Page 101 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“It is you here in the mornings drinking tea, isn’t it?”

I nod again. I can’t make speech work. I was warned about his luminous peridot eyes, but I’m transfixed.

“Could you help me or introduce me to Eóghann?”

“No.” It’s more a headshake. My lips move, but I’m not sure if I actually make a sound. I don’t elaborate, but my word has an impact. He’s… deflated. It’s a kindness, really. I’ve given him what he asked for, an absence of hope. The sadness in his eyes is not my problem.

“I am… I am deeply sorry. I should not have bothered you,” he says.

Is he wearing one of the quartet of ties I bought him? Fuck. It’s like a gut punch. “Please excuse me.”

It’s him. It’s fucking him. I missed his coffee cup. It says “Henry” in Sharpie because he ordered it himself. My heart is chattering away, and I want to run into the cold night air and curl up on the ground until I’m too cold to feel and nothing matters.

He moves away, and I will the banshee wail of “fuckkkkk” in my brain to stay inside.

There’s a tightness around his mouth and eyes, and his shoulders are rigid as he walks away. The loss of his smile hurts, even though it wasn’t real. It wasn’t in his eyes. He’s beautiful, almost breathtaking, but his eyes have no light, no sparkle. I shove the urge to comfort him down hard as he moves to stand in front of the first heart, then studies each in turn. He’s calm and studious, despite the way his jaw pulses, like he’s gritting his teeth. He pays particular attention to the information cards next to each work.

He turns to Duncan, who’s been standing nearby and watching our interaction with great interest.

“Irish, what’s up?” They know each other well enough to bro hug. Fuck me.

“I would like to buy these four paintings?” I never answered his question about buying them.

I don’t have anxiety, but I’m having trouble moving air, my heart hammering a staccato beat. I once thought it would take months to learn his expressions. I was wrong. His eyes say everything, speaking my language. I can read him like he’s mine.

Jessica sees me nearing total meltdown and walks over to the wall holding me up. “Mr. Coffee can be my ‘the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else’ guy any day.”

“There will be no getting under. Getting over is bad enough.” I say it with a grimace and swipe at my eyes, making sure there are no tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s him… he’s him, him, he’s him, and he’s here.” The words tumble out.

“Yes, Kaitlin, he’s hot enough to make speaking English as a first language challenging.” She rolls her eyes.

“He’s here.”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Him. Him.”

“I saw him walk in.” She looks at him and makes a lip-smacking noise. “He’s having a particularly fine Friday night. I’m a sucker for a man in an overcoat. That might be Burberry. Jesus, that man is hot, and he’s got that shy thing you like happening.”

“It’s Dior. Saoirse picked it out.” I sniffle.

“Who the fuck is Saoirse?” She looks at me, expectant. “Hey, are you okay?”

“He is him,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “The guy I used to talk to every day. From Chicago. Mr. Coffee is him.”

She squints a bit, looking at his face. “Henry Go Fuck Yourself Sterling? No. The headshot on that website was tasty, but not change-my-ten-year-life-plan hot.”

I nod, miserable.

“You’re saying that H.F.S, the Henry Fucking Sterling, is Mr. Coffee? One and the same?” I nod vigorously. “And you’re over here? Why aren’t you over there, with him?”

I shrug.

“Seriously?” Jess asks, incredulous. “What exactly did he say to you?”