Page 72 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“ShaSha says you’ve finally found a decent human being and that she liked her. She’s the last person to say something nice about anyone you’ve ever dated, so that was a refreshing treat.”

I dash that thought away with a wave of my hand. “They spoke on the phone for a minute,” I say, making it clear that it wasn’t a real meeting. “I made the mistake of having a conversation with Saoirse nearby, and they spoke, had a great time ganging up on me, giving me a hard time.”

“Saoirse said she’s great, and you know how she is. She thinks everyone is suspect. I tend to trust her judgment.”

“It sounds like everyone should be suspect, given your seminar today,” I say. Deflecting. “But to be fair, Kait is highly likable.” It’s true, she’s adorable in all the best ways. Funny, silly, charming, delightful… the list goes on and on. “I’m just not sure that I’m a relationship kind of guy.”

“You’re a Sterling,” Lachlan says, as though that explains everything. “Being part of a couple is deeply encoded in our DNA. Haven’t you been paying attention? It’s the family blessing and curse.” He rolls his eyes and continues. “You find someone, use the magic words and say ‘let me love you,’ and bam, you’re stuck with them for life, never to be free of them expecting a frigging parade because they managed to clean their own toothpaste out of the bathroom sink or start the dishwasher.”

He laughs, amused at his own joke. He continues with a big, stupid, dopey smile. “No, seriously, pick wisely. I’m stuck with someone who steals my clothes, is unshakeable in their security about our relationship, even when I’m melting down, steals covers in the dead of winter, and puts dirty coffee mugs in the sink when the perfectly empty dishwasher is ready for all the dirty things. It’s pretty miserable being me.”

He says it, but I’ve never known anyone who could claim to be happier or more in love than Lachlan. He’s gone.

“And god forbid I skip a meal. The latest thing is keeping the Halloween candy bowl out and filled year-round so I don’t get hangry. Like Snickers therapy or something.”

I can’t help but laugh as he grumbles.

My brother is madly, deeply in love.

He’s got a terrible, chronic case of what Kait refers to as Princess Bride–level true love. And for the first time, I’m deeply envious, despite the fact that Lachlan’s been certain like this as long as I can remember. Why didn’t I find my soulmate—not that I think such a thing exists—in my crib like he did? They literally grew up together, climbing over the backyard fence to play together.

“And I don’t get hangry,” he finishes in a tone that suggests he actually believes that line of absolute hogwash.

I don’t remind him he’s been voted “Sterling most likely to be a hangry asshat” five years running. When he’s around, I order extra and encourage him to snitch food from my plate. It’s self-preservation.

A message from Kait arrives two minutes later. The ringtone is all wrong. It’s not The Verve. It sounds like—dear god, I have no idea what it sounds like. I check my phone. Spotify says it’s William Shatner of Star Trek fame doing a cover of “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” and I can’t help but laugh.

I love the effort she must have put into this prank with her “future bestie Julian.”

Kaity Babes: Call me when you have time. Miss you. Heart emoji x a bajillion.

I can’t resist. I smile. The stress of the conversation with Lachlan drains out of my neck and shoulders. There’s no scamming here. I’ll pay for that text at the end of the month. It’s a transaction, but it’s also so much more.

I text back a thumbs-up and send her a song from Spotify. “It’s a Small World,” the Disney ride earworm that tries to destroy your soul. I’m ruthless like that.

There is no us, but I truly believe there can be. Will be?

She cares. That much is true. We are friends, but I’d love a shot at something more. Something wonderful.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

HENRY

“LOVE IS BLINDNESS” — U2

I’m missing her tonight, and my insomnia is acting up. We’ve settled into bedtime calls every night—just not tonight. A friend of hers is going to be on TV, and the phone girls are watching it together. I got dinner upstairs at the bar like I always do when I’m in Dublin, some to-go sticky toffee pudding, and I’ve settled into my room for the night.

It’s bedtime, but I’m wide-awake, staring at my laptop. I want to see Kait’s friend. I like the idea of seeing part of her real life, even by proxy.

The theme song plays while the words The Girlfriend Experience appear on the screen. “Tonight, we are speaking with Chad”—they flash to a middle-aged, average-looking guy, dressed in frat boy chic—“who says he was scammed out of three hundred thousand dollars over ten years by his girlfriend experience. That is what high-end sex workers call their premium offering. It feels real, right down to exchanging birthday presents and vacations in French Polynesia—complete with couples massages.”

This sounds fascinating. I grab a beer and settle in. Scammed. Why do I suspect the use of the word is inaccurate, given he got the sex he paid for? And French Polynesia with Kait? Sign me up. Right now. Take my money, please.

Kait’s voice is in my head. “Henry, Tahiti is lovely this time of year.” Then she would spin a tale of a week of hot sex in an overwater bungalow. I smile, imagining it. What more could a guy ask for? Aside from a woman I can see. Or touch. Or taste.

The commercial ends, and the show starts with Chad walking alone, an undisguised attempt to make the viewer feel sad for the poor guy.

“The girlfriend experience is the pinnacle sex worker offering: high-end sex for money that feels more like dating for the discerning client who can afford something special. This simulates emotional attachment and, for some of these men, may simulate it a little too well.” Chad’s face is on the screen, with a chyron that says, “Man Spent $300,000 on Sex.”