Page 93 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“It’s a stick figure coffee bean I drew.” I state the obvious with kindness. “As one does.”

“It’s adorable.” He steals it, and a few minutes later, he replaces it with a fresh cup of tea, so it’s more than a fair trade. I’ll draw sketches on napkins until I float away if I earn tea every time.

The rhythm and flow of this place soothes me. I’m happy—more than I thought possible when I arrived in Hyde Park—and much of it I owe to this place. The people here. And painting. I spend a fortune on canvases and supplies but regret nothing.

I’ve decided to start being open to the possibility of meeting people. Friends, for sure, men, maybe. Not actually meeting men—I’m open to the possibility of meeting one in the future.

I sneak a peek over the top of my cup as I sketch a cheeky coffee bean. This one is Donald Ducking, wearing a shirt and no bottoms. The bean’s adorable, but not gonna lie, Mr. Coffee is incendiary. He’s the perfect storm of high bashful and mega sexy.

I take a second to marvel at that thought. I’m me again. Looking at men. Wow.

I send a silent prayer to Priapus to send some energetic candidates my way. It’s been far too long.

I finish off my cup of tea and head upstairs to stare at the canvases I’ve lined up along the living room wall. In a fit of post-firing sadness, I turned his birthday present into a series. Oops. It served a purpose, but I’m beyond ready to wish these paintings well.

The first heart painting, his birthday gift, was full of joy, love and promise, and untamed hope. The tone took a radical shift after that monster of a day.

My phone rings as I touch up the final canvas.

“Hey, Jess. How’s tricks?” She’s working for Pixie, one of our employees, at a start-up phone sex business because our sales contract forbids the three of us from opening a phone sex business for two years. They never said we couldn’t loan a new, fledgling company seed money or work for that service.

“Great. Lots of moaning and begging. You know, the usual needy men,” she says. “You?”

“Finishing up a painting,” I say, reaching for my earbuds so I can keep working. “The final heart.”

“Oh, the H.F.S. series you showed me?” Her insistence on referring to him that way somehow makes the irritation lessen.

I grumble at her but smile at the memory of how happy I was working on that first piece. “The heart series.”

There’s no pain, no pressure in my chest when I think of him. I poke at the pile of paint on the paper plate I’m using for a palette.

I did a scan before I sent the first one to Julian. It’s almost as good as the original. The print, along with originals of an additional four hearts, brings the series to a close.

The first, his, is anatomical but with my old affection for a riot of colors.

The second heart is the same heart, now cracked, breaking apart. The color is seeping out, technicolor drops bleeding from the wounds, leaving behind gray and bone jagged edges while brilliant color collects below.

The third, a heart absent of color, has a silver mercury puddle tinted with bold, shimmering color below. It’s cold, like dirty ice, shattered and brittle, an impossible combination of empty and brimming with pain.

The fourth shows the heart shattered and crumbled into a pile of chalky pieces, a colorless heap that collapsed into the messy puddle of color.

The fifth is my new favorite. I love kintsugi, the Japanese idea that being damaged and repaired is part of the journey. In Japan, when valuable pottery is broken, it’s repaired with gold at the joints, calling attention to the repair. This heart is kintsugi but with silver paint calling attention to the mended joints.

“I’ve gotten my catharsis from these paintings,” I say, thankful. “It’s time to move on.”

“That’s great, Kaitlin. I wish that didn’t make me happy and sad.”

“My painting isn’t so terrible that you should be moved to tears.”

“Shut up and send me photos of the finished set,” she says, “I want to see them.” I hear her but put them in my spare bedroom to be forgotten. “Hey, I’m there next week. Do you have any interest in trying goat yoga?”

“Sure. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?” I ask. “I guess one could headbutt me in downward dog, but it sounds like fun.”

On second thought, I take photos of the canvases for Jess and send them to her before we hang up. I look out the window at the park across the street and reach for my shoes. I’m not afraid. I should start running again. It’s been forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HENRY