Chapter 17 – “Don’t Talk Just Kiss” — Right Said Fred
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HENRY
“DON’T TALK JUST KISS” — RIGHT SAID FRED
“There needs to be a playlist where I can place music without threats of violence, but you’re still friend-contract-obligated to listen at least once.”
“Of course.” I love how Kait and I share music. We’re a family on my Spotify account, which makes me feel some kind of way I don’t want to examine too closely. “Fine. I agree to a mandatory listening playlist, but please be kind. No intentionally irritating music selections, please.”
“Perfect, because I already created it and started with a song for you, that is, of course, British. It’s a catchy tune from the guys who wrote that old song ‘I’m Too Sexy.’ Great to start your day.”
I groan. She never lets things just be easy.
“Will having this new playlist satisfy you and prevent any duets with, say, Sir Paul McCartney from appearing on my playlists?”
She mumbles something, and I know there’s more suffering to be found in my playlists.
We’ve talked a lot the last few weeks. More than usual. She’s the one person I know I can talk to and not feel judged, which absolutely encourages me to be open with her. When I have something weighing on me, she’s the first person I turn to, not Julian, not my sister. Kait, every time.
“Kait, what if a woman at your job quits or gets fired? What happens?”
“She’s not on the list of people you can talk to anymore,” she responds, matter-of-fact. “People are always coming and going, graduating and whatnot.”
“What about her callers? What happens to those guys?” Asking for a friend.
“We matchmake with another girl.” She says it as though it’s no big deal, while my heart is hammering away at the thought. “Some guys are picky about who they talk to, but most aren’t. Even the persnickety ones usually make do with someone new.”
That’s what she says. What I hear is that one day soon, she’ll leave for grad school, and Hunter will tell me she’s no longer with the company.
Gone, without even saying goodbye. I don’t want to contemplate my life without her.
Lonely again, but this time, I’d know the difference. Ignorance is bliss.
Would she slip away one day, or would she secretly give me her number? Would I magically get a call from a different 614 number? I scoff at my line of thinking.
“Okay, if you could look five years into the future, what would you want to see?” Subtle, Henry, very subtle.
“That’s easy. My friends and family are happy and well and taking pleasure in their lives.”
“What about you, in particular?” I ask, trying to pretend this is one of our normal conversations where we ask each other a random assortment of questions. “What do you hope for, what makes you feel, you know, like a lucky man?”
“I’m a perfect size six, effortlessly maintained while eating anything and everything I want, my boobs are super perky, and my IQ has gone up thirty points.
My dishes are always clean and put away, and my laundry is magically always folded.
I’m independently wealthy and have a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, but I don’t know it yet.
” She pauses, then, in a more serious tone, says, “For real? Done with grad school and working with no student loans, that’s the big dream.
I’d be afraid to ask for more than that. ”
I require details. Can I be in her life in some capacity?
“Henry, if I didn’t do this job anymore, what would you want?” I’d like her to stop reading my mind for a few minutes. That would be a great start.
“I don’t want you to introduce me to someone else.”
“Okay then.” Her voice has a sudden chill to it.
I’m distracted, but the cold tone gets my attention.
I’ve hurt her feelings, and now I feel like an ass, so I make it up to her with her favorite thing: the truth.
“What I want is for you to give notice at your job, and one minute after your two weeks are finished, I want my phone to ring, and you say, ‘I’ll see you in six hours.’”
I pause. These are the words of a delusional caller. I’m sure I sound completely unhinged, but I don’t stop. She values honesty. “You’d tell me where and when to meet you and how you’ll permit me to buy you dinner or coffee or something.”
“I’m not as bossy as you make me sound.” She’s laughing, amused, not offended. The icy edge has vanished.
I imitate her voice, talking fast like she does when she’s excited. “Henry, you need to be naked when I arrive because I’m the boss of you.” I switch back to my own voice. “I can absolutely hear it now.”
Her burst of laughter is my reward. “I can’t even deny that it sounds like me.” She’s thoughtful for a second, then, quieter, asks, “Henry, what if we meet? Will it be a friend thing?” She sounds smaller and quieter, like some part of her is shrinking away, and she’s not even left the job yet.
“Of course it will. We’re already friends, the best of friends, we just don’t spend any time together in the same place. I tell you everything, I miss you when I don’t talk to you. How could we not be friends?” I mean it. Every word.
