Page 3 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“So.” He stopped a few feet away from me, hands stuffed in his too-tight pockets. A mangled box of American Spirits peered out from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Go and Jo, of Seven Rules fame, I’m told. Didn’t realize I was serving a couple of celebrities.”

I had a hard time believing that, all things considered. He’d certainly noticed my VIP bracelet the first few times I’d waved it at him, and his eyes drifted to it now, dangling at my side, though he made a few pit stops to stare at other parts of me along the way. My skin crawled. “We’re not celebrities.” Not by Hollywood standards at any rate, and you bet your bottom dollar I was going to correct people around Studio City. “Just a couple of girls with a podcast.”

“Who’s the hipster now?” he joked.

I held up my hands in surrender. “You caught me.” But he’d lost my interest already, and I was overdue to rejoin Jo. “Unless you’ve come over here to offer me free drinks for life as apology for the truly appalling service, I need to be getting back to my friend.”

I was halfway to the door when he worked up the courage to get to the point.

“I had something else in mind.”

I stopped, turned to face him. I wasn’t sure what his angle was, but he didn’t seem threatening—not under the doorman’s watchful eye. “I’m listening.”

He hesitated. For a moment, I thought he might drop it with a wave of his hand, a nah, never mind, it was stupid. “We close at two,” he said instead, sheepish. “But I’ll still be here cleaning up for a while if you wanted to stick around for a nightcap. Maybe come back to my place afterward?”

There was a time, not very long ago, when I probably would have said yes. This dude wasn’t my type. He was pretentious and sort of rude, and I was a bit too tall for him, and his tight pants were giving me the ick. But that was precisely what made him safe. He ticked all the boxes, fit neatly into all seven of the rules:

1. The ball was in my court.b

2. I might’ve cringed a bit telling Jo about it afterwards, but I could’ve lived with it.

3. There was no way I was going to sleep over in his hipster man cave, which probably smelled like week-old cereal and hazy IPAs.

4. There was no effort involved on my part.

5. I wouldn’t have to worry about text messages because there was no chance in hell I was asking for this guy’s number.

6. He bartended in Studio City, which was like a twenty-minute drive from NoHo on a good day. The definition of “easily avoidable.”

Which all totaled up to passing Rule Number Seven with flying colors: there was no chance of catching feelings.

But rules aside, hooking up had lost some of its luster for me. It wasn’t that I was looking for a happily ever after; I’d sworn off any sort of committed relationship a long time ago. I genuinely believed that, with a few exceptions, the whole idea of love was nothing more than a clever marketing scheme. An empty promise, boxed up and gift wrapped and tied with a pretty bow to be sold in Hallmark stores during the holidays. Once I recognized that, it was hard not to feel disillusioned with the whole dating thing.

It was just that, somewhere along the way, I’d started to feel a bit disillusioned with the rest of it, too. With my own brand of empty promises.

“Sorry,” I said, with a half-hearted smile and a shrug. “I’m not interested.”

Mar[Go] @margoanderson ∙ Jul 12

Thank you to everyone who tuned in for yesterday’s livestream. Poured one out last night for @JoHo_in_NoHo. R.I.P. to another fallen #SingleNotSeeking sister.

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Raquel O’Brien @raqyoursaqsoff ∙ Jul 12

Replying to @margoanderson

Girl … you next! Jk

John Smith @wouldntuliketoknow ∙ Jul 12

Replying to @margoanderson

at least ur still single, beutiful. never get married they take everything from u and stomp ur heart into the dirt

andycakes @miranda_lovee ∙ Jul 12

Replying to @margoanderson