Page 1 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

CHAPTER1

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

The Blue Room was teeming with amateur influencers. The clubs in Studio City weren’t known for a cozy local vibe on the best of nights, but it was especially bad tonight. I sidestepped some guy trying to vlog in the middle of the dance floor—I mean, really?—and shouldered my way to the bar. The flash from a nearby iPhone mingled with the strobe lights.

I didn’t want to be here.

“Excuse me,” I said to a group crowding the bar to take artsy pictures of their espresso martinis, but my voice was swallowed up by the music—at the moment, a remix of a Dua Lipa song with enough bass to trigger the Big One. I waved my orange wristband at the bartender. “Buttery nipple shot,” I shouted over the music, and several people turned to stare. I scowled. How many complimentary shots would it take to forget why we were here tonight? I was determined to find out.

By the second shot, I’d managed to secure a coveted spot at the counter, and by the third, I watched as the employees swapped shifts to finish out the night, the old bartender tapping in a younger guy with a manicured mustache and really tight pants. The newcomer acted like he couldn’t hear me on my first couple attempts at ordering a buttery nipple shot; he bowed his head toward mine, his comb-over silhouetted by the Edison bulbs and the blue-and-purple lights gleaming off the subway tile backsplash. I leaned closer to speak into his ear—aaannndd now he was getting an eyeful of my boobs.

While he bent to grab the butterscotch schnapps from the bottom shelf, I hooked my thumbs under the straps of my corset top and hiked it up for more coverage. I’d dressed for pictures, but already I was regretting it, because I’d sincerely rather there was no evidence of me being here tonight. And preferably no memory, while we were at it. The bartender was sliding me my fourth shot and I was debating ordering something stronger when a delicate hand with immaculate red nails darted in front of me. Jo stamped my buttery nipple shot on the counter before tossing it back, then pretended to retch. “Ugh, that tastes like something my grandma would order.”

I shook my head, folding my arms against the counter. The whole bar top was made of scuffed-up resin with vintage L.A. Times newspapers sealed inside, headlines about Clark Gable and the moon landing and the 1994 Northridge quake. “If I knew you were going to steal it, I would have ordered a tequila shot.”

Jo’s red lips parted in a winning smile. That was her signature color: that classic Bordeaux red. “I’m pretty sure my maid of honor is contractually obligated to do a tequila shot with me anyway.”

I was inclined to agree, but not because I had anything to celebrate.

I hated weddings. By extension, bridal parties ranked pretty high on my list of things that were best left to corny romantic comedies and trashy reality TV like Say Yes to the Dress. Mercifully, it wasn’t my engagement we were supposed to be toasting to. But it was my best friend’s engagement, and she’d asked me to be the maid of honor. Which meant I was pretty central to any and all wedding activities—including tonight’s little announcement. I couldn’t have been persuaded to grin and bear it for anyone else, but Jo was a special case.

“Two shots of Cazadores,” I told the bartender when he finally decided to acknowledge my cleavage again. “With lime. And do you have any saltshakers around here?” He tore his eyes from my boobs and gave me a blank look. “Or margarita salt? I’m not picky.”

“What does this look like, a sorority party?” he deadpanned.

“I’m gonna be honest here, not really in the mood to be negged by a guy with Buddy Holly glasses and a handlebar mustache.”

“Real original. Haven’t heard that one before.”

Either the flashing blue-and-purple lights were causing me to hallucinate or there were cartoon mustaches printed all over his shirt—a short-sleeved button-down that, up to this point, I had assumed was covered in black blobs and that maybe he was channeling his inner Cruella de Vil. But no, those were definitely mustaches, and they definitely looked like the one that was already on his face. “Can you actually remember the last time you listened to music that wasn’t Tame Impala?”

He pointed at the overhead speakers. “Right now. There is literally music playing right now.”

As though to drive the point home, the song changed to “Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee.

“Just pour the drinks and I’ll leave a good tip,” I said, trying not to sound too exasperated as I held out my wristband for the fifth time in a row. “There should be a comped tab under Anderson.”

With an eye roll that looked almost painful, he turned his back on us and grabbed a bottle from the middle shelf. A part of me couldn’t fault him for his irritation. It had to be annoying, people waltzing into your work every week, brandishing orange VIP bands and demanding everything for free. These clubs were always hosting some promotional event or another, Emo Night or Nineties Throwbacks or whatever else they could come up with to draw tourists and locals alike. Tonight, aspiring actors and musicians and every other brand of L.A. hopeful were packed into The Blue Room, all under the guise of “Influencer Friday.”

But whatever the bartender’s distaste for influencers, I wanted to get drunk. I would’ve happily paid for faster service, but I wasn’t sure it would make a difference. It seemed he was determined to give us bad service on principle, so I might as well cash in on the perks of showing up tonight.

Jo scrutinized the way his cuffed chinos hugged his ass, not so much checking him out as making a professional assessment. “I can’t tell if you hate him or want to go home with him.”

I didn’t have the energy to illustrate how hard of a pass that was, but I shot her a look. I was taller than Jo on a normal day, but right now, wearing four-inch-heeled boots to her strappy gladiator sandals, there was almost a foot’s difference between us. “None of the above. I just want my drinks.”

“Speaking of people you hate,” Jo segued, “I’m sure you’ve already thought about this, but Peter is thinking of asking Declan to be the best man, and I wanted to run it by you to make sure …” On noticing my expression, she tapered off, but the damage was done. It probably looked like I’d sucked on a lemon, but the bartender hadn’t delivered our Cazadores with lime yet.

“You know, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” she finished lamely.

“It’s not that it would make me uncomfortable.” Contrary to her assumption, I hadn’t already thought about this because I’d always assumed Peter and Declan were one of those friendships that wouldn’t survive past high school. If there was one thing bound to make an unpleasant event that much more unbearable, it was having to spend it in the company of people I’d hoped to leave in the past. But they seemed to have a way of cropping back up as of late. “Anyway, what are you going to do, tell Peter that he can’t have his best friend at the wedding?”

Jo leaned her back against the bar top, facing the sweaty, undulating crowd. Her red lips curled in a frown. “I’ll talk to him, if it comes to that. But it has been like, eight years since you’ve seen each other, and he’s way different than you probably remember. He’s living in Pasadena now, and he’s got this great job at—”

It was hard enough to hear her over the music, and I didn’t care to strain my ears just to hear what Declan Walsh had gotten up to in recent years. I forced a smile and patted her arm in a way that I hoped was reassuring, though it felt more awkward than anything. “Stop worrying. I’m not going to go all Red Wedding on your best man.” When she didn’t look entirely convinced, I added, “Seriously. It’s fine. We’re all adults, and it’s supposed to be your day. And Peter’s. You guys should ask whoever you want.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but I didn’t want Jo to stress over this. I might’ve hated weddings, but that didn’t mean I wanted to complicate hers any further. Marriage was bound to be complicated enough without my help.

“Two tequilas with lime,” the bartender announced, sliding a pair of shot glasses across the counter. They were each garnished with the largest wedge of lime I’d ever seen, tinged a muddled purple-gray color by the strobing lights. “Be sure to hashtag The Blue Room when you post a picture,” he added without enthusiasm.