First-Time Caller (Heartstrings, #1)

by B.K. Borison

For the hopeless romantics. And the reluctant ones too.

After six years of hosting Heartstrings, Baltimore’s romance hotline, I’ve discovered people don’t want to be told how to fix their lives or be held accountable. They just want to hear themselves talk and validate their own narcissism.

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I’ve been—” Struggling, I think, afraid to say the word out loud. Afraid to make it real. I’ve been struggling and I have no idea how to fix it. If it can even be fixed.

It feels like every time I get my hopes up for something good, reality comes out swinging. I don’t know how to be a hopeful person anymore. It’s easier not to be.

“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 with Heartstrings, Baltimore’s romance hotline.”

“But I’m not…I’m not trying to fix anything for you, Lucie. I’m just going to listen, yeah? We’ll talk and see what happens.”

I don’t want to try. 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.” She sighs, a small, hopeless sound that twists through my headphones. “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’m tired of trying so hard at something that comes so easily for everyone else.

“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.”

“She always used to say, ‘There is truth in wine and children.’ She’d usually say it after my idiot brother spit out something ridiculous at the dinner table, but she’d say it nonetheless. ‘Wine and children.’ ” He snaps his fingers. “Three times a day, at least.”

“I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but you’ve been an absolute nightmare on the air lately. I’ve considered changing the name of Heartstrings to Heartbreak Hotel.”

“That’s all right. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Lucie’s response, her voice clear and bright. “No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t want to try. 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.”

“I think it’s sweet you’re looking out for Lucie.” “That’s not what I’m doing.” “You care.” “I don’t.” “You don’t want me to take advantage of her.” “Of course not.” I huff, frustrated. “I also don’t want you to run over a litter of puppies. It doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and adopt a dog.”

this is something that would only happen to you, She of Rotten Luck.” She raises her mug and I reluctantly clink mine to it with a frown. “Rotten luck feels like an exaggeration.” Patty takes a long pull from her drink and then holds up a single finger. “You got pregnant the first time you ever had sex.” She flicks up another finger. “You rarely date, and when you do, you somehow manage to find the worst men in the universe.” She wiggles a third finger. “And when your daughter tries to play wingman, your interview goes viral and the entire world decides to weigh in on your love life. Did I miss anything?”

It’s easier for me if I spend time with my family in doses. All I do when I’m with them is worry anyway. I’d bring the mood down.

“Maybe this is it,” she says quietly. Earnestly. “Maybe this is how love finds you. I know you probably think I’m doing this for the ratings and the audience and the sponsorship, and part of that is true. This is a business. But what if…?” She clasps her hands together so tightly her knuckles turn white, and I know, unequivocally, that this part is honest. This part is true. “What if this is what you’ve been waiting for? What if it’s all a string of choices and moments and events and decisions that have led you to exactly right here? And what if what happens next—what if what happens next is the good part? The part you’ve been waiting for.”

I did something for someone, and it wasn’t fixing their muffler or changing their oil. It wasn’t cutting the crusts off a peanut butter sandwich or…reading the same book seventeen times in a row. I did something for someone just by—just by being myself. Sharing my fears. Being vulnerable.

Caller: I want to believe in it, you know? That there’s something—someone—out there waiting for me. But it can be hard. Sometimes I lose hope. [pause] Aiden Valentine: Yeah. Me too.

“It tells me you know exactly who you are, and you know exactly what you want. You’ve just buried it under everything else for so long you’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t want you to make fun of me.” Something twists in my chest. I thought we’d moved past this, but Lucie is still so convinced the things she wants aren’t things worth talking about. Who made her feel so small? Who made her hide pieces of herself? Maya’s dad, maybe? Someone else? I cross my heart with my index finger. “I won’t. I promise.”

“I’d really like it if…” I watch as she scrapes together her bravery. It might be the most incredible thing about her. How she’s always willing to try. “I think it would be nice to have a picnic,” she finally says. “A picnic,” I repeat. “Yeah,” she says slowly, still ping-ponging her attention around the studio. “It doesn’t have to be outdoors either. Maybe on the living room floor. Nothing fancy. Carry-out from a burger place and a fort made out of sheets. Maybe a movie in the background. I don’t know. The idea always seemed nice.”

“I like thinking that I’d be worth the trouble of something like that,” she confesses quietly. Her shoulder shrugs up to her ear. “I like thinking that it doesn’t need to be fancy to be special. Maybe…maybe they’d remember I like fountain soda best or daisies instead of roses. Little things that’d let me know they’ve been paying attention.” Her eyes lift back to mine. That twist in my chest again, sharper this time. “I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.” She looks back down at her half-empty coffee mug. “That’s the sort of date I’d want.”

“Do you find anyone sexy yet, or is that a thirteen-year-old thing?” “Patty,” I say again, a warning in my voice. Maya shrugs, scooping the avocado off her sweater. “I think books are sexy,” she says very seriously. “No one at school has quite lived up to Aragorn yet.” God, I love this kid. I lean over and press a smacking kiss to her temple. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but no one ever will.”

Hoping it might distract me, too, from this pressure in my chest. The fog in my head and the itchy, scratchy feeling at the base of my spine. I’ve been shoved out of orbit and I have no idea what needs to slot back into place to make everything feel steady again. The pages of my instruction manual are faded and too hard to read.

