Chapter 25 – Rule #12 It’s not real, it’s acting. Be creative—he can get mediocre sex in the real world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
KAITLIN
I’m wrecked when I walk into the office.
I’m sunglasses-indoors level destroyed, but staying at home with only my thoughts is worse than working, and heading to work for my shift is the only thing that feels normal.
I can’t hide in my bedroom any longer. Hunter is on the phone, thank baby Yoda, so she can’t grill me.
My nose would give Rudolph a run for his money.
I put the phone down on her desk. I turned it off, knowing there wouldn’t be a message from him. Reaching for it over and over is a habit. Even now, I pat my pocket to make sure I have it, though it’s on Hunter’s desk.
When I’m hurting, my reflex is to turn to him for comfort, to call him. If I’m his heroin, he’s my vomiting, shaking withdrawal from not chasing the dragon. I’ve been clean and sober, Hen—I mean, free of him, for twenty-one hours. Hello, my name is Kaitlin, and I’m an addict.
I pretend I’m Chris Rock and someone is going to slap me if I don’t keep his name out of my mouth. I’ve not messaged, called, or emailed, as promised. I added a few songs to a brand-new Spotify playlist I created just for him, then powered down the phone and got in the shower.
No one can tell you’re crying if you do it silently in the shower.
I miss that asshole to my bones.
Hunter looks at the phone, looks at me, and makes a silent WTF? at me. I shrug.
I log in to the phone system and desperately pray to the phone goddess for a call before Hunter can interrogate me.
The deities grant my wish, sort of. I get a bitter guy dumped by his girlfriend.
He keeps saying, “You wouldn’t understand.
Someone as hot as you would never get dumped.
” So my respite comes in the form of a reminder that I have been unceremoniously shitcanned.
We didn’t break up—we were never a couple—I’ve been fired.
My services are no longer wanted or needed.
Guys quit calling all the time. It’s not an airport; no need to announce your departure.
I think that, but I would have been enraged if he’d ended things with a text or just not answered.
Next, one of my occasional callers, Anders, makes a grave error in judgment.
Anders is working on his doctorate in pharmacy.
He’s a regular, so I also know he’s been drinking too much almost every night.
If he doesn’t focus and drink less, he’s going to end up with big-bucks, pharmaceutical-grade student loans and a job as a greeter at Walmart.
That’s not his mistake. Well, that is a mistake, but that’s not his big mistake.
“Hey, Kait, I saw a show about the girlfriend experience, and it sounds pretty cool. I want to try that.”
Oops. You want the girlfriend experience?
Buckle up, buddy. I bitch him out for thirty-seven straight minutes about how he’s screwing up his life, needs to get his head out of his drunk ass, and quit wasting money calling phone sex using his student loans like a really good girlfriend would and hang up without giving him a second to breathe, let alone jerk off. I girlfriend the hell out of it.
I suspect the girlfriend experience wasn’t all he hoped and dreamed. Fancy fucking that.
I order food I’m not hungry for and log out of my phone to go stand outside and wait for the delivery, even though it isn’t due for twenty-five minutes. What are they going to do, fire me?
I have a six-hour reprieve before Hunter appears in the doorway of my tiny room, hands on hips and pissy. I become fascinated with my left knee, but she gets down in a squat and turns my chair until I don’t have a choice but to look at her.
“Why do I have the Henry phone?”
“He broke—” I interrupt myself. He didn’t break up with me. I take a breath and let it out slowly. “The man in question determined that we should no longer interact. He’s decided to take a more healthy approach to his life and will no longer be calling.”
“Henry Fucking Sterling broke up with you?” It comes out like a gasp of horror. “Did you tell him you were going to meet his weapons-grade douchebag ass Monday?”
“No, I promised I wouldn’t contact him.” I sniff. “Ever.”
“Start at the beginning. I can’t believe I’m going to say this about a caller, but Henry—he’s a good man. I can’t imagine him intentionally hurting you.”
“He said that if he kept talking to me, he would end up alone and lonely. I couldn’t have three more days because three days becomes three months, and that becomes ten years, and he mumbled something about almost a million dollars.”
I made a solemn vow not to cry at work, so I pull my feet up into my chair and press my eyes to my kneecaps. I manage it, barely.
“Fuck a damn duck.” A look of understanding crosses her face. I’m glad one of us has a clue. “What else did Henry say?”
