Chapter 5 – Rule #3 Never talk about sex first.
CHAPTER FIVE
KAITLIN
I wish we had a bat signal or something. Maybe a cute little unicorn that glows when I want him to call.
I ditch my headset the moment my call ends and race to the front desk, where I grab a manilla folder and fan myself, swallowing the urge to retch before I say, “I need half an hour.”
Hunter looks up at me, concerned. She grabs the trash can and thrusts it at me. I think of puppy tummy rubbies and kittens. After a minute of breathing through my nose and sniffing hand sanitizer, I give the trash can back.
“Are you okay?” she asks, legitimate concern on her face. “You look like a pale version of Elphaba.”
“Fine.” I make a fake gagging sound and pretend to stick my finger down my throat. “Just spent some time with Ryan and Nancy.”
That’s all that needs to be said, and yet she says more. “Of all of the weird-ass shit we talk about, Ryan is your Achilles’ heel? Were you tortured with Spam as a child?” She looks at me expectantly, like I’m going to divulge some deeply profound truth.
“It’s not the Spam, it’s the Miracle Whip,” I say, then drop into a whisper.
“Miracle Whip is Dante’s sixth ring of hell, and you know how my mom is about wasting food.
She made it, and we ate it.” I steal the trash can back.
As far as childhood trauma goes, I had it really good because this is the worst thing I can remember.
“The Kathy would be so sad if she knew you’re emotionally scarred by her egg salad. Your mom is a prize,” Hunter says. Her mom, who we refer to as The Cathy, is too.
“Can we please stop talking about it? I’m going to go outside, touch some grass, and breathe some fresh air, literally. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Leaving my phone on her desk is a no-brainer.
There’s a small grassy rectangle that separates our building from the sidewalk lining High Street, where I kick off my flip-flops.
The earth is still warm under my feet, even though the sun is going down.
After a few deep yoga breaths, I put the trash can down next to my shoes and let the grass slide into my toe cleavage.
Cleavages? Anyway, it’s what I need. Monkey-style, I grab a few blades and let it go, repeating the motion while I inhale the welcome scent of a nearby freshly mown lawn.
I’m not entirely surprised when Hunter pops her head outside ten minutes later and says she has a request call for me. Scowling, I give her two defiant thumbs down until she says, “I’ll ask Henry to call back in twenty. Would that be okay?”
I slip my flip-flops on and push her out of the doorway when she doesn’t move fast enough.
“Quite the pep in your step there, Kait.” She laughs as I sprint past her desk, grab my phone, and head to my cubby.
She calls after me, “You forgot the trash can. What’s your hurry?
You’re only ten minutes into your break. He’ll wait.”
I turn around and fake glare. “Don’t you dare. My favorite palate cleanser has a sixth sense about when I need him. He’s coming to my rescue, a white knight on a cellular steed.”
Hunter rolls her eyes. “I put your honey bunny on hold. He can talk for a month or so, yada yada.”
I put my headset on, and poof, my day is exponentially brighter.
“I’ve missed you, Kait.”
His voice is warm and rich, and I melt into my chair. He sounds like a dream, and he might also trip my trigger a wee bit. A smidgen.
“It’s been too long,” I say, like it’s not the understatement of the millennium.
Irrational amounts of happiness occur when I talk to him.
Restraining myself from making a teenage girl–level squeeee when Hunter says I have a call is not normal.
Not that I want to change—it’s okay if I enjoy my calls at work. We just don’t enjoy our calls.
“It’s been a week,” he says, warm and far too sexy.
No, sir, it’s been eight long-ass days. We talk at least once a week, sometimes every three or four days if I’m lucky. Longer gaps like this are not acceptable.
“With anyone else, I’d ask what you’ve been up to since we talked, but you? I always need to get my bearings and find out where you are, Henry. It’s like Where’s Waldo but, hopefully, with better clothes.”
“Paris. France, not Texas or Las Vegas. And not a striped sweater in sight.”
“Thanks for that not-needed clarity, weirdo.” He laughs, taking my statement in the spirit intended.
“The Paris one can only find in France. I went on a high school trip and loved it. The macarons are a-maz-ing, who knew bread with butter could be a delicacy, and the art is to die for. Macarons and baguettes and the Louvre, oh my!” Putting my feet up on the edge of my desk, I lean back, close my eyes, and enjoy his baritone rumble.