“We won’t take your car here. I can refer you to another shop in the city, but just so you know, what you’re doing is an insult to historic vehicles and you should be deeply ashamed of yourself.” He uncrosses his arms and props one palm against the front desk. “Is that so?” “Yes.” I tell myself to leave it at that, to let it go, but I can’t. Maybe Aiden’s surly attitude is rubbing off on me, or maybe I’ve hit my breaking point for the day. I don’t know. “A vintage Chevy,” I continue. “Why do you even care if we service historic vehicles if you’re just going to desecrate it with an underglow? A blue underglow on a red Chevy. You should be reported to some sort of vintage car police. You should—what? What are you smiling at? Is this funny to you?” “Nah.” He rubs his palm across his grin, but it only spreads farther. His whole face changes when he smiles. He looks softer. Younger. Handsome, even. “Shit, I think I just fell in love.” I blink at him. “With what?” “I’ve been looking for somewhere to take my car—my Rosie—for weeks. I’m new to town and you’re the first shop to refuse to put underglow on her. Thanks, by the way.”

“I’ll wait,” he says easily. “You’re worth it.”

“Have you been crying?” She blinks at me, surprised, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. She tries to wave me off, but I step closer, tipping her chin up with my knuckles to get a better look at her face. Her cheeks are wet, her nose red. I’m feeling more than a little unhinged. “Who the fuck made you cry?” I snap.

“Absolutely not,” I cut in. Maggie arches an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “You can’t shove me back in the booth,” I say, on the verge of losing my fucking mind. I look over at Lucie again. She’s staring at the floor, arms curled around herself, eyes puffy. It’s breaking my heart. I clench my jaw and look back to Maggie. “Not until I know Lucie is okay.” Grayson makes a considering sound somewhere to the left of me. “I like this one,” he murmurs to Lucie. To me, he says, “Apologies for almost punching you in the face.” I wave my hand. I would have punched myself in the face too if I thought I made Lucie cry.

“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.

I should have known as soon as I stepped foot in the restaurant. He was blond, for god’s sake.

Aiden might not believe in love and romance, but he’s never made me feel small.

I want my happy ending. I deserve it. And wanting it doesn’t make me weak or silly or any of the things Elliott sneered about over a plate of overpriced bruschetta. Maybe that’s its own sort of bravery. That I’m willing to try again.

“Do you think I’ll find someone?” I voice the question that’s been banging around in my heart for the past decade. “Do you think I’ll get my magic?” He takes a long time to answer. So long my eyes drift shut and everything around me turns fuzzy and heavy. Purple and blue dance behind my closed eyes and I imagine we’re floating with the stars, my fingers reaching for their golden cascading light. Somewhere in the hazy in-between, a hand slips under my hair and gently squeezes the back of my neck. His thumb traces the ridges of my spine, and my whole body gets heavier. “Nah, Lucie.” In my dream, he brushes a kiss against my forehead. “I think you’re the magic.”

“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, letting him guide me to the bar on the corner. The one with flower baskets spilling from the windows. Flame-lit lanterns flickering by the entrance. “There are plenty of sad girls in Baltimore.” “Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”

“It devastated my dad. My room was right next to their bathroom, and some nights, after my mom fell asleep, I’d hear him through the wall. He’d run a shower to cover the noise, but I could—I could hear him crying.” I could tell in the morning, with his red-rimmed eyes and his drawn face. The way he’d look at my mom when he thought no one was looking at him. Like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Like he wouldn’t survive it if she didn’t. I keep talking, determined to move the conversation forward. I’m sprinting across a field of conversational land mines, tossing out the most devastating milestones of my life like they’re party favors. “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.”

“I think you’re a closet romantic,” she tells me. “Decent human being,” I correct. “Secret swoony boy,” Lucie parrots back. I snort. She twists her hand under mine and our palms brush together. I trace my thumb over the grease stain on the bridge of her knuckles. “I think if anyone could convince me to believe in it, Lucie, it would be you.”

“You can ignore me.” “It’s impossible to ignore you,” I murmur.

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.

He might be an idiot, but he makes her smile. And Lucie deserves someone who will make her smile. Not a grumpy asshole who makes that smile disappear.

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

I’ve always been good at avoiding the things that make me feel like shit. Content to compartmentalize, a therapist told me when I was younger.

“You want to know why I was doing laps around the parking lot?” Her mouth twists. “You were avoiding me.” I nod. “I didn’t want to have time to talk to you before the show. I didn’t want to hear about your date. I didn’t want to see you light up with another man’s name in your mouth,” I confess. She sucks in a sharp breath. “If you’re jealous, I’m jealous too. Worse, probably.”

“Fuck it,” I whisper, and I drag her mouth to mine.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” “I just like looking at you,” I murmur quietly.

“Something like that.” “I don’t think anyone has accused me of being trouble before,” she muses lightly, still working her body against mine. “Must be just for me, then.” “I like that. I like that it’s just for you.”

“Because of the closet. Because I kissed you and I want to kiss you again. And because I’ve been sitting over here trying to figure out how to hide the fact that I have a pineapple pizza on my lap, but it feels fairly obvious.” Her eyebrows jump up. She glances at the box in my lap and then back to my face. “You have a pineapple pizza?” I nod, annoyed with myself. “I do.” “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.”

She licks her lips when she sees me and something hot and possessive curls in the middle of my chest. I want to be the only one she looks at like that.

“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?” “Yeah, honey. I know.” Patty’s voice is gentle. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect thing. The fairy-tale thing. But Aiden’s right.” A smile splits my face, even as pressure builds behind my eyes. “That doesn’t exist. Because it’s different for everyone, isn’t it? Love isn’t—it doesn’t work like that. I don’t want the things I thought I wanted.”