“You’re absolutely right.” She sounds content with that answer. Almost.
“Kait,” I speak gently, softly. “We’ll be friends. But will we be the kind of friends who…” My thoughts drift off. Would I risk the extraordinary friendship we’ve built to have more with her? Could I, the guy who never gets it right, have everything with this woman?
“The kind of friends who what?”
“Sorry, uh, thinking about how much I would enjoy having dinner with you one day.” I was going to ask if we’ll be friends who kiss all the time.
Will we be the kind of friends who finally meet for coffee but end up making out in the parking lot because we can’t stop ourselves?
Will she be attracted to me, the outside, as much as I’m attracted to her, sight unseen?
“Say it, babes. I want to hear what you’re thinking.” It’s wonderful to be listened to, knowing the other person is giving you their full attention, but sometimes it’s maddening. She never lets me get away with anything.
I fall silent. Afraid, to be honest.
“Henry, will we be the kind of friends who stay in the cone of candor today?”
“Can we not be that kind of friends today, pretty please?”
“Henry…”
“Fine. Yes, we will stay in the godforsaken crotch of credibility today. Just like every day.” I groan. The doghouse of directness, I don’t care what you call it, for the first time ever, I want to cut our call short. I drag my fingernails over a new itch at the back of my neck.
“I want to hear your unvarnished thoughts, Henry Sterling. It’s really, really important to me.
” Now she’s invoked the really, really clause.
I hate itching; it drives me up a wall. “Focus, Henry,” she says, her voice lower and huskier than usual.
“Will we be the kind of friends who text and talk, share Spotify lists that occasionally feature non-UK artists, Henry?”
“I could make some exceptions to my standard friend contract for someone truly special, but K-pop is a deal breaker.”
“Will we be the kind of friends who skip dessert because we want to get home, get in your bed, and spend the entire night figuring out exactly what makes you moan the loudest? Those kinds of friends?” Yes, yes we should be the naked kind of friends.
“Babes, if we meet and we both want something intimate, I would be amenable to a friends-with-benefits situation.” I’d have her in my life, with no reservations, in any way she’s willing.
I’ll be her dog walker if that’s the only way she wants me.
No one wants long term with me, and starting a thing to have her walk away like everyone else has would gut me, so I have to keep it realistic for the sake of my own mental health.
“Friends with benefits, got it.” A hard swallow follows. “So, uhm, what song is playing when I show up at your office as a surprise, and you and Julian stare at me with your mouths hanging open?” The change of topic is abrupt, and I wonder if I said something wrong again.
“‘Lucky Man.’” Of course.
“What song is playing when you’re sitting in your fancy chair, and I straddle you, and I start to unbutton your shirt so I can kiss your neck, grazing your nipples as I spread your shirt wide open?”
“‘Lips’ by the XX, first choice,” I say, like I haven’t thought about it before. “There are so many songs in my brain.”
“You, me, your chair, and your sound system. Loud, but not so loud I can’t hear all of the sounds you’re making. That’s an image I never want to get out of my head.”
“Kait, I need you to hear me on this: It wouldn’t be a song. It would be a playlist.”
She’s quiet, but her breathing is a little fast, a little deeper than usual.
“But more importantly,” I say, “why are you changing the subject? Is it because I’m finally getting information out of you?
” Busted. She’s not the only one who can read the subtle changes of inflections and word choice.
“I tell you everything, babes. You ask, and I answer, even when it embarrasses me or is uncomfortable.” She murmurs agreement.
“It’s time for you to tell me something. I have questions. Multiple questions.”
She sighs. For being so willing to dive into my soul, she can be guarded sometimes. “What do you want to know, Henry?”
Well, here goes nothing.
“I want you to tell me what you’ve always wanted and no man has ever done for you, and do not say cleaning your apartment again. It’s a serious question, and macarons don’t count.”
I bet she tries to turn the conversation back to spicy so she doesn’t have to share.
“Where are your hands?” she asks.
Hah! I knew it.
“Under my pillow, behind my head,” I say, not falling for her tricks. “Now, spill.”
“Oh,” she says. “Uhm, I’ve always wanted to be overpowered. Manhandled. That sort of thing. The kind of thing that requires trust.” Oh hell.
