Page 90 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“The simple answer is insomnia. I’d lie in bed and wish I could sleep. I started to paint. That’s it. I’ve been painting. A lot.”

Jessica makes a face. “Your entire life imploded in the course of a week in May, in good ways and bad.”

“Right.” I tick off a list with my fingers as I speak. “I lost my job and my work friends, got some bucks, got into grad school, and moved here. So much changed.” My beloved chair is piled with a huge stack of clean canvases. It holds too many memories, as he intended, but I can’t get rid of it.

“My dream came true, grad school in Chicago. I’m thankful, but I miss having friends.”

“You could try answering when the friends you do have call,” she says, her tone laden with snark. “Is this master’s degree worth it? Is this what you want?”

“I’m going to love medical illustration. I can do it from anywhere. I can travel the world and still work. Once I get started and meet people, it’ll be great.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Art has been my therapy. I paint it out, put it in my spare room, and move on. Kind of like when therapists tell you to write a letter, then stick it in a drawer, with fewer opportunities to use the words ‘fuck’ and ‘you.’ I also signed up for two summer classes.”

“What about Henry Fucking Sterling?” she says. I wince. “Sorry, I mean H.F.S.”

“He was a client. I was a phone sex operator. He paid to speak to me and chose to stop. The emotional entanglement was mine. And it was weird.”

I stand, walk to one of my easels, and pick up my cup of water and dirty paintbrushes. “I wish him well,” I say on my way to the sink. “Thank god I didn’t get in the car to meet him that day to have him cut things off face-to-face. Can you imagine the humiliation?” I fake gag. That would have been horrendous. Me, all pathetic, showing up all lovestruck, and H—him being over it. “I’m not angry. I’ve found acceptance, unless I’m in the denial stage and don’t know it.”

“That’s something someone on TV would say,” Jess says, taking the clean brushes from me. “I want the truth, not what you think I want to hear.”

“I miss him. He was a habit I had to unlearn,” I say, and the truth of my situation pours out of me. I’ve been holding back for so long that I’m surprised when it doesn’t hurt to talk about him. “We talked every day. He was the first person I called when I wanted to share good news. Now, I go days without thinking about him—as long as no one says his name out loud.” I swipe at my cheeks and give her a pointed look.

She has the decency to say, “I’m sorry. That was not my intent.”

“I love Chicago, but I can’t help but think there may be a day when I walk past him and recognize his voice. It seems safer to stay in. Anyway, I wish him well, and I hope he’s happy.”

“That’s it? I wish him well, I hope he’s happy?” She looks at me as though I’ve been replaced by an alien clone that is far too chill on the topic.

“That’s the downside of caring about someone, Jess,” I say as though she’s a child. “You want what’s best for them, even when it hurts.”

“You could try dating,” Jess says.

“I can also eat shit and die, but you don’t see me looking for a knife and fork. I owe it to myself to learn from this. I’m like one of the callers who think we’re going to run away with them, but I knew better.”

“Heather knew better too. She had outside contact, got fired, and had to drop out of school for a semester until she could get a student loan,” Jess retorts. “You’re far from the first to fall for a caller. You were just smarter about it than most and didn’t have outside contact. Huge difference. One is a security breach, one isn’t. Operators fall for callers every day. You’re allowed to have feelings.”

“I talked to Heather a few weeks ago. She’s going to graduate next semester, and she’s got a great job lined up,” I say. “Come on, I want to show you my art therapy program.”

I tug her toward my spare bedroom, where paintings go to dry and be ignored.

“Well, fuck a damn duck, Kaitlin,” she says as she looks around the room, shocked.

The room is empty except for bare hardwood covered in stacks of canvases. They’re leaning against the walls, piled in the closet and every corner of the room. They range from two inches by three inches to the one she’s staring at, which is three feet by four feet.

“The less you sleep, the more you paint.”

“This is unreal. The detail on this one is stunning.” She gestures at one with her foot. “There are so many.”

“I know, right?” I say, pleased. “I was getting deliveries constantly because I was blowing through canvases and paint, but too lazy to cart them back here. Now I buy cases, but to be fair, some of these I did in Columbus.”

“Kaitlin, I can’t tell if this is a photograph or a painting without getting close enough to see the brushstrokes. You’ve always been talented, but this is extraordinary.” She’s uncovered the largest one, a not-quite-faithful recreation of a certain famous photo with a chair. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done, but it hurts.

“I’ve been practicing. It’s not a faithful copy. He, uh, you-know-who—H.F.S., I mean—has that chair.” I point at the man’s knee. “See here my toes are peeking out? I always envisioned us in his chair. His head isn’t tilted down in the original, but I imagine he’s looking down at me with affection. I don’t know what he looks like, so we get his black hair.”

“What are you going to do with it?”