Chapter 23 – Rule #10 Repeat callers are profitable. Make them feel special, and “remember” them. #2
“Next Monday. Ten thirty.” I’m queasy thinking about it. I swallow hard, then do it again. “What if he thinks my painting is crap? Or he doesn’t like me? What if he doesn’t like the way I look?” My worries slip out in a rush, and I cringe.
“What if he has bad breath? What if he’s a jerk?
What if he has a girlfriend and he’s a dirty cheater?
What if he’s not good enough for my amazeballs best friend?
Don’t forget that you are the fucking prize here, Kaitlin.
You’re amazing and wonderful, and he would be lucky to have tea with you for five minutes, let alone more. ”
My cheeks calm a bit as Jess takes a big swig of coffee from her black Dominant For Your Pleasure mug.
She’s good for me, and good for my self-esteem too.
“Seriously, what’s not to like? First, the painting is stunning, period.
Henry’s at least half in love with you,” she says.
“You’re objectively attractive, your hair is gorgeous, you’re funny and intelligent, but more importantly, he’s totally into you, the real you.
He’s gotten a deep dive into who you are for over a year now.
Not what you look like, or your clothes, or the business you own.
He’s going to love how you look because it comes with you, the fabulous person that you are. ”
Easy for her to say—she’s a bombshell. “Do you want me to go with you? On speakerphone, Julian sounds hot. Is he British? I’m a sucker for a British accent all day long. Is he single? Into women?”
“He’s straight. If the amount of time he spends drinking beer and playing video games with Henry is any indication, he’s single. I’ll fill you in on Monday evening.”
It would be too perfect if my bestie and Henry’s bestie were friends too, assuming Henry and I could potentially be… or not be. Or become. Fuck, whatever.
The crippling anxiety disorder that I didn’t know I had until this week is powerful. I’m scared shitless. What if I’m not good enough for grad school? What if Henry says “no, thank you, Kaitlin, I don’t want you in my life, it was a Kait thing”?
I could sell my business, lose my job and my male BFF in the same week if what we have—or don’t have—doesn’t translate. What if I’m not his type? I’m no hag, but I’m also not Marin or Jessica. I’m a solid five, maybe a six on a really good hair day.
There’s a possibility that we don’t work in real life. The odds may not ever be in my favor, but I have to find out. Knowing he doesn’t want me would hurt, but being in limbo and wondering would be awful.
As far as I can tell, there are two ways this can go. Option A: Henry is blindsided when I disappear. Option B: I reveal myself. All of our callers get Option A except Henry.
If he sounds like The One, and he feels like The One, is it possible that he might be The One?
“Assholes, the lot of you!” I holler in front of Hunter’s desk, much to the amusement of our coworkers.
“Every single one of you bet on when I’ll meet Henry?
Et tu, Anastascia?” I’m trying to cover my embarrassment with bravado and giving them all a giant, heaping ration of shit. They aren’t fooled.
In order to have the closing-day celebration we wanted without breaking our NDA, we told everyone Friday would be my last day because I got into my master’s program. So it’s a congratulations, farewell, and good-luck party for me — at least until we tell them the truth. It’ll be their last day too.
And since the moment we made the announcement, I’ve been getting a ration of shit about Henry despite saying nothing about him.
“Yes,” Ana says, matter-of-fact. “Every single one of us, Kaitlin. It was ten dollars per entry, and no one could resist.” My coworkers are traitors.
“I said four months,” Hunter says, trying to play fair, since she actually knows the official date and time.
“Hah! You might as well have said never.”
Pixie pipes up. “Kait, I said eight hours, because I figured out how long it would take someone who speeds like you to get to Chicago, added in more bathroom breaks than is reasonable because you would have more coffee than a normal human, and it came up to seven hours and fifty-three minutes, so I rounded up slightly.” Then she hollers, “Hey, Hunter, Price Is Right rules, right? Closest without going over?”
Hunter yells back from the kitchenette, “Yes, closest without going over.”
“I bet on eight hours. Please pee before you get in the car. There’s a lot of money to be won.”
I laugh and relax, knowing that Ana placed a bet. It’s about as close to approval as you can get without a signed permission slip. Not that I need one, but it’s nice all the same.
“Friday, I’m bringing whatever cake Kroger has in the bakery and a couple of bottles of Martini and Rossi Asti Spumante because I need it sweet,” I say.
Pixie interjects, looking in Hunter’s direction. “Can I change my entry? I forgot to add time for the party after the phones roll to the drive time to Chicago.”
It’s hard to stand here and pretend this party is my going-away celebration, and that I’m not going to Chicago on Monday to meet him. I’m supposedly going to “look for an apartment.” Hmm.
Hunter nods. “Yes, sure, it’s common knowledge that she’s going to be at the party, so yes, change your answer.”
The attention makes me feel exposed, but really, what’s the worst that can happen between today—Tuesday—and next Monday?
If anything, I feel relieved. When I found out Ana put ten dollars on when I’d meet Henry, all of my worries about disappointing her melted away.
No worries about endangering the hive when the hive no longer exists.
The world is my oyster, etc. etc., and I could not be more excited if I drank a double espresso and mainlined some candy. I’m giddy. The days between now and Monday are going to feel like an eternity.