“Got it. Sounds hot.” She may expect me to lean into sex, but I refuse to be like her other callers. “Now for the important question. What’s bothering you? You’ve been upset about something for days.”
“I can’t tell you that yet, but I’ll be able to tell you soon. It’s a nondisclosure agreement kind of situation, but maybe I can give you a dollar retainer or something so I can talk about it with you.”
“Got it. I understand.”
She lets out a long, slow, quiet breath. “Quid pro quo, Henry?”
“Tell me your secrets, and I’ll tell you mine. Not that you’ve left me with any worth sharing.”
“It’s not a secret, but I do have an interview for my first-choice grad school next month. That’s a new development.”
“That’s amazing, I couldn’t be more thrilled for you. You know that once they meet you, they won’t be able to resist having you as part of their program.”
“Mmmm. Sure,” she says, unconvinced.
“Seriously, Kait, are you okay?” She should be thrilled, but she’s almost glum. Not knowing why makes me anxious. I want to help. “You sound different. Are you sad?”
“I miss you when you fly and I can’t talk to you.”
“I can text in the air. Kait, please tell me the truth. Are you okay? You sound… not like yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
I call bullshit. Dammit. She’s turning me into a potty mouth, at least in my own head.
“I have a sister. I know ‘fine’ is female for ‘I’m so far from fine I can’t see fine.
’ I’m going to remind you about our agreement to share our truth, and that I trust you to be honest with me, even when it isn’t fun. ”
“Fine. I mean, okay. I’m having anticipatory stress about all of the major life changes that may or may not be happening. I feel… helpless.”
“I can empathize. I don’t like thinking about it either. I enjoy having you in my life, crashing around in my brain, disrupting everything and causing chaos in my previously ordered world… and making me smile. Simultaneously, I want you to be happy and see your life goals become reality.”
“The feeling is mutual, but don’t tell anyone. I’ll lose my reputation as a cold, mercenary hard-ass.”
“Oh, yes, the mercenary hard-ass reputation that no one other than you thinks you have. The most frugal person regularly buys coworkers pizza and cookies. Earlier today, I got a weighted eye mask in the mail from an unknown gift sender, but that couldn’t possibly be you, could it, Miss Mercenary Hard-ass? ”
Her grumbling response calms my concern. “That was probably yo mama.”
“Nope, my mom would have said love and lots of x’s and o’s on a gift receipt, along with slipping in a veiled reference like ‘please settle down like your doctor brother and give me grandchildren.’” I close my eyes and try to identify the emotion hitting me squarely in the chest. “You are truly exceptional at making me feel cared for, Kait. Thank you.”
“You said you liked the weighted blanket I sent, so I thought the mask might help you sleep on a plane, maybe help you stay on your sleep schedule.” “She Keeps Me Warm,” a song by Mary Lambert, swirls in my brain, but it’s my Kait, not my blanket, that keeps me toasty.
My friendship lamp turns itself on, and it makes me smile. I turn it off, and it immediately turns back on again. We go back and forth like that for a moment.
She makes a little sound of embarrassment or maybe discomfit, I’m not sure. “Henry, are you naked?”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I don’t want to run out of time to have some fun. Dirty fun.”
“Again, deflecting,” I say, trying to set limits with her for what is probably the first time ever. “I’m naked only because I was getting in the shower when you called. We’re not having that kind of conversation. Talk to me, sweetheart.”
She’s fidgeting; I catch the quiet clatter of her teacup meeting her saucer.
“I miss you when I can’t talk to you, even for a few hours.
All this talk about school… I can leave the job, but I can’t—I won’t—leave you behind.
I want things to change, but I’m afraid.
Thinking about leaving this job for grad school and even pondering not talking to you anymore hits me in the ouchy bits. ”
I run my hand over my stubble, but it doesn’t help me focus.
No, it makes me think of dragging the coarse hair over her most sensitive places and snuggling her, truth be told.
“Kait, all I know is this: I would be miserable if you suddenly went away. Promise me you won’t disappear one day. At least say goodbye.”
“Henry, I would never,” she says, and with such vehemence that I can’t do anything but believe her.
“I still have irrational hope that one day we’ll sit down for coffee—or tea—and you’ll tell me your name, and we’ll laugh and have a grand time.”
And maybe you’ll look at me with more than friendship in your eyes.