Page 82 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Hunter looks at the phone, looks at me, and makes a silent WTF? at me. I shrug.

I log in to the phone system and desperately pray to the phone goddess for a call before Hunter can interrogate me. The deities grant my wish, sort of. I get a bitter guy dumped by his girlfriend. He keeps saying, “You wouldn’t understand. Someone as hot as you would never get dumped.” So my respite comes in the form of a reminder that I have been unceremoniously shitcanned. We didn’t break up—we were never a couple—I’ve been fired. My services are no longer wanted or needed. Guys quit calling all the time. It’s not an airport; no need to announce your departure. I think that, but I would have been enraged if he’d ended things with a text or just not answered.

Next, one of my occasional callers, Anders, makes a grave error in judgment. Anders is working on his doctorate in pharmacy. He’s a regular, so I also know he’s been drinking too much almost every night. If he doesn’t focus and drink less, he’s going to end up with big-bucks, pharmaceutical-grade student loans and a job as a greeter at Walmart.

That’s not his mistake. Well, that is a mistake, but that’s not his big mistake.

“Hey, Kait, I saw a show about the girlfriend experience, and it sounds pretty cool. I want to try that.”

Oops. You want the girlfriend experience? Buckle up, buddy. I bitch him out for thirty-seven straight minutes about how he’s screwing up his life, needs to get his head out of his drunk ass, and quit wasting money calling phone sex using his student loans like a really good girlfriend would and hang up without giving him a second to breathe, let alone jerk off. I girlfriend the hell out of it.

I suspect the girlfriend experience wasn’t all he hoped and dreamed. Fancy fucking that.

I order food I’m not hungry for and log out of my phone to go stand outside and wait for the delivery, even though it isn’t due for twenty-five minutes. What are they going to do, fire me?

I have a six-hour reprieve before Hunter appears in the doorway of my tiny room, hands on hips and pissy. I become fascinated with my left knee, but she gets down in a squat and turns my chair until I don’t have a choice but to look at her.

“Why do I have the Henry phone?”

“He broke—” I interrupt myself. He didn’t break up with me. I take a breath and let it out slowly. “The man in question determined that we should no longer interact. He’s decided to take a more healthy approach to his life and will no longer be calling.”

“Henry Fucking Sterling broke up with you?” It comes out like a gasp of horror. “Did you tell him you were going to meet his weapons-grade douchebag ass Monday?”

“No, I promised I wouldn’t contact him.” I sniff. “Ever.”

“Start at the beginning. I can’t believe I’m going to say this about a caller, but Henry—he’s a good man. I can’t imagine him intentionally hurting you.”

“He said that if he kept talking to me, he would end up alone and lonely. I couldn’t have three more days because three days becomes three months, and that becomes ten years, and he mumbled something about almost a million dollars.”

I made a solemn vow not to cry at work, so I pull my feet up into my chair and press my eyes to my kneecaps. I manage it, barely.

“Fuck a damn duck.” A look of understanding crosses her face. I’m glad one of us has a clue. “What else did Henry say?”

“He said he would never get married or have kids. He would be lonely with the girlfriend experience, not a real girlfriend. We’ve never talked about the girlfriend experience, but he brought it up, repeatedly.”

“And what did you say?”

“Fuck me, my dumb ass told him I loved him,” I groan. The shame is real. “And it was just as weird as you would expect. I said, ‘I love you,’ and he went cold, like angry cold. He had his mind made up. It didn’t matter what I had to say.”

“Kaitlin,” she says, reaching out to hold my hand. “Did you tell him about the thing with Marin?” She looks stricken, the color draining from her face. “Have you seen it?”

“No. I mean, I told him one of my friends was going to be on the show and I was going to watch it with friends and pizza but that didn’t happen and I ended up missing our taco night because I had that bondage call that went on for four hours.” I sniff again, but I don’t cry. I’m too dehydrated.

“You need to watch the show, all sixty minutes of it. We can watch it together,” she says. “I think he watched it and freaked out. They talked about the girlfriend experience a lot, and I wanted it to be a surprise, but at the end of the show, I think one of your callers talked about you.”

“About me? What the hell?” I say, shocked. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You need to understand why this happened so you can forgive him. Henry is a good man. I fell a little in love with him that night you had strep throat and you two fuckwits watched The Princess Bride together and texted at the same time so you wouldn’t talk. He knows how to flex like a boss, making sure you didn’t lose any money taking a sick day. That man is a catch.”

I used to think so too, so I can’t be too pissed about her saying it.

“It doesn’t matter. I gave him my word—I promised that I wouldn’t contact him, so I’m not reaching out to him.”

“He’s got a day to call. If he doesn’t, it won’t matter, because I didn’t promise jack shit. I’ll call him and ask him if he’s lost his damn mind.” Jessica looks as upset as I feel, except I’m sad, and she’s pissed.

“No need. It’s over.” He’s not going to call, and I’m stuffed with grief that can barely be contained. I need to push it down so I can get through my shift. I can do almost anything for one day. “Jess? Promise me you won’t call him?”

I never call her Jess at work; it’s one of the ways we separate home and work, but I’m talking to my best friend right now, not a business partner.