Page 36 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Whatever.”

“Please endeavor not to fuck up your entire life for a caller,” she says. I try not to wince— and fail. “Even if he does have the perfect voice for smutty audiobooks.”

Glaring at my Henry phone does not make it ring. I give up. I’m done moping about him not calling. If he never calls again, it’s my own fault for pushing him. I’m in the shower—of course— when the opening notes of “Lucky Man” ring out, and I make like a human slip ’n slide, skidding out of the shower to grab it. I answer with my hair dripping and a puddle forming around my feet.

“Hi, Kait!” He’s… perky. “Life has conspired to keep me from hearing your voice.”

I put him on speakerphone, grab a towel, and dry off. “I was hoping you’d call. I need to apologize.” I wrap my head in a towel before biting my nails. Correction, I’m biting cuticle—there are no nails left.

“Apologize? I don’t understand?” If I were playing name that tone of voice, I’d say genuinely perplexed.

“I didn’t respect your wishes.” I mean it. “I pushed you until you consented, but you didn’t really want to.”

He makes a soft sound of affection before he speaks. “Oh, babes, if I had a genie and could rub a lamp, I’d wish to feel that way again. I did want, uh, that, but I needed a tiny push in that direction, to know it was okay with you.”

“So we’re okay?” I stand there, damp and cold, with my eyes closed. “Really, really?”

“We’re so much better than okay, babes.” He’s soft and gentle and so sweet. “We’re fantastic. Always, Kait. Always.”

“I’m… relieved.” I could weep with the flood of it coursing through my veins.

“Is everything okay?”

I make a squeak that sounds vaguely like a yes.

“Good. I’ve missed you so much. Saoirse called very bright and too early the morning after we talked. Massive plumbing leak at her place, and she couldn’t find the whole house turnoff valve, and the landlord wasn’t answering the phone, so I went, my phone got destroyed in the mess, my backup data didn’t repopulate.”

That makes me feel better about him not calling sooner.

“I had to google Bedtime Stories and talk to Janelle in the office to get your private number.” Janelle is Ana’s phone name for when she has to talk to callers about their accounts. “It’s been a mess. Literally and figuratively.”

His voice, warm and rich, never fails to make me smile. I’m so happy to hear from him.

“I would wait for privacy, but that may never happen, so I called while Saoirse’s distracted by designer things she can’t afford.”

He makes me believe in impossible things, namely that there’s hope for a single woman who wants a kind, decent man who is also sexy AF. Even one like me, who doesn’t want any of that.

“She’s on a rampage,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Could you make up a lawyer emergency requiring me to take my credit card and depart immediately? I told her I need new winter clothes; now I’m in Dante’s fifth ring of shopping hell. She keeps referring to it as a makeover.”

Stunned, I’m barely able to get the words out. “You’re shopping right now?” In public?

“Yes. I’m not sure I can take much more. She’s embarrassing. And no filter, you know how you tease me about never using foul language? It’s because Saoirse used it all up. There’s none left for me.”

“Where are you?”

“The Magnificent Mile. I’m supposed to know what something called vicuña is.”

If you’re not big on shopping, the Mile would be hell. “You’re in one of the best shopping districts in the world, and she’s spending someone else’s money, and she gets to play dress-up with her brother? You’re hosed.”

“It’s worse than that. She’s working on her master’s in insert-fashion-words-here-about-clothes stuff. She’s obsessed,” he says in a whisper. “We hadn’t even left the house, and she’d ordered three pairs of shoes and tried to throw away some clothes.”

“Did she try to throw away some old U2 shirts?” I can imagine that altercation.

“Yes,” he says, indignant. “She was rooting around in my concerts-attended T-shirt collection. The Waterboys, Simple Minds, U2. She’s a monster.”

A sweet voice interjects, “I heard that, Henrietta, and it’s an MFA in Fashion, Body, and Garment, fucker.” Oh. I like Saoirse.

Somebody puts me on speakerphone, and Saoirse says, “The things I put up with.” He’s talking to me, a phone courtesan, in front of his sister?