Page 16 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Got it. Okay. We meet up, in Chicago, and I’m me—endlessly charming and well within legal age.”

“Happiest Days of Our Lives,” Pink Floyd, obviously, but the words stay internal. It’s a nearly endless list of songs. But I say, “Not enough info—that is still a list of songs. You will have to narrow it down.” What I said is true: there is a list in my brain, but there’s a most correct answer. Eeek. This truth pact is hard.

“We’re ecstatic to meet after a year of talking on the phone, and we decide to see if we’re meant to be, uhm, friends in real life.”

I brace myself for radical honesty. “‘Adventure of a Lifetime’ by Coldplay.” My neck stiffens, vulnerability settling over me, uncomfortable in my skin like a cold, moist blanket. “And that is two secrets: my music synesthesia and the song playing if we meet.”

“Henry, what aren’t you telling me, aside from your middle name?”

How does she do that? I didn’t say a thing. “This honesty thing makes me feel exposed. And that’s three.” Ugh. Tent of transparency, whatever you call it, it’s already biting me in the ass. “The other song is ‘A Girl Like You’ by Edwyn Collins.”

“Would you like to tell me why, or should I listen and try to figure it out?”

I agreed to this trap? What was I thinking? “There’s a line in the song about making a man crawl. You’re the kind of woman who can humble a man. In fact, he would pay for it, or I should say, they—we—do pay.”

She is dangerous. My satisfaction with a content, quiet life could be over if I’m not careful with her. There should be a warning: Beware of Intelligent, Funny Women with Sexy Voices.

“Henry, babe, flattery will get you everywhere.”

Did she pet name me?

I slow down and force the words to come out the way I intend, forming each sound carefully.

“It’s true.” Men line up for her. Every time I call, there’s a wait. And I’m not jealous. I’m not.

There’s a long pause before she speaks, leaving me wondering if I’ve overshared. “Let’s get you to sleep, sugar muffin,” she teases. “It’s eleven in Chicago.”

“Sounds great, sweetie poo,” I respond in kind.

“Okay, babe, deep breaths.”

I close my eyes, and my stomach gives an odd little clench. Her words are almost affectionate, but we both know that she’s gifted at making a guy feel special. It’s good business.

My body doesn’t seem to agree.

CHAPTER FIVE

KAITLIN

RULE #3: NEVER TALK ABOUT SEX FIRST.

911. What’s your emergency? Well, operator, I need Henry stat.

I wish we had a bat signal or something. Maybe a cute little unicorn that glows when I want him to call.

I ditch my headset the moment my call ends and race to the front desk, where I grab a manilla folder and fan myself, swallowing the urge to retch before I say, “I need half an hour.”

Hunter looks up at me, concerned. She grabs the trash can and thrusts it at me. I think of puppy tummy rubbies and kittens. After a minute of breathing through my nose and sniffing hand sanitizer, I give the trash can back.

“Are you okay?” she asks, legitimate concern on her face. “You look like a pale version of Elphaba.”

“Fine.” I make a fake gagging sound and pretend to stick my finger down my throat. “Just spent some time with Ryan and Nancy.”

That’s all that needs to be said, and yet she says more. “Of all of the weird-ass shit we talk about, Ryan is your Achilles’ heel? Were you tortured with Spam as a child?” She looks at me expectantly, like I’m going to divulge some deeply profound truth.

“It’s not the Spam, it’s the Miracle Whip,” I say, then drop into a whisper. “Miracle Whip is Dante’s sixth ring of hell, and you know how my mom is about wasting food. She made it, and we ate it.” I steal the trash can back. As far as childhood trauma goes, I had it really good because this is the worst thing I can remember.

“The Kathy would be so sad if she knew you’re emotionally scarred by her egg salad. Your mom is a prize,” Hunter says. Her mom, who we refer to as The Cathy, is too.