. “A second?” “More like seven minutes.” Aiden climbs out of the passenger seat. “That’s oddly specific. Do you need to hide your doll collection?”

“What do you want?” I laugh against her skin. “When it comes to you, Lucie”—I

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t expecting you.” Same, I want to say. You came out of nowhere and knocked me flat on my ass. I know she means tonight, but I mean all those weeks ago.

I’ve never had anyone look at me the way Lucie does, like the want is tangled up with the comfort and the affection.

“I said I didn’t want to try, but I think I’ve been afraid to try. I think I’ve been telling myself I wanted magic and fireworks and something life-altering because it made it easier to withstand the constant disappointment of never—of never being enough.”

“If I told myself I was waiting for something better, it made those puncture wounds feel like paper cuts. I wasn’t missing out. I was waiting for something better. It gave me hope that I’d find my happy ending, you know?”

“I don’t want something perfect; I want something honest. Something that can be mine.”

“He was a surprise for me too.” Isn’t that how it goes? The most precious, delicate things wedge themselves between the plans you’ve made for yourself. They wiggle in your arms and wrap their tiny fingers around your thumb after nine months of bone-deep panic. They barge into your kitchen looking for condiments. They answer a phone call in the middle of the night.

“I’m having trouble letting you go.” “That’s okay,” I say, my voice a rasp. “I don’t want you to let me go.”

“You said you wanted it to be a secret.” I shake my head. “I never said that.” “You said you wanted everything to stay exactly the same.” “I meant seeing you, being with you, talking to you. I meant I didn’t want to talk about what’s going on between us live on the air.”

“You said you wanted fun.” “You’re the only person I want to have fun with. You’re the only person I want anything with. Maybe this started as fun, but now it’s different. Isn’t it?”

“I think you tell yourself you don’t deserve the things you want so it’s easier for you to manage your expectations. It won’t hurt if you don’t care, right? How many lies have you told, Aiden?”

Better end it now before you get in too deep and risk hurting, right? You’re so used to distancing yourself from any sort of feeling that you don’t even realize you’re doing it anymore. You watch clips of movies because you don’t want to get invested in a stupid story. You skipped vacation with your parents because it’s easier to love them at a distance than up close. You settled for fun with me because it made you feel like there wasn’t a risk. But I won’t sit here and listen to you diminish what I feel because you’re scared of what might happen.”

He’s still afraid—even with me—and that hurts almost as much as everything else. That despite everything, he isn’t willing to try.

“Not wanting me to go isn’t the same as wanting me to stay. I want you, Aiden. No one else. You decide what happens next, okay?”

“I feel broken.” “I think maybe you’re just bruised.”