“He said he would never get married or have kids. He would be lonely with the girlfriend experience, not a real girlfriend. We’ve never talked about the girlfriend experience, but he brought it up, repeatedly.”
“And what did you say?”
“Fuck me, my dumb ass told him I loved him,” I groan. The shame is real. “And it was just as weird as you would expect. I said, ‘I love you,’ and he went cold, like angry cold. He had his mind made up. It didn’t matter what I had to say.”
“Kaitlin,” she says, reaching out to hold my hand. “Did you tell him about the thing with Marin?” She looks stricken, the color draining from her face. “Have you seen it?”
“No. I mean, I told him one of my friends was going to be on the show and I was going to watch it with friends and pizza but that didn’t happen and I ended up missing our taco night because I had that bondage call that went on for four hours.” I sniff again, but I don’t cry. I’m too dehydrated.
“You need to watch the show, all sixty minutes of it. We can watch it together,” she says. “I think he watched it and freaked out. They talked about the girlfriend experience a lot, and I wanted it to be a surprise, but at the end of the show, I think one of your callers talked about you.”
“About me? What the hell?” I say, shocked. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. It’s done.”
“You need to understand why this happened so you can forgive him. Henry is a good man. I fell a little in love with him that night you had strep throat and you two fuckwits watched The Princess Bride together and texted at the same time so you wouldn’t talk.
He knows how to flex like a boss, making sure you didn’t lose any money taking a sick day. That man is a catch.”
I used to think so too, so I can’t be too pissed about her saying it.
“It doesn’t matter. I gave him my word—I promised that I wouldn’t contact him, so I’m not reaching out to him.”
“He’s got a day to call. If he doesn’t, it won’t matter, because I didn’t promise jack shit. I’ll call him and ask him if he’s lost his damn mind.” Jessica looks as upset as I feel, except I’m sad, and she’s pissed.
“No need. It’s over.” He’s not going to call, and I’m stuffed with grief that can barely be contained. I need to push it down so I can get through my shift. I can do almost anything for one day. “Jess? Promise me you won’t call him?”
I never call her Jess at work; it’s one of the ways we separate home and work, but I’m talking to my best friend right now, not a business partner.
“Uhm.” At least she doesn’t lie to my face. She has the integrity to hedge.
“Please. Promise me you won’t call him. I know you want to fix this, to make it right, to call him and tear him a new asshole for me, but it’s already right. This is how it’s supposed to be, and I am asking you to please respect that.”
She grimaces, and she’s not happy, but she says, “I solemnly swear I will not call Henry Sterling.”
One more day, and I can walk away from this life. My integrity will be in one piece, even if my heart has been pulverized.
My fellow phone courtesans know something is up.
One by one, they came and hugged me, silently dropping off a chunk of chocolate or kissing the top of my head while I was faking an orgasm. Fake pleasure sounds and sobbing have lots of overlap, so I might be able to get away with tears, but they don’t come. Anger wins.
Pixie slips an oddly sweet hand-drawn diagram of the molecule for serotonin under the door of my cubby. It’s the happiness neurotransmitter. She rightly assumed I’m deficient.
“Can I get you something?” Jess asks when I’m between calls. I shake my head, afraid to speak, which is not ideal in my career.
I’m going through the motions of my day, but it’s like the difference between hearing and listening. I doodle on a piece of scrap paper and, for the first time ever, avoid taking calls.
I emerge from my cubicle to use the restroom, and heads swivel toward me.
I would be utterly humiliated, but no one looks at me with pity.
They look sad with me, which is absurd. It’s just a client not calling anymore; most of the time, we don’t even notice until they randomly call again a few months later, and we make a big production about how much we missed them—because our database tells us we should, not because we noticed.
Guinevere, real name Melissa, one of the women I’ve worked with the longest and shared countless bouts of uncontrolled laughter with, waits until I’m getting ready to walk past her and whispers low so only I can hear her.
“Finding out he’s a dick is devastating.
He reminded us there are good men out there.
” She sniffles and wipes away a tear. “He’ll get his head on straight and call before five on Friday.
He wouldn’t take a chance that he’s going to lose you, he has no idea you own the place, or that you make the rules.
That man adores you. The way he would say your name, like he was blushing when he asked to speak to you, was the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. ”
At 5:01 on Friday, Kait no longer exists.