Page 24 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Season One, Episode One—The First Rule

29 min 58 sec

Go: Hello, all you lovely #SingleNotSeeking ladies, and welcome to Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts. You don’t know us yet, but you’re going to get to know us—

Jo: Perhaps a little too well.

Go: [laughs] To give you a quick little intro, my name is Margo, but you’re all going to know me better as Go.

Jo: And I’m Jo.

Go: We’re not anybody special, just two single gals who are tired of seeing our friends make the same mistakes over and over. Not everyone wants commitment, but society has so many ways of tricking us women into believing we need it, so we decided to create a few rules that women like us can live by. A sort of how-to guide for avoiding all the common pitfalls of modern dating.

Jo: And how you can make sure you’re the one breaking his heart, not the other way around.

Go: Today, we’re going to be jumping in by talking about Rule Number One, which is a rule that I actually wrote.

Jo: And it’s a big one.

Go: Keep the ball in your court. You want to be the one calling the shots, which means no asking him on dates, no texting him first. You want to make sure that you hold all the power because that’s going to keep him guessing.

Jo: It might sound old-fashioned, but believe us, if he’s interested, he’s going to make the move.

Go: The biggest risk when it comes to making the first move, I think, is that you become too invested in the outcome. As soon as you put yourself out there and text him first, or call him, or whatever, then you end up sitting there, biting your fingernails, waiting for him to text or call you back.

Jo: So then you call or text him again.

Go: That’s always the way it goes, isn’t it? Because you want to see a little return on your efforts. But—and this really sucks, but it’s the truth—that’s almost always counterproductive because it scares guys off. You get too invested and suddenly he’s no longer interested.

Jo: Which is why it’s always better to play it safe.

CHAPTER10

“I’m not sure this is a hike, technically,” I said as we crested another rolling hill. I shielded my eyes from the bright morning sun with a hand. “It’s more like a drive that you’ve chosen to take on foot, for some reason.”

Several yards behind, Declan shot me a sweaty, irritable look from beneath the brim of his Caltech cap. When he spoke, it was between panting breaths. “We’re walking uphill, so it’s a hike.”

The so-called hike was obviously more than he bargained for. We started off on asphalt, but that soon gave way to dirt and dry California brush. Open-top Hummers, emblazoned with some tour logo or another, drove past us at regular intervals, rumbling off into the hills, leaving clouds of dust in their wake—the only road-legal vehicles I’d seen since arriving on the island, and an intermittent reminder that we definitely didn’t need to hike in order to get wherever we were going. But here we were, hiking anyway.

Walking ahead of him worked in my favor. I’d dressed to impress in a pair of Lycra workout leggings, the sheen of the form-fitting black material highlighting some of my best assets, but Declan didn’t seem to be paying much attention. Actually, I was starting to worry that he might pass out. “Haven’t you ever been on a real hike?” I took a hearty swig from my Gatorade-that-wasn’t-Gatorade—an easy way of concealing my sangria in public—and walked backwards so that I could keep an eye on him, my plan to get him to check out my ass on hold, for now. “Mt. Baldy? Heart Rock? Big Horn Mine?”

“I was an engineering major. I didn’t have time to go on leisure hikes.”

I suspected that this was a subtle dig at whatever he imagined my major was. There was no way in hell I was going to tell him it was music. None. “Leisure hikes? As opposed to what? Work hikes? School hikes?”

“We did hike to an observatory for class once, yes.”

I rolled my eyes. It was apparent, judging by the sweat stain streaking the front of his T-shirt, that he did not hike often. I was actually surprised that someone in his physical condition wasn’t an expert hiker. I turned back toward the trail, focusing on my Nikes pounding into the dirt. The trail wound back and forth, climbing up into the dry, hilly highlands of Catalina. At the highest points, the clear blue Pacific and the red-tile rooftops of Avalon peered through the brush, but for most of the hike, it was just grass and weeds and cactus.

“Having trouble back there?” I called over my shoulder. When he didn’t answer, I turned to check on him again. There was no cell service up here, so I couldn’t call for help if he passed out. I didn’t relish the thought of hauling his unconscious body all the way back to town, but I would do what was necessary. Fortunately, he was still conscious. Just miserable-looking. “Come on, this is a baby hill.”

“It’s not the hill,” he panted. “It’s the heat. I’m not built for it.” He waved a hand up and down his fair, freckly person.

“Ah, yes. Gotta protect the sensitive scalp, too.” I tapped my own head where my hair was pulled into a ponytail, and he adjusted the bill of his hat self-consciously, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “You know, this is kind of fun, hanging out,” I continued. “I have all the time in the world to mess with you. Give you a taste of your own medicine.” Given, it was probably easier at the moment because he could hardly string a sentence together, but I was going to enjoy that while it lasted.

“If you’re talking about the tuba thing, I didn’t mean to mess with you. I mean, not specifically.”

“Oh? Do tell. What were your intentions?”