Page 92 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Thank you,” I say, sincere. “I’m ready to believe that too.”

Our time together reminds me that I have the best friends and family a person could ask for. I didn’t realize that I needed that, but I did. Our junk food intervention weekend comes to a close with Jessica implementing new rules—Rule #1: Kaitlin must leave the apartment daily. Followed by Rule #2: Kaitlin is worthy of good things, even ones that cost money.

I resist, but Jessica knows me. Tuesday arrives, and I received a text telling me that my tea was ready for pickup at the Other Bean, the coffee shop in my building.

Sigh.

I ignored it. I was going to let it sit there unclaimed, but the waste of at least five dollars rankled until I put on clothes and wandered down.

It was excellent. It’s easier to screw up tea than one might think, but this tea was perfect. I sat for an entire ten minutes in the shop sipping before resuming my hermit ways.

The same thing happened the next day because it worked the first time. At 7:30 on the dot, I was notified to collect my tea. By the end of the week, a routine was established. She sends in my tea order, I Venmo her money, a wellness check that we can both live with. I put a cute little note with the payment. “For your kindness” or “best tea ever” and sometimes “I made a new friend.”

Duncan Campbell-Scott, one of the owners, clocks my regular visits and decides we should be friends.

“Come here, wee Kaitydid, give us some sugar.”

With a Scottish brogue thicker than the cream in my tea, this man, pure Scot that he is, was not going to let a name like Kaitlin MacGregor go by unmentioned. When I volunteered my middle name, he boomed with laughter and declared us instafriends. We are now hugging friends.

“Do we have to?” I protest, but with a smile. He knows I don’t mean it.

“We must. It’s essential to start the day off properly,” he says. “Now, come and give me a squeeze.”

He wraps me in his big arms and pulls me into his chest for a legit, full thirty-second endorphin surge. I love it.

“Isn’t all better now, wee Kaitlin?”

“Absolutely,” I agree with a grin. “Thank you.”

Duncan is responsible for the fun T-shirts that the staff wear. Today’s is “Caffeinated for your Protection” with the Other Bean logo on it. It’s a coffee bean stick figure next to a giant silver bean. I approve. I like the nod to Kapoor’s Bean downtown.

I take my napkin and do a cute little stick figure of a coffee bean, flip it over, and give it a cute little booty with the bean seam for a butt crack. Then I label it “Instant Human, Just Add Coffee” while I wait for the fun to begin.

I sit in my preferred squishy chair and wait for the entertainment. Tea, hugs, and unbeatable people watching. When the staff isn’t busy, we make up background stories for customers. Bertilda with the coconut milk half caff? She was released from prison after her lawyer discovered proof that she was not the serial bank robber “Topless Trish.”

At 7:45, he comes in. He’s not new; he and Duncan always hug like friends and chat a bit. Some days, he looks like a Burberry model. I’m cheap, but I can spot expensive things across the room. He was in soccer shorts and a sweaty Blackhawks shirt once, and I was here for that too.

He’s a CIA operative undercover as a coffee-swilling Burberry model. No, Secret Service. He strikes me as more the protection detail type, the way he occasionally shows up in a dark suit and sunglasses with his hair neatly trimmed.

My bits are officially awake. It only took a few months—three to be exact—a lot of painting, some therapy sessions, and a whole lot of nights spent reading romance novels until the quiet of my solo apartment became my new normal. Normalish, anyway. I don’t want to date; I have no interest in putting myself out there right now, but I’m still a sucker for a bashful man. That’s never changed, and for all his good looks and style, Mr. Coffee rings all my bells.

Mr. Coffee waits for his medium Americano, extra cream with four sugars, and a large black tea with soy milk. He’s A+ quality bashful, which turns my crank hard. Sometimes he blushes when they shout out his order, and I want to fan myself. Fire. Whew. One day, I’m going to talk to that man. Not today, but one day.

One of the baristas bellows, “Americano, extra cream, four sugars, and an Irish Breakfast with soy for Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.”

I giggle-snort into my tea. He blushes, and I stare at my cup so he won’t catch me looking at him. Something in me lights up, the same feeling I used to get when Hen—when H.F.S. made me laugh.

Last week, his orders were for Snoop Dogg, Martha Stewart, Elf Lord, and SpongeBob. He didn’t grace us with his presence on Friday. Sadness.

The staff takes delight in yelling his name of the day—louder than they’ve ever announced anyone else’s—while Mr. Coffee waits. He and Duncan exchange a few quick words, and he’s off. He never lingers like I do.

He isn’t doing this himself. When the order was for Brad Pitt, he rolled his eyes, and the next day, when it was Jennifer Aniston, he smiled and shook his head. I predicted Angelina on day three and was proven psychic.

I kind of miss him when he’s gone, but I get out of bed every day because there’s a better than 50 percent chance he makes an appearance. He’s always a good sport, a wisp of a smile tugging at his lips as his ears turn red. I enjoy the Groundhog Day moment. Our eyes never meet, but each day is the same, only the name changes. The routine has helped me baby step back into human connection. Noticing men feels safe.

Duncan pops over and sees my napkin doodle. Hugging Duncan feels safe too. Maybe because his interest in me always feels like pure friendship.

“What’s this?” he asks.