Page 88 of 13 Rules For Fantastic Phone Sex

It was real. She was mine. And I made her promise to never reach out to me again.

The gut-wrenching sadness breaking over me in waves has me convinced that I’m capable of loving someone. Nothing short of love could cause suffering like this. I sit in my chair and stare at the painting. All I want is Kait, in any way she’s willing to tolerate me. “All I Want Is You” by U2 should be playing in my head right now, but the silence rages on while I think about all that I have lost, how it was all my fault, and all of the ways I let her down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

KAITLIN

The pounding at the door is like a jackhammer to my brain. I’m finally asleep, and some asshole ruins it.

“What the actual fu⁠—?”

Jessica’s standing in the hallway with a backpack and a rolling suitcase.

Well, fuck me with a rusty fork, Scooby-Doo. This is not a welcome development.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, dragging a hand through my hair, where it catches on a tangle. Shit, I must look like a hairball the cat dragged in.

My apartment is dusty and not unlike an art store that lost a fight. I pick up paint tubes and pretend that counts as having my life together.

She follows me. “You haven’t returned a call, text, or email in weeks. Ask me how I know?”

“You didn’t need to come to Chicago,” I mumble. “I’m fine. Thriving.”

“I did. I’ve never seen you look less fine, ever, not even senior year when you drank something called Hairy Buffalo from a bathtub on purpose.” Shudder.

“I was asleep when you started pounding on my door for what reason I cannot fathom. Of course I look like shit. You could have called.”

“I tried that. For two weeks.”

I glare, and then we side hug, with me trying not to morning breath her. I stare at her with less irritation and demand, “Why are you in Chicago?”

“Kaitlin, it was me or your mom. I can work from anywhere; she can’t, so here I am.”

“Fucking Christ, I’m twenty-seven years old,” I whine. “I’m getting a master’s degree. When do I get treated like an adult?”

She gives me a once-over. “When you return phone calls to friends and family?”

Asshole.

“Have you been leaving your apartment?”

“I leave all the time.”

“Oh? When was the last time you left? Mailbox in the lobby doesn’t count,” she says, smug.

“Thursday,” I mumble.

“Kait?”

I lock eyes with her and, in a voice I don’t recognize, say, “Do not ever call me that name again.”

“Right. Sorry,” she says. “Kaitlin.”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I’m fine!”

“You look awful. You have dark circles under your eyes…”

“What did you expect when you woke me up?”