Page 103 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

I was here early enough to buy them before someone else could. They belong with me. I’d be lying if I said I was making progress, but having four more pieces of art that feel like Kait is a good thing.

Tiny’s, well, not that small when she’s wearing heels. Her hair could star in shampoo commercials. I wasn’t even sure it was her until she bit her lip to stifle a smile. Definitely her. It’s my friend who deserves a better nickname.

My skin prickles as her gaze follows me, piercing. I’ve grown accustomed to her attention, but we never make eye contact. I glance back at her, locking eyes. She’s upset. Her friend is pointing at the painting I’m looking at. It’s called Without, after the song “With or Without You,” U2’s biggest hit.

Tiny is nodding and swiping at her tears. And her friend is giving her a huge hug. Like a switch has flipped, she’s delicate again, like she was the first time I noticed her. I resist the random urge to shelter her, to protect her. Not my place.

They are too far away for me to hear their conversation. There is music overhead, but my internal soundtrack turned into excruciating silence when I decided to say goodbye and hasn’t recovered aside from an occasional song.

I listen to podcasts now.

They don’t fill the blackout, but it’s better than silence. So it’s a surprise when the music in my mind drowns out the sounds of the coffeehouse filling with art lovers. Tom Odell’s “Another Love” started out barely audible but quickly intensified. If this is my subconscious telling me I should ask Tiny out, it can take a hike. I’m not doing it. I’m not ready. I don’t need a substitute for Kait, no matter how attractive the woman may be.

The music in my brain grows louder with every beat. The most intense part of the song is repeating, again and again, and each time, the volume ratchets higher. I focus on the painting in front of me—Have a Little Faith In Me—and I know the song, but the music in my head is deafening. I can’t summon the melody over the cacophony.

My soundtrack has been quiet, contrarian, silent, annoying, sad, and even punishing. One thing it has never been before is booming. I resist the urge to cover my ears. The sound is inside me, and my hands will do nothing to change it. It’s neither the intro portion of “Another Love” nor the part where he starts belting it out. No, it’s the part at about 2:55 where he’s just pounding the song out on a grand piano. It’s lightning to my cerebral cortex, intense to the point of pain.

With the volume in my head already at levels The Who aspired to pre-hearing aids, Stevie Nicks layers over Tom, belting out “Silver Springs.” The part that guts me is the line about I would have loved you if you had let me. It repeats, louder every time.

I’m about to duck outside to get a bit of quiet when “Lucky Man” layers in, sneaking in under the thunderous Odell/Nicks concert. It’s an attack on my senses, the music throbbing like a migraine. I’m humbled by the force of it. For once, the universe and I are speaking the same language. Find Kait. That’s the message.

Last chance, Henry. Don’t blow it.

But “Lucky Man” isn’t in my head. Other people can hear it too. Am I sleepwalking through the most important moment of my life? I’ve never heard “Lucky Man” on the radio. It’s a lesser-known song on a great album, but it doesn’t get played in the States. You don’t hear it as background music or in the grocery store. Yet here we are. The song I said I would hear if I were ever lucky enough to meet Kait.

The universe is speaking, and I’m listening.

I get it.

I walk back to a tearful Tiny. Her friend is also crying, but she sees me coming and mid-conversation stops talking and walks away. Tiny looks at me like she’s waiting to be mugged but stands her ground, defiance in the set of her chin.

“Are you okay?” A single sharp nod. She won’t meet my eyes, instead locked on my shoulder.

“There’s a scene in The Princess Bride.” She flinches. I hesitate, then continue. “The Dread Pirate Roberts is going to kill Westley. He doesn’t beg or plead; he says ‘please.’ When asked why they should spare his life, he simply says, ‘True love.’ So here I am, simply saying please, will you help me find the woman I lost? She may be my true love.”

She stops inspecting my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. A few stubborn teardrops cling to her lashes, but no tears fall.

I have underestimated this woman, maybe because I always see her when she’s getting a kick out of my—admittedly minor—humiliation, or because I’ve never seen her without colorful smudges on her skin, like a kid with markers.

The chopsticks in her messy buns are paintbrushes.

Oh.

Damn.

She is Eóghann MacGregor.

She created my painting that looks like it was made with love and saturated with happiness.

“You’re Eóghann MacGregor, aren’t you?” I swallow. “The name. I thought… I thought you were a man.” She doesn’t confirm or deny.

I look at the walls filled with paintings over her shoulder. “Lucky Man” is playing, and the music in my head is a brutalist symphony. Before I can sift through the evidence, her voice, low and firm, interrupts my swirling thoughts.

She looks me in the eye, and I may as well be transparent. She frowns, like she sees me to whatever shallow depths I still possess. “Let’s pretend?” Her voice is as familiar as home, except it drips with disdain, like she’s wasting her breath on me. I nod in answer to her rhetorical question.

“If I could grant you one wish, what would it be?”

It is in her power to help me if she sees fit. Her question has weight and permanence. When I look into her eyes again, it’s as though she knows all of me and, reasonably, finds me lacking in every way that matters.