Page 98 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“That’s the first thing you think of when you hear the name Henry Cavill?” Elliott deadpans. “Sherlock Holmes? Not his perfect butt?” he asks with a bawdy wink.

I thank him and try to escape.

A closer look at my cup sends a little jolt through me. It’s not the usual white paper; it’s got Eóghann MacGregor art, a series of hearts. First mine, then a few more demonstrating a slow-motion breaking down before rising again from the fallout like a glorious multicolored phoenix. My knees get weak, and I lean against the counter until I’m sure that I won’t crumple.

And in the least expected development of the day, hope rises up. Wild. Untamed. Gut-wrenching. I’ll be here for the opening party, even if I have to walk over flaming coals and shards of glass barefoot. I’d crawl through hell to find her.

I don’t dare mention it to Julian. I just put it on my calendar in all caps and set two calendar alarms. We no longer talk about Kait because it reminds him of how angry he is at me for ruining his “girl bifff” coming to town. He’s not wrong.

If I could find Kait, even if she doesn’t want me, surely she would want him. That would please him, and maybe we could be like we used to be.

All of us.

The days pile up and stretch into infinity. I thought about asking Duncan for the artist’s email, but it’s far easier to negotiate in person than by email. If he says no from afar, it’s hard to argue, but I’m persuasive for a living, so I decide to bide my time, even though waiting is dreadful.

For over a week, time moves backward, wrapping me in barbed wire and calling it hope. Then suddenly, I’m standing in the shower, getting ready to meet Eóghann.

I put on one of my lucky ties and out of pure desperation ask Saoirse’s opinion on my most impressive outfit. If I radiate professionalism and good taste, Eóghann might be more inclined to humor me. I get a haircut. I shave. I wear what Fashionista Sterling tells me. I polish my perfectly shiny shoes, and I even pop a mint in my mouth on the two-minute walk to the Other Bean.

My phone rings. Julian.

“Where are you? A bunch of us are going out tonight to watch the game at the pub,” he says.

“The Other Bean.”

“Grab your beverage and come on over.”

“I’m staying in tonight.”

“You’re out now. You stay in every night. Come with us.”

“Let me think about it,” I say. I’ll probably need a drink later, when this whole wild goose chase crashes and burns. “I’ll try to stop by later.”

Julian grumbles but finally says, “Come by, mate. It’ll do you good.”

I check my tie in the reflection of the door, and like every day since I first saw it, the sight of the poster makes my chest tighten until it squeezes the wind out of me with traitorous hope.

This is a long shot, Henry. Don’t get too excited.

“Americano, four sugars,” I say. Elliott thinks nothing of it when the name I give is boring old Henry rather than Keanu Reeves or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

The Other Bean couldn’t be better for displaying art. High ceilings, long runs of neutral walls begging to be filled, and heaps of natural light. Even now that the sun is going down, it’s perfect. I spot four big heart paintings from the doorway. They’re lined up next to a print of my painting.

“Here’s your coffee,” he says. “Enjoy the art.”

“Do you think I could have the poster from the door when the event is over?” I ask. “I would happily pay for it. Or maybe I could order another one if it’s an imposition?” I know it’s a bizarre thing to ask for, but the barista seems unfazed.

“Sure, whatever. Come get it tomorrow,” he says with a shrug. “I think there’s a second one in the back, still rolled up in its tube. Ask Duncan.”

My coffee is too hot to drink, so I blow on it. My cup has a heart and Eóghann’s stylish signature in silver, large and scrawled over the art. The place is transformed, the blond hardwood and beige walls a background for the eye-popping art. Every bit of wall outside of the seating area is either covered in framed paintings or deliberately provides white space for a dramatic display of the big hearts that caught my attention. The tables and chairs have all been shunted to the side; I stand and take it all in.

There are dozens of small hearts arranged across the wall by color. The first are cold hearts, gray and black, pain radiating from the delicate brushstrokes. Then more industrial steampunk stuff with lots of charcoal and graphite and snow white and an occasional rivet with rusty metal, followed by more grayscale, but these grays are warming; the most recent ones have orange and hints of red mixed into the charcoal, and then there are a few where color has really slipped back in. Bits of fuchsia sneak in on the last one.

Maybe Eóghann will tell me how he found hope in the darkness. The hearts seem to be walking a mile in my shoes, traversing happiness, devastation, and recovery. I’m not an art guy. I can’t stand in front of a squiggle-filled painting and say something pithy like “This is such an informed take on the rise and fall of humanity” when it looks like a cat got carried away in a yarn store. But this? Eóghann’s work? It’s like having someone examining my soul and putting it on canvas. I’d want every single piece if it didn’t hurt so much.

“Irish, how are you and your shite Irish whiskey?” Duncan asks, pulling me back into his small office. Duncan has become a good friend over the years, one cup of coffee at a time, despite his Scottish ways.

“Fine, thank you,” I reply. “I decided to check out the art tonight at your recommendation. I’d have a drink, but why waste calories on something as useless as Scotch?”