Page 17 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Strawberries & Cream Intimate Apparel

CHAPTER7

I woke the next morning to a throbbing headache and a series of texts from Jo.

Jo: Email from S&C this morning

Jo: They’re not happy

Below was a screenshot of an email from the lingerie brand we’d partnered with during Season Six. Their social media coordinator, a cheerful-looking woman named Miriam who I’d only seen in the headshot in her signature (higher resolution viewable on LinkedIn), was always a piece of passive-aggressive work, but this email took the cake. I made myself a mug of dark roast before stepping out onto the balcony. Already the sun had seared through the early-morning haze, promising warm weather. A few sips of coffee later and I was awake enough to text Jo back.

Margo: I like the part where she’s trying to sell you bridal lingerie while also firing us

Jo: You’re not worried?

I was a little worried. Worried that this was the harbinger of a coming trend—long-held alliances crumbling in the wake of our brand becoming a bit muddled, but I kept those concerns to myself.

Margo: There will always be other sponsors. Preferably ones who aren’t interested in policing our Patreon posts.

Jo: You’re probably right. Just freaking out I guess

Jo: Wondering if this is my fault

I started to type It’s not your fault, but thought better of it. It was as much the fault of the wedding as it was the Patreon post, if Miriam’s strategically timed congratulations were any indication, and that wasn’t a comforting thought. As much as I wanted to support Jo in her pursuit of whatever she thought would make her happy, I couldn’t lie and pretend that her engagement hadn’t shaken the foundations of everything we had built.

So instead, I typed:

Margo: Don’t think too far into it. Miriam’s a corporate robot.

Margo: Speaking of the Patreon post

Margo: I have a tentative test subject in mind for Season Seven, but I wanted to run it by you first

Jo: OOOHHH spill

Margo: So I know this is going to sound weird

Margo: But you can’t mention anything to Peter.

Jo: Omg just tell me

Margo: I was thinking maybe Declan?

The dots indicated she was typing, then disappeared again. After a few seconds, she started typing again, and I waited with bated breath.

After the exchange with Declan at the bar, I’d downed a couple of tequila shots and gone back to the cabana, but we hadn’t spoken for the rest of the afternoon. I’d kept an eye out for other options, but it was tricky—despite serving alcohol, the private beach wasn’t a bar in the traditional sense, and it was frequented more by couples and vacationing families than it was single men in their mid-twenties. I considered Lucas as an alternative, but I got the vibe there was more to his history with Autumn than she was letting on, and he wasn’t my type anyway. Declan was a comfortable middle ground: attractive enough that I wouldn’t mind spending time with him, but I also wouldn’t feel guilty about pulling one over on him, when it came down to it.

And I was curious. For reasons I wasn’t quite able to articulate, so I hoped Jo wouldn’t ask.

While I waited, I slipped back inside to refill my coffee mug. The coffee machine was gurgling and Jo was still typing her reply when my screen was overtaken by an incoming call from Mom. I slid to answer, wedging the phone between my ear and my shoulder so that my hands were free to pour the coffee and stir in some cream and sugar. “Hey.”

“There she is,” came her familiar, cheery voice. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I left you five voicemails.”

Mom knew how to text and frequently used her smartphone to browse cat videos on YouTube or Google her favorite celebrities, but for some reason, she failed to understand that I could see she had left me voicemails. “I know, I got the notifications. Sorry. We’re still settling in. Things have been … well, stressful, I guess you could say,” I finished half-heartedly, mind still on the email from our sponsor and the podcast and the dot dot dot of Jo typing her reply.

“At least you’re helping your best friend.” Jo and I had been friends so long, my mom had practically adopted her. So naturally, Mom was invited to the wedding, but that was still almost two weeks away. “Imagine if she didn’t have you. It’d probably be worse.”

I didn’t need to tell my mom that the stressful stuff has very little to do with the wedding. “It would probably be exactly the same, considering Jo is the most organized person on the planet and I am obviously not.”