Page 55 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

“Not that I would know anything about love, of course. I’ve been very clear about how worthless I am with all of that. No one wants me for the long haul, but I have been told I’m the ugliest Sterling, so there’s that.”

Henry tells me he’s shit at love, and I am falling so hard I can’t deny it anymore. When he’s in pain, I hurt. When he calls, I’m happy. When he’s too busy to talk, I pine. It’s pathetic, to be honest.

Because it’s love.

I love him.

If I were to list the top five most asinine things I’ve ever done in my life, falling for a caller would be my crowning achievement. I didn’t choose this. I’ve been in denial for months, but he’s got me, and he doesn’t even believe he can love me or anyone else.

Fucking perfect.

For the first time, I calculate how many months are left until I’ll move for grad school and leave this business. I’ll be free to love Henry. Well, free to meet him, or talk to him for free, or let’s start super basic: I can tell him my name and see where it goes.

It may go nowhere. He’s not exactly looking for true love.

“You know far more about love than you give yourself credit for, Henry. You take good care of the people you care about. I’m no authority, but caring is a huge part of being with someone. You’re also trustworthy and kind.”

I trust him beyond logic or reason. Last week, one of the women at the office stopped me to tell me how she had talked to Henry and how sexy his voice was and how she didn’t even mind getting him off because he was so charming. For a split second, I was filled with the white-hot pain of having my heart squeezed in a vise grip. I stood there for god only knows how long, pretending it didn’t matter. But I trust Henry, and he knows, without me ever saying a word, that a call like that would hurt me. I told her I didn’t believe her. She appeared at my cubby a few minutes later to claim it was a practical joke.

C’est la vie, more cookies for me, because she’s not my friend.

“You’re my human, Henry, regardless of how we met, and I want you to know how perfect you are.” He scoffs. A harsher sound than I’m used to from him, bitter. “My human, Henry Cujo, mine. I mean it.”

How do you show love by phone? Now, there is a question for the ages.

“Thank you again for helping me, for listening, for being in this thing called life with me,” he whispers, his words soft and warm.

“Of course. Henry, doing life with you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” I say, but inside, I acknowledge it’s the best thing I’ve ever done too.

“I know this is work for you, Kait, but even so, you’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know,” he says, his sincerity like a blanket, wrapping around me and warming me. “You got me to sleep when I was at my wit’s end. Everything is better since you’re part of my life. And the private line, being able to talk more, I can’t get enough of our conversations, even when they’re clean.” He says clean with a chuckle. It still surprises me how often we chat and don’t talk about sex. We laugh more than anything.

“I adore you, Kait.”

Swoon. Oh my lordy baby Jesus, I give up. I give the fuck up. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of acting like a calm, cool, and collected phone ho, because I’m so not.

“Henry, I would talk to you for free if I wouldn’t get fired for it.” Oh dear god. I’ve done it. I’ve lost my damn mind. Love? That’s crazy talk, but talking to guys on the phone for free, that’s batshit-level nuts, and I said I would—well, it doesn’t bear repeating.

Kiss my ass, impatient and selfish bitches of Chicagoland, this one is mine. You saw him, you had him, you didn’t see him for the absolute prize he is.

“I wish we’d met some other way, Kait.”

I’m going to quit worrying about how it’ll roll out. If he has bad breath, we’ll find a dentist. Terrible table manners? Etiquette coach. Farts a lot? Gastroenterologist. Whatever he is, whatever he looks like, whatever he smells like—within reason, of course—we’ll make it work. Orthodontist, personal shopper, housekeeper if he’s a mess maker, pretty much anything can be worked with, right?

I don’t expect those things to be an issue. I want him to be mine.

Mine.

If this is real, I’ll wait for-freaking-ever. I’ll revel in him doing a slow tumble into me, like I’ve slid wholeheartedly into him. It would be amazing to be completely clued in and watch him to catch up.

I can picture it. Henry turns to me, looks at me like he’s never seen me before without welding goggles on, his mouth hanging open in shock at his new clarity, and says, “Kait, I think I’m in love” or maybe something like “It’s love, isn’t it?” and I say something stupid and unromantic like “About time, babycakes.”

Geez, snap out of it. Delusional, that’s me. Positively delusional.

“Henry, baby, tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking about the women I’ve dated,” he says, taking a moment before finishing the thought. “I’m not sure any of them, even with time and patience, were meant to be the one.”

“How does that feel?”