Page 79 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Assholes, the lot of you!” I holler in front of Hunter’s desk, much to the amusement of our coworkers. “Every single one of you bet on when I’ll meet Henry? Et tu, Anastascia?” I’m trying to cover my embarrassment with bravado and giving them all a giant, heaping ration of shit. They aren’t fooled.

In order to have the closing-day celebration we wanted without breaking our NDA, we told everyone Friday would be my last day because I got into my master’s program. So it’s a congratulations, farewell, and good-luck party for me — at least until we tell them the truth. It’ll be their last day too.

And since the moment we made the announcement, I’ve been getting a ration of shit about Henry despite saying nothing about him.

“Yes,” Ana says, matter-of-fact. “Every single one of us, Kaitlin. It was ten dollars per entry, and no one could resist.” My coworkers are traitors.

“I said four months,” Hunter says, trying to play fair, since she actually knows the official date and time.

“Hah! You might as well have said never.”

Pixie pipes up. “Kait, I said eight hours, because I figured out how long it would take someone who speeds like you to get to Chicago, added in more bathroom breaks than is reasonable because you would have more coffee than a normal human, and it came up to seven hours and fifty-three minutes, so I rounded up slightly.” Then she hollers, “Hey, Hunter, Price Is Right rules, right? Closest without going over?”

Hunter yells back from the kitchenette, “Yes, closest without going over.”

“I bet on eight hours. Please pee before you get in the car. There’s a lot of money to be won.”

I laugh and relax, knowing that Ana placed a bet. It’s about as close to approval as you can get without a signed permission slip. Not that I need one, but it’s nice all the same.

“Friday, I’m bringing whatever cake Kroger has in the bakery and a couple of bottles of Martini and Rossi Asti Spumante because I need it sweet,” I say.

Pixie interjects, looking in Hunter’s direction. “Can I change my entry? I forgot to add time for the party after the phones roll to the drive time to Chicago.”

It’s hard to stand here and pretend this party is my going-away celebration, and that I’m not going to Chicago on Monday to meet him. I’m supposedly going to “look for an apartment.” Hmm.

Hunter nods. “Yes, sure, it’s common knowledge that she’s going to be at the party, so yes, change your answer.”

The attention makes me feel exposed, but really, what’s the worst that can happen between today—Tuesday—and next Monday? If anything, I feel relieved. When I found out Ana put ten dollars on when I’d meet Henry, all of my worries about disappointing her melted away. No worries about endangering the hive when the hive no longer exists.

The world is my oyster, etc. etc., and I could not be more excited if I drank a double espresso and mainlined some candy. I’m giddy. The days between now and Monday are going to feel like an eternity.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

KAITLIN

RULE #11: THE GIRLFRIEND EXPERIENCE IS YOUR BEST FRIEND.

I miss Henry. This is the longest I’ve gone without talking to him in forever, and zero out of ten do not recommend. Especially with him grumpy and short on time when we last spoke. Withdrawal is threatening. My hands are shaking enough that I have to put the phone down because it’s rattling my teacup. I need his voice to save me.

It’s Wednesday. I’ll be meeting him in less than a week. Just under five days. I’m overwhelmed with nervous energy, bouncing like a squirrel living in a Starbucks dumpster.

When his name finally appears as an incoming call, I lunge for the phone.

“Henry, three days is too long. I have so much to tell you, great stuff I cannot wait to share. Too much to text. I need to tell you everything.” I’m a bit of a kid on Christmas, ready for the big reveal.

Everything is going exactly right. Perfectly and wonderfully right.

“Hey, Kait.” His voice is the flat nadir to my ecstatic zenith. I’ve talked to him so much that I’m capable of identifying his mood in two words. I’d call this mood sad.

He stops and says nothing. After giving him a moment to speak that he doesn’t take, I fill the silence. “Henrypoo, have you been sleeping okay? You sound exhausted.”

“I have not been sleeping well. Better than last year, but I am, uh, stressed.” Is he sick? Is that why he’s been so quiet for the last few days?

“Are you home?”

“I just walked in the door. I was going to call from the car, but I wanted to give you the courtesy of my undivided attention.” Ewwww. The only way I would have flinched harder is if he had said, “We need to talk.”

“The courtesy of your undivided attention? Do we need to have a serious chat before I tell you the heaps of good things?” He’s a bit stiff. Nervous means more formal, more anxious means he’s precise in his speech, but when he’s really wound up, he doesn’t use contractions. If he starts talking like he doesn’t know what an apostrophe is, we’re in deep shit. It’s a Henry thing.