Page 18 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“You’re plenty good at organizing things. You juggled two jobs and were paying half the bills when you were only eighteen. How many of your friends can say that?”

I couldn’t speak for all these friends she was imagining I had, but there was a note of sadness in her voice when she said it. Like she believed I’d missed out on some fundamental part of life in the process. You grew up too fast—that was what she always told me, and it wasn’t because of my dating habits, or the way I dressed, or the people I hung around. It was because I’d stepped up when my mom had no one, and she thought that was a bad thing. A shortcoming. That it meant she’d somehow failed as a mother. I preferred to think it meant I’d succeeded as a daughter.

“Speaking of jobs,” Mom segued, “how are things with the podcast?”

Jo’s text pinged in my ear, and I pulled the phone away to glance at it.

Jo: What are you planning to wear today? I wanna make sure we get some pics for …

The message preview cut off there. I frowned at it. Okay, so she was changing the subject. A bit weird, but it could wait. I returned the phone to my ear. “I’m on vacation. Do we have to talk about work before noon?” I asked. I wasn’t eager to share the news about our partnership with S&C, all things considered. Mom knew a fair amount of the work that went into running the podcast, and she was always very insistent that there had to be something else out there. Something that placed less pressure on me—this magical, imaginary job that would allow me to just be … me. It was a nice thought. The sort of thing a parent wanted for their kid. But I had a decent thing already going, and I couldn’t just throw that away on the off chance I might find something better.

“I keep telling you, you have the voice for radio. I think that’s why your podcast has done so well. And with your degree in music, there’s got to be something else out there.”

“And when was the last time you listened to the radio, Mom?”

“Since the invention of Bluetooth and phones with music on them, probably never.”

“Need I say more?” I finished dumping sugar into my coffee and returned to the balcony. Below, Avalon was waking up. Golf carts puttered to life and bicycles rang their bells at pedestrians before cutting through intersections. The first ferry of the morning was already parked out on the water, bussing in a fresh load of visitors.

“Not everyone has technologically savvy parents, you know.” There was a pregnant pause after the plural parents. They were two separate parental entities, and had been for years, but the hurt lingered. “Have you talked to your dad recently?”

“Not since Father’s Day.”

My mom and I had our weekly calls, but I made it a point to only call him on major holidays, ever since he’d moved to Florida with his girlfriend, leaving a whole mess of shit in his wake. Including the old Chevy pickup I was stuck driving for the time being. My own car—the run-down Honda I’d bought myself at seventeen with money from lifeguarding—got smushed like a tin can my first week living in NoHo. The stop-and-go traffic on the 101 interchange was no joke. They stopped, I goed, and suddenly I was sandwiched between a brand-new Challenger and some old lady driving a Kia Soul.

I’d been stashing some money here and there to buy something else, but secretly, I kept hoping we’d get offered some unprecedented sponsorship by Hyundai or Volkswagen or something. So far, no luck.

“Speaking of people who have been wronged by cheaters,” I said, eager to change the subject, “you never did guess who’s going to be at the wedding.”

“Well, now you’ve got me worried.”

“Tony Montpelier. And his son’s going to be in the wedding. I met him yesterday.”

Mom tried to play it cool, but with a minimal social life of her own this past decade, she’d formed a habit of getting way too wrapped up in celebrity drama. I found myself answering questions about how they knew Peter’s family and whether Tony would be coming with a plus-one and speculating on whether or not L. Mont really got his suits tailored by the same bespoke clothier that made a custom suit for Timothée Chalamet to wear to the last Oscars.

It wasn’t long until the conversation trailed off and we hung up with promises of talking again before the wedding. I took another sip of my coffee before speaking into the Notes app on my phone. “Day two without rules.” The words materialized on screen and I mulled over what to say next. Since we started the podcast, I’d developed a habit of talking into my phone. I would’ve liked to compare them to diary entries—maybe then, they’d have felt less clinical—but they were more like bullet points. It started as a way of reminding myself of stories or particularly brilliant thoughts I wanted to share next episode, but it quickly turned into this weird compartmentalization thing. If I couldn’t talk to Jo or my mom about something, I could at least talk to Siri.

But the issue was, I didn’t really know what to say at the moment. I wasn’t sure how to voice my concerns about Jo’s wedding and all the muddled implications for the future, and I didn’t have any fun anecdotes or witticisms to jot down for the podcast. Yesterday was technically my first day without the rules, but it hadn’t felt much different from any other day—which didn’t make for very engaging content. The conversation with Declan at the bar was the only interaction of any interest and I wasn’t even sure what had happened there.

I switched over to my browser and started to search what does it mean when a guy flirts with you but doesn’t follow through, but I stopped in the middle of typing to scoff at myself. What was I doing? I was the one who ran a podcast about dating. I shouldn’t need to turn to questionable advice on Reddit for help. “Create a daily reminder for the next two weeks,” I said to my phone without really thinking. “Do not let the thing with Declan get under your skin.”

As though I’d manifested him—Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse—the glass door on the neighboring balcony slid open, and in my early-morning brain fog, I was too slow to react.

He seemed to do a double take when he found me on the balcony. “Morning,” he said uncertainly, hesitating with one foot in the door like he might turn back inside. “Did I just hear my name?” He was wearing one of the plush hotel robes, but he hadn’t bothered to tie it. I caught a glimpse of well-toned stomach and coppery hair that trailed down to black boxer briefs before I managed to collect myself, eyes snapping back to his face. He didn’t seem to have noticed.

“I was just voicing my concerns to Siri about your dermatological health in this weather,” I said with an airy wave at the wide blue sky. “You know, with your complexion. What sunscreen are you using? SPF 500?”

Like me, it appeared he had stepped outside to enjoy his coffee. Or so the unsuspecting observer might think, but I knew better. First, I was fairly certain that Declan Walsh was incapable of enjoying anything that did not involve the emotional torment of people or perhaps small animals. Second, he had plainly been listening to me before he even opened the door, waiting for the opportune moment to interrupt my morning. I was thankful I hadn’t voiced much beyond my surface-level frustrations.

He smiled faintly. “You were thinking about me. How sweet.”

“Of course. Too many people vastly underestimate the importance of skin care.”

“What if I told you I have a five-step routine?” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb, back into his room. “I just finished a face mask five minutes ago.”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

I couldn’t tell whether he recognized his own words from yesterday. He tore his eyes away from me and rolled his shoulders under the guise of morning stretches, but the movement opened his robe just a touch wider, drawing my attention to things I had no reason to be looking at, like the way his boxers hugged his thighs. He’d obviously hit the gym a few times since high school. “Excited for today?” he asked. I shot him a questioning look. “You know, the zipline thing.”