Page 95 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I walk to the shop where Sad Eyes has commandeered her usual table. I need to come up with a new nickname. She’s happier. She used to look miserable and alone, but she was unafraid, almost fierce in her willingness to let people see her, even when sad. I’m always trying to disguise it. I find her steady improvement helpful, a reminder that one day I might, too, be happy. Stranger things have happened.

I’m not surprised when the staff laughs and one of them yells, and I do mean yells, “Americano, extra cream, four sugars, and a large Irish Breakfast with soy for Dolly Parton.”

I wait for it.

The tiny giggle.

There it is. For the first time in twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes, I smile.

She can be Tiny Giggle. She’s not petite, but she’s delicate, thin, and she no longer looks fragile. Her stifled giggles have me straightening my posture and a little more eager to face the day, but when Julian has done an especially good job of name selection and she does an outright laugh? Those days are worth the embarrassment. Hell, some days, this is the only reason I have to drag myself out of bed.

Her tank top is covered with a sweatshirt that’s too big and gapes at the neck to show all of the birdlike structures of her shoulders and collarbone, like a ballerina, delicate but strong. A baseball hat with a thick rope of braid coming out the back completes the what-adorable-looks-like look.

There’s a smear of silver on her right hand. Cake decorator? Maybe one of those cookie artists who makes the cookies that look like Starry Night? She has chopsticks jammed in her messy bun some days, so something food related makes sense.

Against my will, I sneak a second peek at Tiny. She’s opening her book, a smile curving her lips, and if I were a better person, I’d introduce myself. Get to know her. But I hurt people, and she’s perfect the way she is. I head for the door.

I’m halfway there when the brilliant poster in the entryway stops me in my tracks. With the door held open, I almost fall flat on my face. It’s the painting Kait sent me for my birthday, if it was heartbroken, on a poster advertising Eóghann MacGregor’s art. His art will be on display here, in this very coffeehouse.

I walk back toward the counter.

“Duncan, mate, will Eóghann MacGregor be here opening night?” I ask, shocked that it never occurred to me to reach out to the artist. Surely he’ll know who bought a one-of-a-kind piece of art?

“Yes, and we’ll be having boozy s’mores hot chocolates,” he says, pointing at the barista next to him. “Elliott’s in culinary school and will be making handcrafted graham crackers and marshmallows. You should come; it’s going to be great. No more naked walls—we’re going to liven this place up.” He nods toward Tiny and the display of coffee bean T-shirts behind her.

I nod. “I’ll be here.”

Eóghann MacGregor, the artist Kait bought my painting from, will be here. I can’t believe I never considered Eóghann a way to find her when breaking my word and googling every variation of Kait, Ohio State, tea, phone sex, and every other factoid she’s ever told me didn’t work. Trying to find her was a part-time job for a few weeks. I wasn’t good for much else.

On my way back to the office, I balance our drinks in one hand to put a quarter in an expired meter, a small kindness—the price of taking up space I don’t deserve.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

KAITLIN

Jessica is a space invader. I like it, but I can’t handle tiptoeing around half the night when she’s asleep on the couch. I willingly venture out into the wilds of Chicago and buy a bed for my guest room. I pick out some swoony linens: bamboo sheets, a supersoft chenille blanket, and a fluffy comforter. At the last second, I buy a set of stupid-expensive pillows in a “starter set” with four different lofts so she can choose her ideal density. And a good mattress. Not the cheapest one. A good one. Then I buy myself one, too, because I’m tired of the one I got as a hand-me-down in high school poking me with random springs.

I’m learning to value myself. This includes spending money, even if it makes me queasy. Jessica’s my best friend, and I enjoy her visits, therefore I’ll spend money for her to be comfortable—and wind up sitting on the floor, cursing with Swedish screws in tiny plastic bags on a Friday morning.

“Kaitlin, I’m starting some coffee. Do you want tea this morning?”

“What time is it?”

“7:15.”

“We should buy it, not make it.” Jessica looks at me like I’ve sprouted antlers. “I’ll take lapsang souchong. Can you send it in for 7:30?”

I dash into the shower, towel dry, and dress, complete with a messy bun that’s going to leave a ring of damp on my shirt, then tap my foot while she puts her shoes on at the speed of sedated sloth.

I’m making hurry-up motions.

“Is there an emergency? I haven’t seen you move like that…” The thought is as loud in my head as it would be if she spoke it. I used to sprint when his phone rang. The thought doesn’t hurt. Fucking finally.

“Come on,” I say, waving her toward the door. “We’re going to be late.”

We’re seated with our drinks when Mr. Coffee graces us with his presence. Soccer shorts and a compression shirt, be still my horny little heart.

“Ohhhh,” she says with a smile of understanding. “Did I facilitate a daily appointment with a hottie?”