Page 39 of A Song for Another Woman

For three minutes and twelve seconds, I'm not expected to speak. It should feel like relief. Instead, it gives my brain too much room.

What if nobody calls?

What if everybody calls?

What if the only thing people want from me is the exact piece of myself I came home to protect?

The first line on the phone bank lights up before the song ends. Then the second. Then the third. Pop’s eyes flick down. His mouth tightens. That’s my answer.

The song fades. Pop puts one call through, and I can tell by his face he already regrets it.

“WHLR, you’re on with Emmy in the evening,” I say.

A woman breathes into the line, then whispers, “Is it true he left you for her?”

My body goes still. The studio narrows to the microphone in front of my mouth and the red light above the door. For a second, I’m back in seat 4C with my face twenty feet high over an arena, everyone waiting to see how much I can take without making them uncomfortable.

Pop reaches for the line. I shake my head once.

The caller waits. So does the county.

I could laugh it off. I know how. I could make a joke sharp enough to get clipped by morning. I could be gracious. I could be brittle. I could become the exact thing they tuned in to watch. Instead, I close my eyes.

“No,” I say softly. “That’s not what we’re doing here.”

The silence after it is enormous. My heartbeat hits once. Twice.

“I know some folks found this station tonight because they heard a woman with a messy life was going to sit behind a microphone,” I say. “And if you came looking for a meltdown, I can understand the curiosity. We all slow down when there are flashing lights on the highway. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a person in the wreck.”

Pop stops moving.

“I’m not going to gossip about my marriage on this show,” I say. “I’m not going to name names for sport, and I’m not going to hand out pieces of my hurt like party favors. But I will tell you this, because maybe somebody out there needs to hear it from a person who is currently sitting upright through sheer stubbornness.”

My hand closes around a pencil.

“Starting over at thirty-two is strange. It's embarrassing in ways people don’t warn you about. You forget which grocery store has the good apples. You sleep on your sister’s couch and learn the dip in the middle of it. You find out there are versions of your own face on the internet that strangers know better than you do. You discover that privacy is not a thing people give you. It’s a thing you have to build, fence post by fence post.”

The pencil stops shaking.

“So here’s the first post,” I say. “If you call to ambush me about my marriage, we won’t put you through. If you call because it’s late and you’re lonely, or mad, or scared, or tired of pretending you’re fine, that’s different. That’s what this show is for.”

I look through the glass at Pop. His eyes are bright.

“And one more thing,” I say, because if I don’t do it now, I might lose my nerve. “You won’t hear my husband’s records on this show. You won’t hear Melody Hunter’s either. There are plenty of other hours in the day for everybody else’s story. This hour is for ours.”

A breath leaves me. I didn’t realize I was holding it until it’s gone.

“Let’s try that again,” I say. “WHLR, you’re on after sundown. Tell me something true.”

Pop puts the next call through.

A man clears his throat. “Uh. Name’s Travis. I’m hauling produce down I-40, and I been awake since four this morning.”

“Well, Travis,” I say, “first of all, please tell me you’re hands-free, because I've had a difficult week and can't be responsible for a cabbage-related incident on the interstate.”

There's a pause. Then Travis laughs. It's a real laugh, tired and surprised, and it does something to the room.

“I’m hands-free,” he says. “Promise.”