Page 94 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Julian is beyond organized, with too much time left over to manage me. I’ve recommended law school repeatedly. He could study in the office with his free time and get paid.

“Have you sent your mum her birthday flowers?” Julian is also bossier and nosier than he used to be. I’d be pissy about it, but it’s easier to do what I’m told. Henry, have you paid your bills? Did you eat? He orders groceries without asking me what I want, then tells me when to pick them up.

I did put my foot down and refuse to attend goat yoga, whatever that is. I don’t care how much he says it will cheer me up.

“Yes. This morning.”

Saoirse is different too. She threatened to throw all of my old concert T-shirts away. They’re “ratty and unbecoming.” I said okay, and for some inexplicable reason, she burst into tears and put them all back after folding them. I’m not sure what’s wrong, only something isn’t right. No one needs a spreadsheet of their wardrobe, but I have one now.

“You’re getting shaggy. I’ve scheduled a hair appointment for you this afternoon.”

Saoirse goes through my closet, assembling clothes on hangers for a week at a time, along with shoes and socks that match my things. She says it’s a throwback to the Garanimals era, whatever that means. It’s too much trouble to resist. I wear what she puts out for me, like a slightly more interactive version of a Ken doll she had when we were kids.

I run. Every day. Sometimes twice a day when my schedule permits. If I push hard, my thoughts can’t keep up. Eventually, I have to slow down, but there are a few minutes in there when all I know is the thud of my heartbeat in my ears and the burning pain of sprinting, and those moments are pure bliss compared to the rest of my days.

Mostly, I make up new endings.

Yesterday, instead of hanging up on Kait, I said, “A cruisle mo chroí,” because she was the beat of my heart, and she came to see me on that Monday as intended.

Today’s new ending is less ideal. Kait shows up in my office, but she likes Julian more than me. We joke about it at their wedding, and that doesn’t hurt one bit. The most outlandish one was a version where Saoirse and Julian loathed her, and things fizzled out quickly.

These alternative endings are a slippery slope. One tiny lapse in focus, and you’re wrapped in a down duvet, and she’s riding you, wearing chaps. It’s a giant can of worms with the label “PAIN” on the side.

Even my dick hates me. I get off when I can’t stand not to.

It’s quick. Perfunctory.

No one tells me I’m doing a good job. Kait used to. Not like praise. Like fact.

The thing is, I’m not doing a good job. It’s about as sexy as getting your oil changed, and about as exciting too.

I’m drowning in her absence, her promise of total silence like a gong in my ears. I pine for her. I miss my soundtrack. I long for the sound of her voice. I want to stop, but I can’t find my way back to my old life, the one before she changed me.

I wish her well, and the sting burns a tiny bit less.

Julian and I are sitting in the office when a ringtone cuts through the quiet. The notes of “Lucky Man” sound, and I lunge to my feet, patting my pockets, moving papers aside.

“It’s mine, Henry,” Julian says as I scramble for my phone, and he picks his up from his clean desktop. “I’m sorry, I’ll change that ringtone right away.”

He mouths, “I’m sorry,” as he walks away to take the call.

Logically, I know she’s never calling again, but still, I’m bent over in my chair, face in my hands, trying to slow my breathing. To use a Julian-ism, whoever said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all is a giant wanking tosser.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” he says when he steps back into our office.

I nod. It’s okay. It has to be okay, because it’s not going to change.

“It’s coffee time. Pick your poison: phone or fetching?”

He already knows the answer.

“Fetching.” If it were blizzard-like conditions, torrential rain, or blazing heat, my choice would be the same. We start our day early so we have more work hours in common with the Irish team. Our 7:45 caffeine is often the second round for the day.

Julian watches me for a beat too long before turning back to his screen. Something about his expression makes me groan. He chooses the names like he’s wielding a weapon or telling a private joke I’m not in on.

Being the one to fetch is different than doormatting. That’s Julian’s term for being too nice, often to my own detriment. I periodically grouse about going for a minute to make sure he continues torturing me with coffee pickup names. It’s a perverse game, but little does he know he’s played right into my hands.

Besides, counseling him about it would make him escalate.