Page 19 of And Now, Back to You

“You know why.”

“Because you get a little tongue-tied?”

“I wouldn’t call the departure of my soul from my body every time I have to talk about something other than the forecast getting tongue-tied.” I pause. “Maggie said we’re going to be broadcasting live.”

Aiden shrugs. “Maybe television will be easier than radio.”

I stare at him. “It’ll probably be worse.”

“It can get worse?” At my dark look, Aiden cracks another smile, holding up his hands. “I’m just giving you a hard time. You won’t know until you try, yeah?”

I mutter a string of obscenities under my breath.

“What else? C’mon. I know you like your lists.”

I drag my hand down my face. This is my heaviest burden. The thing that keeps me staring at the ceiling of my bedroom long into the night. There are so many things that can go wrong, and I’d be so far away. “Who will look after the girls if I’m not here?”

“I told you. They can stay with me, Lucie, and Maya. We’ve got the space.” Aiden moved in with Lucie and her daughter after they expanded Lucie’s Fells Point row home into the house next door. “Maya is excited about the prospect of an extended sleepover.”

“With this storm, we’ll likely be stuck out there for a week. Maybe two. It’s a lot to ask.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. And you raised those two to be scary-good houseguests. Last time they stayed with Maya, my entire record collection was organized and dusted.”

“By color?”

“By genre and artist last name, as god intended. You did good with them, Jackie.” He leans forward, his face earnest. The teasing is over now, and Aiden means business. “You can trust me with this. I’m not going to let you down.”

“I know you won’t. I trust you.” And I do. I know the girls will be in good hands if they stay with Lucie and Aiden. “I just—I haven’t been away from them since I got full custody. I like our routine.”

“I know you do.” There’s no judgment in Aiden’s voice. Just quiet understanding. He knows how much I rely on having things neatly laid out in predictable sequences. “But I think it might be good for you to break out of it every once in a while. Try something new. Have a little fun.” He stands from his chair and brushes the crumbs off his lap. “Look at me. I tried something new and I found Lucie.”

“Your something new was emotions.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. It worked out all right in the end.” He raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Maggie isn’t going to let you think on it for too much longer,” he warns. “I’ll buy you some time, but you’ll need to give her an answer sooner rather than later. I’ll see you in an hour?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I’ll meet you in the booth.”

Aiden leaves and I try to break it down logically, but my brain follows the tried-and-true route instead. I think about the girls, and how excited they were at the prospect of something different. I think about giving in, saying yes, and the long drive I’ll have to take to the doldrums of Western Maryland. I think about standing in the middle of a field—a street, a sidewalk—holding a microphone in my hand and staring at the blinking red light of a camera. I think about Delilah Stewart standing right next to me, watching as I fumble. I think about the smug delight that would light up her eyes.

I think about stepping outside of my routine, and the way everything could crumble because of it. I think about falling short and making an ass of myself. I think of the crushing disappointment, not just for me, but for the girls too. The station. I think about letting everyone down, letting everyone see. The cracks in the foundation that reach up. The things that make me wrong.

My phone buzzes across my desk and I reach for my glasses. I tried to fix them last night using one of Penelope’s bracelet-making pliers, but I think I just made them worse.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tape an eyeglass repair bill to Delilah’s car window.

My phone stops vibrating, then immediately starts up again. I glance at the screen.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

This is another one of my routines, though I don’t particularly care for the predictability of it. I hesitate, then swipe my thumb across the screen.

“Camille.” I clear my throat. “Hello.”

Cars rush in the background. A horn honks, someone yells, and it’s another fifteen seconds of panting and ambient noise before she remembers she’s dialed the phone.

Or, in other words, a typical conversation with my mother.

“Jackson,” she says, sounding out of breath. “I really wish you’d call me Mom.”