Page 11 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“Never mind,” I grumbled. His amusement had mostly evaporated, but left in its place was something resembling concern, and that bothered me more. I didn’t want his pity any more than I wanted Jo’s. “Can we please go back to the table?” Wait, why was I asking permission? Maybe I hit my head when I fell. Without waiting for his response, I stalked away. No one asked any questions when Declan returned from the restroom seconds after I did, but I didn’t miss the curiosity that passed over Jo’s expression, just as soon concealed beneath a heady mixture of wine and excitement for the weeks to come.

CHAPTER5

My reminder went off at seven in the morning. Brainstorm social media for the month and try to think up some fresh content. Yeah, okay. Fat chance of me having a coherent thought before nine, but I yawned and stretched and dragged myself out of bed anyway. Jo wanted to take pictures down at the cabanas sometime around ten, which meant I needed plenty of time to wake up and fix my hair and makeup before leaving the hotel.

The coffee maker gurgled to life and I collapsed into a nearby armchair. I dimmed my phone screen and opened my email inbox. Twitter and Instagram were often inundated with DMs from troll accounts and sometimes from downright creeps, which was a lot to handle first thing in the morning, but emails were somewhat safe. Sure, there was the occasional death threat via our contact form, but for the most part, my inbox was strictly business.

And spam. Lots and lots of spam.

I had 1,837 unread emails, most of which were probably years old and buried pages back, never to see the light of day. Among the most recent, though, were an advertisement for twenty percent off an underwear brand that I had Googled once (delete), a scripted email from someone named Kim about increasing our Instagram engagement (delete), and a reply to an inquiry I’d made to a website designer about refreshing our look for Season Seven (open). As I was scrolling, a new email came in from my alma mater. Save the Date: Join us for … Curious, I clicked on it, only to discover it was an invitation to an alumni dinner. Likely a bad cover-up story for bullying us all into making a donation to the school. Because we all had thousands of dollars lying around less than a year after graduation, never mind rent and bills and student loans. Aaannndd delete.

Sighing, I locked my phone and got up to pour myself a mug of coffee.

I’d only managed to graduate with my bachelor’s last fall—a lackluster culmination to four years at an uninspiring state university, and another reminder that my whole college experience was more than a little off schedule. It seemed like everyone in high school either had acceptance letters or scholarships lined up before we turned eighteen. And then there was me, working two jobs to help my mom afford her own apartment while she was going through the divorce. I didn’t have time to apply to colleges, and even if I did manage to apply, I had less time for actually attending. It wasn’t until my mom got the alimony and figured out her own job situation that I was able to think about enrolling. By then, I was already years behind schedule.

I wasn’t really bitter about it. It meant putting my dreams on hold, but my dreams were already shifting by then anyway—I’d realized somewhere along the way that I didn’t enjoy performing music so much as I enjoyed listening to it. Where tuba-playing Margo was confined to jazz and classical and the occasional, pitchy rendition of “Eye of the Tiger,” concertgoing Margo was free to experiment. To check out local bands or save up for overpriced tickets to Coachella or spontaneously drive to Vegas at 7 p.m. because someone Tweeted a rumor about a pop-up concert.

Of course, none of that totaled up to any obvious career goals. But without a strong sense of direction, I’d majored in music anyway. And I learned some useful skills along the way. An audio engineering course, a part-time student job in the marketing department, and a whole series of encounters led to Jo and I forming the podcast during my second year of college. In a way, it had set me up for the future anyway, even if I hadn’t known at the time what that future was going to look like.

I downed the rest of my mediocre coffee, showered, and then took the elevator to the hotel’s elaborate breakfast buffet. I piled a plate with French toast and whipped cream and fresh strawberries, which I then smuggled up to my room so that I could eat out on the balcony with a view, rather than in the crowded breakfast hall.

An ocean breeze stirred my damp hair as I stepped outside and slid the door shut behind me. It was a bright, clear morning and the balcony next door was empty again. I balanced the plate on the wooden railing—swallowing the nervous feeling that rose up in my throat, being so close to the edge—and posed the strawberries before snapping a few pictures of my breakfast with Avalon out of focus below. I retreated to the table before geotagging it and posting to my Instagram story, and then I popped the first bite of heavenly, pillowy French toast into my mouth as reward.

It had become a typical morning routine for me: wake up; check my emails and any texts or missed calls as I sipped at my coffee; switch over to social media as I dug into my breakfast. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite so glamorous, most days. The window behind the desk overlooked a busy street—honking cars and tangled telephone wires and wadded up In-N-Out bags collected in the gutters. But everything else about my routine was the same as it always was, even on vacation. I conducted a quick Google search for any new articles about the podcast, checked out analytics, read some of the comments even though I wasn’t supposed to. This morning, that included reading an argument in the comments on Twitter between one of our frequent commenters and a girl whose handle I didn’t recognize:

Jessica @messy_jessy8273 ∙ Jul 15

Replying to @7R4BHpodcast

this is either a sloppy publicity stunt or the biggest sellout ive ever seen. jo made all her money selling us the #singlenotseeking lifestyle only for us to find out shes been dating this guy the entire time? don’t believe everything you see on social media, kids … #fakeaf

Raquel O’Brien @raqyoursaqsoff ∙ Jul 15

Replying to @messy_jessy8273

Maybe learn to mind your business. So what if Jo’s getting married? She still gives solid advice to the girls who want to stay single.

Jessica @messy_jessy8273 ∙ Jul 15

Replying to @raqyoursaqsoff

okay so were supposed to live by these rules but shes not? that makes no sense. practice what you preach if you really believe in it but dont go making a podcast just for clout

Raquel O’Brien @raqyoursaqsoff ∙ Jul 15

Replying to @messy_jessy8273

The podcast isn’t about “clout,” it’s about empowering women to stay single IF they want to. The rules are just a way to avoid getting hurt along the way. No one says you have to follow them.

Jessica @messy_jessy8273 ∙ Jul 15

Replying to @raqyoursaqsoff

the rules are stupid and youre stupid for following them. either you want to stay single or you dont. jo was supposedly following the rules (if you believe that) and look where it landed her

I’d learned long ago to ignore the troll accounts. Replying would only make us look bad, not them, so usually I’d fume for a couple hours, let our other commenters handle it, maybe come up with a few retorts in my head. But now, I couldn’t even do that. I couldn’t blame messy_jessy8273 for the things she was saying; she was just voicing what everyone was thinking.

It was true that we’d come up with the rules with the best intentions. The podcast was our answer to a thousand male-run podcasts that touted misogynistic dating advice. The world was still rife with double standards; it had simply gotten a bit better at hiding them. I met guys in college who studied feminist theory and held signs at protests but then turned around and whispered about how a lock opened by many keys is a shitty lock while standing over the keg with their friends. I met women who hashtagged #womensupportwomen while they were shaming other women for the way they dressed or who they slept with. Men convincing women to sleep with them got to feel like Achilles sneaking into Troy with the Trojan horse. Women, well … we were expected to feel like whatever idiot opened the gates.