Page 43 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Being tipsy makes me spicy honest. “I suck ass at love. Bad choices like Sky, but he picks douchebros, and I pick women who—Oh, no, when did inside voice become outside voice? It did, didn’t it? Inside words are outside words. Stop talking, Henry. Stop,” I say, unsure which words went out and which stayed in. “I stopped dating. I’m spicy celibate, not an incel. Women want me, I don’t want to be wanted, but I miss being touched so much. Still, no, thank you.” I fall into blessed silence. Yikes.

“Oh, shit. Sorry about saying ass, Kait.” Spicy slurring makes spicy honest even worse. Spicy yikes. “Errrr, and for saying shit. Oops. Now I said it twice.”

“You can say ass and anything else to me, Henry. I’m a safe space. I’m your safe space. If you can’t tell me, who could you possibly tell?” She doesn’t ask hard questions, instead shifting to my brother. “Sky’s into men? He’s the younger twin, right?”

“Right. Yes. Killian’s like seven minutes older. Sky had a very spicy breakup with his cheating fiancé—that’s why we went to see oily muscle hunks with names like Nut-meg and Cum-in, pun intended, I think, take off their clothes. Julian said it would cheer Sky up. Pretty sure Julian wanted to mess with the rest of us—except my sister, Saoirse, she was really into it—knowing our suffering would cheer Sky up more than dancers.”

I wander to the kitchen, where I guzzle a glass of water, then strike gold, grabbing a cold green bottle from the fridge and popping the cap.

“Henry, what did you open? Did you open a bottle?” Spicy concerned, she is. Thinking like Yoda, I am.

“Yup!” I’m popping my p’s all over the place tonight. “Yup. It’s spicy water. The good stuff.”

Kait groans. “What kind of spicy water? Is it beer? Tell me it’s not beer.”

“It has minerals, in a green glass bottle. It’s sparkling and natural, Kait. It’s from the Italian Alps. Spicy fancy.” She says “fancy” all the time, and now she has me saying it.

I stop drinking to stifle a burp. Kait’s laughing again. Spicy rude. “Anyway, Julian bought front-row seats because he’s him, and I got Cinnamon sweat on me.” Not the fun kind of sweat from other people. I could’ve had the fun kind, but I wanted to talk to Kait. She doesn’t need to know that I declined kind and generous offers this evening. She might think I’m defective. “I’m not defective, I promise.”

“Henry, you’re anything but defective.” She has no idea. “Did everyone have fun? Did Julian enjoy the havoc he wreaked?”

“Yes, but it’s okay. We ran out of cash, and they gave him back.”

“You got who back? Julian?” Kait asks.

“Julian Spice.”

“Ohhhh,” she purrs. “Tell me more, Henry.”

“We got Sky spicy tipsy. Cayenne and Poblano and Ancho were very nice, and Sky got his picture with each of them and then one where they had him lay across their laps. He was grouchy like Wells at first, but tequila and Julian Spice got onstage, and Sky laughed and said the pictures were going on his Facebook page because he’s still friends with his ex and Ginger—Spice Man, not Girl—heard him say that, and they were all like ‘ooooh, girl’ and ‘we’ll make that filthy byotch rue the day’ and took so many pics but only kept the ones where they said Sky looked fu—” I drink more water. “—F hot. You know, extra-spicy hot.”

“Fuck hot. I’m familiar with the term, thank you,” Kait says.

“Sky told them about the books he makes better. McQuillington and the yum books, errr, mmm-mmm books he wants to make?”

“Mmm-mmm books? Do you mean Schuyler wants to make MM books, Henry?”

“That’s it, the MM books. The dancers said they should be called mmm-mmm good books; I guess they all read them on their tour bus. Anyway, we didn’t get drunk. Drunk implies falling down and generalized sloppiness, and we only fell down once, but it was spicy funny because we squished the big bad FBI. He screamed like a little girl. The CIA stood there and did nothing. Well, that’s not true—he prayed for spicy strength to deliver him, but we had a driver. The Uber guy said if we puked, we were cleaning it up, but we weren’t sick. We tripped, and Killian and Julian wandered off with some bachelorettes—the wedding kind, not the game show—and barely even said goodbye. Spicy rude.”

I’m overdressed for bed. Belt off, pants off. Shirt off. Oopsie.

“I’m so confused,” she says. “Bridesmaids?”

I make a yes noise. It’s hard to talk and hop to get my socks off at the same time. “Henry, what on earth are you doing? Is Chicago experiencing earthquakes?”

“Stripping down like a Spice Man, but I’ve lost half of you. Now I’m on the floor, trying to find you. Kait? Kait, where are you? I should have unbuttoned it instead of pulling it over my head, oopsie.” I’m thirty years too old to kneel on hardwood.

“Maybe I’m in your shirt. Have you looked there? Unless you swung it around like a lasso and threw it across the room, Spice Man.” She seems confident. I crawl to my shirt and pat it until I find her inside and put my earbud back in.

“How did you know?” Wait. Shhhh. Inside voice. “That’s exactly what they did at the show, Kaitypoo. Swinging their shirts around.”

Kaitypoo feels funny on my tongue, so I try it out a few more times. “Kaitypoo, Kaity poodle. Kait E. Poo.”

“Henrypoo, boxer briefs and concert T-shirt as per usual?”

Henrypoo? How does she come up with this stuff? “Briefs. I can’t put a shirt on. I’ll lose you again.”

Another giggle. It’s mine. I still have no idea what’s so funny. Hah!