Page 68 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

Oh hell no. Henry and Julian are perfect.

“I’ll get some coffee and treats delivered here,” he says, and there’s the scratching of a pen on paper as he takes notes. “I’ll make a reservation for lunch to follow if you’re having a nice time. If you aren’t, you leave and go about your day. What else can I facilitate in anticipation of your meet-incomparably-cute?”

“Well, there is one thing. I’m not sure if you can help,” I say, tentative. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass. I waited too long for his birthday. I need your help with some framing. I’m sending him a piece of art for the big day, and it’ll need to be stretched and framed. I can’t find a place in Columbus that could get the framing done fast enough—they all say two weeks or longer. Giving him an unstretched canvas is a little too close to giving him a tie and making him pay for Hamilton tickets to show it off. I could give it to him Monday to give you a few extra days since he’ll be gone for his actual birthday.”

I finished it yesterday, signing Eóghann MacGregor in silver paint with a tiny, delicate brush. I was going to sign Kaitlin MacGregor, since the cat will be out of the bag Monday, but the painting feels like a promising start to my art life. I need a professional name for medical illustration, and Kaitlin MacGregor makes sense for that, with Eóghann MacGregor for the side hustle. Eóghann is a weird-as-fuck name, hence, a good artsy one.

“Absolutely, I can do that. Can you overnight it? I’ll find a local place that can turn it around in time for his birthday. We’ll have more options here.”

“I’ll send the painting FedEx. Let me know what I owe you.” Henry’s worth spending some money, just this once.

“What else can I help you with, future BFF?” He pronounces it like biffiff, and I laugh.

“Is Wrigleyville a nice area?” I ask, tentative in my effort to sound casual. “You know, safe?”

“It is.”

“Is it convenient to the Near West Side?” I ask, trying to play it cool but failing. “If you were to commute?”

“If you were going to the Near West Side daily, say for graduate studies at UIC, I’d say Hyde Park,” he says, supremely irritating in his ability to read between the lines. “You’d be quite close to the Near West Side. It’s safe. The whole of Chicago is expensive, but it’s not obscenely expensive, and it’s a quick train downtown. There’s this great little coffee shop called the Other Bean,” he says. “It’s in the best part of Hyde Park with apartments above. Places are always available, some with parking. That’s where I live. I mean, Hyde Park is where I live, but not in that building.”

“Interesting.”

“You know, you should ask Henry. Don’t be surprised if his recommendation is the same exact address as his.” Julian chuckles.

“Thank you, Julian,” I say, grateful. “For everything. Hypothetically, I can’t wait to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure will be all mine. Oh, that’s not entirely accurate now, is it? Henry will be ecstatic.”

“I hope you’re right.” I try to sound confident, but I’m anything but. What if I’m not enough of one thing and too much of another?

“I can’t believe I’m going to get to witness it,” he says, gleeful, and I picture him rubbing his hands together like a bad guy in a cartoon. “Can I record it for posterity? I’m so tired of waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I ask.

“Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you,” Julian says, his accent crisp with the rebuke. “Waiting for Henry to figure out that he loves you. That every song you add to that Today playlist is a love letter. That you love him. That you two have something special brewing.”

“I don’t know about all of that.” I draw in a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm the anxiety or the pressure building in my chest. “There was a woman when he was in Ireland, and he turned her down, but he told me at least five times he knew I wasn’t his girlfriend, and I couldn’t help but think he was trying to kindly tell me that he wasn’t feeling it.”

“Then I gave you too much credit, thinking you were less slow than Henry, Lord Slug of the Clan McTurtle.” That makes me laugh out loud. Julian’s using my own smart-ass comments against me.

I’ve tried to forget, but Henry’s off-the-cuff comment months ago about our future still stings. “A while back, he told me he was ‘amenable to a friends-with-benefits situation,’ and I worry that is what he really wants. I don’t think he does, but shouldn’t he know better than me?”

Julian groans. “What an absolute plonker. He doesn’t mean it, Kait. He has no idea.”

“I think he knows exactly what he speaks, Julian.”

I’ve said I’d wait for him, and I meant it, but what if he’s never with me on this?

Julian huffs. “If you said to Laird McTurtle, ‘Yes, let’s be friends with benefits. Dating lots of men and meeting new people is just what I need in a new city,’ he would shit his knickers and beg on his hands and knees to make it exclusive. I promise, Kait. I’ll even solemnly vow.”

I do admire snark in a person. Julian is the cherry on top of my Henry sundae.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, as though he’s sharing a state secret. “Of course I bloody well can. He’s starting to figure it out, Kait.” He says it in a conspiratorial whisper, then stops talking. Silence. I won’t cave. I’ve had years of practice playing this game with Jessica. I can be comfortable with silence.

I’m not going to play his game.

I won’t.