Page 85 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Her voice nearly doubles me over. “Henry, baby cakes, sugar nookums, call me when you get off the plane. It’s been 8.77321 hours since we talked. I have a secret: I’ve missed you desperately. Oops, not much of a secret now! If you’re home at a decent hour—or even an indecent hour—I’d love to hear your voice.” I bury myself in putting my desk and documents into the so-clean-it-looks-like-nobody-works-here state that Julian expects from me.

I’ll wonder about her good news for the rest of my life. What was it? I’ve called dozens of times in an effort to find out. Each time, someone different answers, and they all say the same thing: there is no Kait here, and then they ask me what turns me on. Kait would be appalled. I hang up when they don’t know her.

“Which drink is mine, or do I get two?” There are three drinks on his desk and a box of cookies. I hope the extra is mine. I’ve spent more time thinking than sleeping the last few days.

“The Americano.”

I take it and make intentionally annoying slurping noises. “Can I have a cookie?”

Julian stares at me. “No, later.”

“How much later?”

“Never, if you keep asking questions.” Such a sweetheart.

“I don’t like surprises, Julian,” I grumble. It’s not true, but I have the overwhelming urge to complain about something, to think about anything other than how much I want to curl up in a ball and be numb.

“Nothing like that,” he mumbles. “A friend stopping by and a birthday snack.”

That’s not suspicious at all.

He keeps working, and when Martha Stewart would feel comfortable serving a six-course brunch directly off the floor, he starts shredding documents. I pretend to work for an hour, even though he can see me losing at sudoku as he works around me.

The third coffee has long gone cold, and Julian’s frowning at it. “Have you talked to Kait today?” I flinch at the sound of her name.

“No.” I don’t elaborate.

“Have you heard from her at all?”

“No.” I’m a lawyer. We volunteer nothing; we only answer the question asked.

“The last time you talked, was she okay? I rather thought we would speak today, your birthday weekend and things being what they are.”

“Things being what they are?”

“You know, the planning of things.” He waves a hand in the air like he’s turned into a fae queen, wishing and magicking shit into existence.

“No, Julian, I don’t fucking know,” I snap. I have a tone, and it’s a dickhead tone. “Perhaps you could use these things we call words to tell me about the planning of things and things being what they so obviously fucking well are not.” I’m being shitty, but the cookies, coupled with the extra cup of coffee sitting on the edge of his desk, feel ominous.

Julian’s face is the picture of complete shock. I don’t think he’s ever heard me use a curse word. Still, I have to give him credit because he tries again. “How was Kait when you talked to her?”

“She… she was okay,” I say, taking care to omit the “she was fucking sobbing” part of the sentence. “We didn’t talk long.”

“If you called her last night after you got home, I can’t say that I blame her. You were really late.”

I start to work up the nerve to confess, but he speaks first.

“Will you call her?” he asks. Then, in a soft and quiet voice, he says, “I’m worried.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, just busy,” I say, blowing him off. He must recognize the liar in me; he gives me a sharp look, then fiddles with his phone. He starts one of the playlists Kait made on the office sound system, and I ponder the window closest to me and whether it might open enough for me to fling myself out of it to the concrete below, putting an abrupt end to this shitty day.

“Why is she putting the Stevie Nicks hex on us? Remember the TikTok I made you watch with Stevie hate singing at the guy with the weird hair that Kait sent? She put like five versions of that song on this new playlist. And this masterpiece called ‘The Henry Poop Song’ is both disturbing and inspired. And ‘Say Something (I’m Giving Up On You)’? Not her style.”

I’m giving up on me too, sweet Kait.

“The guy with the hair is Lindsey Buckingham, and he’s a founding member of Fleetwood Mac.” I don’t make eye contact; I keep fiddling around with my computer, pretending I’m busy. “They used to be a couple back in the day and have a love-hate thing going, but they make too much money together to ignore each other entirely. Which is why they sing their songs at each other, like they’re still punishing each other decades later. Because they are.”

“Oh. Life is too short for that nonsense. Oh, look, she put some old Take That on this Henry Sucks playlist, ‘Back For Good.’”