“Mmmm, yes. French food. I had steak frites for dinner. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but I had a fantastic glass of red, and for dessert, a single perfect macaron.
Delicious.” He doesn’t sound sick from lack of sleep or particularly tired.
He’s giving well-fed man ready to be tucked in.
“I love spending a few nights here, abusing myself with the food. There’s nothing like a run through Paris late at night, when most of the city has gone quiet.
There’s fresh bread being made, and the patisseries will stop you in your tracks. They smell so good.”
More importantly, does he wear running tights?
I’d like to see that. Bad, Kait. Bad. Stop objectifying Henry.
“I’ve been terrible about making time to run lately, but would sprint for bakery scents.
” The part about being a cross-country runner in college remains silent; I can’t share that much of the real me.
“Stop teasing me, Henry.” The real tease is his voice.
It could be the foundation of a highly successful career in spicy audiobooks.
“Me? Never. I’d never tell you about the gelato I had yesterday. I know it’s Italian, but it came in a fresh waffle cone that only a Parisienne could have made. I thought I ordered raspberry, but fraise…”
“Means strawberry.”
“Exactly. Strawberry. It was delightful. It was dripping down my hand, and I had to lick it off because I refused to throw a single bite away. I wolfed it down, then sucked my fingers clean, and I’m sure everyone was looking at me in horror, thinking ‘uncouth American,’ but I was shameless.”
If he looks one-tenth as good as he sounds, it wasn’t horror—they were contemplating what else he can do with his tongue.
Bah. He looks like roadkill in July. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met on the phone, but he’s probably mean to servers and a bad tipper. Smells terrible, can’t forget that. BO City.
Shaking off the thought, I ask, “What’s your favorite place to go for work?”
“Good grandson Henry says Ireland so I can get a visit with my grandparents.” He’s a dream of a grandson, I know it.
“And when you’re bad?” Tell me all about when you’re bad, Henry. Haha. I stifle a giggle; I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Henry and I don’t flirt. We’re… friends.
“I really love New York and London at Christmas.”
“Solid choices. I mean, I’ve never been to London, but I can imagine.
My family wasn’t big on fancy vacations.
” I haven’t traveled much, only the one trip out of the country, unless you include Canada.
“I hope to travel when I’m done with my master’s.
I loved France except for the escargot. Ten out of ten would go back. ”
“Tell me about school, Kait? You’ve mentioned studying. Master’s degree?”
“Well, Kait is finishing her honorary PhD in abnormal psychology at this job, but I got my bachelor’s in psychology at Ohio State a couple of years ago, and I’m working on prerequisites for an MFA.
” There are a gajillion psych majors; I don’t have to worry about the FBI finding me with that piece of information, let alone a caller.
Same with a master of fine art, if I don’t include the detail that I’m after a degree in medical illustration.
“I’ve spent the last couple of years working and saving money for more school. ”
“I’ve never once regretted law school,” Henry says. “The money, sure, every payment on my student loans was painful, but my loans are paid off, so I don’t have monthly regrets. Not bad for thirty.” He’s paid off his student loans? Responsible.
“I was lucky. I got merit and low-income scholarships, along with grants, so I don’t have any undergrad loans,” I say, and omit my athletic scholarship but wonder if I’m being paranoid.
I do a quick Google search for Ohio State, psychology, cross-country, and Kait, and in less than a second, there’s a link to a profile piece, complete with photos of all the women on the team my senior year in the school newspaper.
I’ll keep the cross-country bit to myself.
“Smart, funny, kind, merit scholarship to college. You’re too good to be true,” Henry says.
Why aren’t the single women lining up for this guy? Must be the halitosis.
“Hardly, but I appreciate the compliment.” I’m stubborn, positively bitchy when people steal my work chair, obsessed with Indian food while simultaneously too cheap to eat in restaurants, and take pride in my ability to manipulate men. The list is endless.
“Kait, are we still doing the truth pact thing? What did you call it? The cave of confessions?”
Unless I’m mistaken, he’s taking off his tie as he speaks. The slide of fabric on fabric is distracting.
“The tent of truth,” I say with a laugh. “The vault of veracity. Oooohhh, the rectum of rectitude.”
“Ewww, Kait, ewww,” he says, hamming it up. “Can we please not call it that?”
“How about vagina of virtue? Seems kind of appropriate, considering how we met.” Is Henry too pure to say vagina? “Vagina of veracity? Vagina of verisimilitude.” And I’m adding obnoxious to the list of my faults.