Page 87 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

He doesn’t answer, just glares at me until I speak. “I told her I couldn’t talk to her anymore. Wednesday.”

“Why?” he asks, shaking his head, crossing his arms, then uncrossing and dragging a hand through his impeccable hair. “Why would you do something so stupid?”

“I…” I don’t even know how to answer that. The things I said to Kait. I have such shame. The steel band around my chest gets smaller with every word I remember, my memory flawless when it comes to being the world’s biggest shithead. “I got scared” seems inadequate. I’m not sure there’s a way to explain myself.

“It’s fine. Call her right now. She’ll answer for you. Call her and tell her that you are the most idiotic fucking imbecile on the planet,” Julian says, his crisp accent taking on a sharp edge. “You’ll simply tell her you’re too stupid to live, but you might be redeemable. You’re sort of educable.”

He’s never spoken to me as anything less than a friend. Once in a blue moon, he talks to me like I’m his boss, which I technically am, but he’s never spoken to me in anger. Not until today.

He glares at me while I sit in my chair like a giant lump of worthless lumpiness, not reaching for my phone. He’s yelling and pacing, ranting as he picks up my phone and shoves it at me.

“Henry Sterling, pay attention. You will call our girl now and apologize for being a dickhead and beg. I mean now.” He slams his hand down on my desk, hard. I’ve never heard Julian raise his voice other than to yell across a bar to get someone’s attention or at a Blackhawks game, but there’s real heat behind his words.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? You’re sitting there like you’ve just shat yourself and you’re enjoying the warmth of it. Use your phone, you prick.”

He’s a big guy, and he’s so angry, and I can’t even say he’s wrong. If he hit me, I would deserve it, but it’s worse than that. Julian is profoundly disappointed in me.

“I’ve tried, Julian. Really, I’ve tried. I had no cell service on Isle Royale, and the second we left the national park, I started trying. She’s gone.”

“Email? Text? Fax or pager? Skywriting? What about the fucking 900 number that you found her on?”

“What are you talking about?” I play stupid.

Now he’s really yelling. At me. Pacing and pointing while yelling. I swear he’s channeling Kait.

“I’m not fucking stupid, Henry. I know you two were up to something shady. I don’t care if you slid into each other’s DMs on OnlyFans. I don’t care if you found her on 1-800-Hookers or she found you on chicagomansluts.com, where you were offering expert tonguing and high-pressure rim-job services. Or if you met in spanking classes or anal fisting 101 or at Sex Toys R Us. Whatever. I. Do. Not. Care. So, for the love of god and all things great and small, stop being so bloody fucking stupid.” He’s on an absolute tirade, waving hands in the air, jabbing fingers at me to emphasize how mad he is. “That woman, however you met her, was bloody in love with you. And you, despite being one of those annoying people who can be both incredibly smart and tremendously thick, were falling in love with her. You’re too big of a…”

He stops for a moment, contempt dripping from his face. “I don’t care how you met her. I care that you hurt her.”

I look out the window as he yells, wishing I were even smaller than I feel, while trying to formulate a defense that doesn’t exist. I lose track of what he’s saying, but the tone is enough. I sit, knowing I deserve it, and take it, wishing Kait were here to tell me off too.

“Henry, whatever this is, whatever happened, fix it. I don’t care who was wrong or who was right. You need to get her back, or you’ll regret it for as long as you live.” He’s pointing his finger at me and jabbing it in my general direction as punctuation every time he says “you.”

“Neither of us was on OnlyFans, and I’m definitely not into being fisted.” I try to inject some levity into the conversation and fail miserably.

“Fuck you, Henry. I don’t give two waxed ball sacs what you’re into. It’s just not funny. Whatever secret shit you two were up to, it’s genuinely of no interest to me. What is of interest to me is how you fix what you stupidly broke.”

He stops and looks at me with utter contempt. “We don’t even know how to find her?” He slumps down into his chair, puts his hands on his head, closes his eyes, and sighs. “You fecking idiot. You don’t even know her last name, do you?”

I slowly shake my head. I have nothing. Or I should say, I have the memory of Kait, because she is completely, irrevocably, undeniably gone. I’m waiting for him to go on another rant about my failings as a human, but he gets quiet and makes me open my present.

Julian tells me all about how the cheapest person I know overnighted the art and paid for stretching the canvas and framing. The painting wasn’t cheap. It is art with a capital A, not something from Amazon. It’s colorful and full of joy, and it radiates love. I’m not an art guy, but this painting makes me want to become one.

It does what a good painting is supposed to do—it makes me feel things. This beautiful piece—a multicolored heart brimming with bright colors and metallic accents—is the kind of thing that you give to someone you care deeply about. It’s the kind of gift that when you open it, you’re fully aware that it was thoughtfully and generously obtained with only you in mind.

Today, I know in my soul that she meant every word, and I am a fool. I hold the evidence. My frugal Kait bought a piece of art to give me right here in this office, and the silken cobwebs that are straining to hold the pieces of my heart together finally give way. I grip the painting, silent, wiping the tears away as I take in every tiny brushstroke.

I will myself to stop, but I can’t. I would be humiliated by my weeping meltdown, but I’m a vessel overflowing with pain, too devastated to care and too hurt to stop. The irony that I keep reaching for my phone to call Kait to talk, like I would anytime I’m upset or in need of comfort, is not lost on me.

There’s a small fingerprint in the paint near the artist’s signature, and somehow, that tiny detail makes everything a little more painful.

Julian excuses himself for a bit, giving me the privacy I need to collect myself, and silently returns with lunch that I don’t eat. I pretend to work, periodically moving my finger to make the screen saver go away but looking at the painting. I leave early. My afternoon schedule was, to my great relief, fictitious.

Like a whipped dog, I’ve been shying away from pain, but I can’t stand waiting any longer. I listen to the voicemail Kait left Wednesday morning.

“Henry, I cannot wait to talk to you as soon as you land. I have some great news and some extraordinarily good news, and then I’ll tell you the weird news. I don’t want you to freak out this weekend because stuff is happening—anyway, that was clear as mud, but I miss you desperately, and please call me, I need to give you the deets! Bye, sweetiepoo!” Her voice is chipper, and the happiness is obvious in every word.

Kait said, “I fell in love with you, Henry.”