Page 14 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Jo flapped a hand. “She’s stuck at some marijuana convention in Vegas until tomorrow.”

Probably promoting her newest hemp-based face cream or something. Liv grew up in Boston and only moved to L.A. a few years ago. She was as transplant as they came—she still called it “Cali” and forgot to put the “the” in front of freeway names, but she’d successfully embraced other aspects of West Coast culture, like starting her own line of vegan, cruelty-free skincare. Last I saw her, she had taken an edible at Aquarium of the Pacific and read my palm before she was escorted out by security for trying to crawl into the tank to free the sea lions.

On the other side of the cabana, the conversation had somehow shifted to Lucas ranting about his experiences with the paparazzi.

“They’re like vultures.” He sat on the very edge of one of the lounge chairs like a nervous bird poised to take flight, a pair of Armani sunglasses perched in his gray-streaked curls. “Half the time they’re just making shit up. You know my mom dragged me to London last year for a gala, and they fabricated an entire story about my so-called relationship with the PM’s daughter? We were photographed leaving the venue at the same time, but I swear to you, we never exchanged a word.”

“The most ridiculous part of that story is the implication he’d have an actual relationship,” Autumn muttered, folding her arms. I pretended to laugh, but it came out hollow. I didn’t have a ton of relationships under my own belt, so I had no right to laugh at Lucas.

But I wasn’t sure he even heard us. “And then there’s all the nonsense they claim my dad’s been saying, ever since the split.” He stirred his straw around a frothy brown drink the server had referred to as Buffalo Milk, though she had to assure him several times there wasn’t any milk from an actual buffalo in it. “You ever notice how it’s never a direct quote? It’s always ‘a source close to the family’ or something like that. They’re pulling it out of their asses.”

“But your mom did cheat on him, didn’t she?” Declan asked. He was slumped back in the other lounge chair, picking at the paper label on a fresh bottle of Pacífico and looking bored with this entire conversation. “There were pictures of her with the pool boy and everything.”

Lucas shrugged. “What business is that of the public’s?”

“Public figure, public scandal,” Declan said. “Sort of comes with the territory.”

For once, it seemed Declan and I actually agreed on something. As though he sensed my gaze, his eyes cut to me, and we exchanged a look across the cabana. It wasn’t a look of camaraderie, exactly—more that we seemed to have realized, at the exact same moment, that the next two weeks were going to be spent with a hodgepodge of personalities that we probably wouldn’t have chosen to hang out with, given the option. Left to my own devices, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen to be exchanging looks with Declan Walsh, of all people, but here we were.

Still, as quickly as we had looked at each other, we were looking away. Pretending to be interested in other people’s conversations.

“We didn’t sign any paperwork agreeing to this treatment, if that’s what you mean,” Lucas said.

“Privacy is a tricky subject, in the age of the internet. You can’t outlaw gossip.”

It was an issue I was all too familiar with—twofold. Jo and I had dealt with our fair share of gossip since stepping into our roles as internet personalities, but more than that, Lucas’s insistence on defending a cheater just rubbed me the wrong way. I had my own experiences with homewrecking parents and had little interest in defending them. My own aversion to commitment was rooted in the belief that, if you were going to commit to someone, you better mean it.

I checked out of the rest of the conversation, burying my face in my drink. When I finished my michelada and got up to go order another drink, sandals kicking up the fine sand as I made my way to the outdoor bar, Declan called after me. “Hey, could you grab me another beer?”

I pretended not to hear him.

The speakers above the bar serenaded guests with “Red Red Wine,” but there wasn’t an actual wineglass in sight. The countertop was riddled with half-empty tumblers of tropical slush topped off with slices of pineapple and toothpick umbrellas. Tan, naked shoulders were pressed together, people fresh from the water in bikinis and swim trunks and the occasional Speedo. I squeezed into an open space and flagged down the bartender. It was the same girl as before, with the shaggy bleached hair. She was busy mixing drinks, but she nodded in my direction to show she was listening.

“There should be a tab open.” The speakers were blaring music loud enough that I had to raise my voice. “Either under ‘Anderson’ or ‘Hernandez.’ Possibly both.” Or maybe it was under Figueroa, seeing as that would be Jo’s last name in the very near future. But I figured it was best not to bombard her with names. She popped the cap on the steel shaker and moved over to the register, where a handful of credit cards was laid out.

Her voice was half-buried beneath the music. “Not seeing it.”

“It’s not on a card.”

She turned and gave me a look. Maybe she didn’t hear me.

I leaned into the counter, my arms sticking to the wood. “It’s not on a card.” A few heads whipped around at my raised voice. This would be so much subtler if I could flash a wristband and call it a day.

“I heard you the first time,” the bartender said, pouring a neon blue drink out of the shaker and topping it off with a cherry. She slid the glass across the counter to one of the guests and they slid back a twenty without exchanging so much as eye contact, let alone any actual words. She wiped her hands on her apron as she came over and braced herself against the counter. She had a colorful tattoo of orange California poppies on her forearm. “You’re one of Renee’s people. The YouTubers or whatever.”

I knew that tone all too well. It was the same disparaging tone the guy at The Blue Room had used when he called me a celebrity. A special brand of barely concealed disdain that people seemed to fling our way without a second thought, because what did it matter? Influencers weren’t normal people. That was the thing about being internet famous—the internet didn’t necessarily like us, even as they were stalking our profiles and talking about us on Twitter. Which in turn only fanned the flames of the algorithm, and that made them hate us more. It was a vicious circle.

I scratched my forehead, only mildly uncomfortable. “Podcasters,” I clarified. “Like I said, there should be a tab.”

The bartender’s jaw ticked like she was biting back a retort, but she put on a bland customer service voice. “What can I get for you?”

I hadn’t looked at the menu, and I didn’t want to take the time to peruse it now. “A margarita,” I said, because it was the first drink that popped into my head. “On the rocks. Extra salt around the rim.”

She turned and busied herself on the other side of the wraparound bar. No nod, no acknowledging my order, but she grabbed the Grand Marnier and a well tequila and started mixing. I released a sigh.

I’d never signed on for being an influencer with a so-called brand and a medley of sponsorships; all I wanted was to run a silly podcast with my best friend. But I sure as hell had to deal with all the negative side effects that came with it, so sue me if I took advantage of the perks every now and then. I was pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with hot and sweaty strangers, and the bar top was sticky with spilled drinks. But I was also on vacation. A free vacation, I reminded myself, no matter how much this island reminded me of things it was easier not to remember. Imported palm trees waved hypnotically in the breeze and the tune playing over the speakers switched to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” A scene carefully crafted to make people leave their problems behind on the mainland. I had to let the island work its magic.

I had better things to dwell on than rude bartenders. Like how I was going to go about this whole no-rules thing. Breaking the rules required a test subject. I scanned the guys at the bar. I needed someone attractive—both for my own sake and for the sake of maybe sneaking a picture or two onto our social media to generate some interest for the upcoming season—and preferably someone who would stick around for the next couple weeks, to provide a decent foundation for some content. With any luck, he’d be begging to get away by the time this vacation was over, and then boom, I’d have the next great cautionary tale to feed to our listeners.