Page 36 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“No, the itinerary,” Liv said, in a slow and careful voice that suggested she was explaining the alphabet to a bunch of preschoolers. “Autumn booked a tasting tour, remember?”

“Oh.” Jo released a pfft of air that suggested she couldn’t be bothered with petty things like itineraries, which meant she was definitely high. “That.”

“Give me that.” Liv snatched Autumn’s phone off the table. After a moment of searching, she passed the phone back and tossed a few dollar bills on the table as she rose to her feet. “Come on. Romano’s is next and I could kill for some breadsticks right about now.”

It was dusk by the time we made it to the last stop on the tasting tour: the outdoor bar by the cabanas, and the setting of choice for my own contribution to Jo’s bachelorette party. The private beach had transformed from swanky resort to nightclub for the weekend, complete with a live DJ and string lights strung between the willowy palms. The sand was crowded with bodies, but I grabbed a seat at the bar where I accepted my seventh and final glass of free wine—an oaky merlot—before shooting a quick text over to Declan.

Margo: We’re here. Text me when you’re on your way

Declan: Just stopped back at the hotel real quick. Peter’s changing now.

Margo: How was dinner?

“Are your friends okay?” someone asked. I looked up from my phone. It was one of the bartenders—the same one who had served us the other day with the orange poppy tattoo, and she was once again eyeing me with obvious distaste. But this time, she was also pointing, so I followed her finger.

On the other side of the wraparound bar, Jo was waving the banana from the banana split she’d ordered in the air, her hands sticky with whipped cream. Autumn was craning her neck trying to bite the end of it, cheered on by a creepy older dude in a Speedo who was still wearing sunglasses at sundown. They were way too drunk and probably still reeling from Liv’s brownies. “Shit,” I mumbled, polishing off my glass and leaving my phone lying on the bar as I rushed to break up the fun. “Let’s put that down.” I gently extracted the banana from Jo’s grasp and set it back in the sundae dish before steering the pair of them toward the dance floor, where Liv beckoned to the tune of “Rules” by Doja Cat. Considering she was the most sober of our group—or the one least affected by the pot brownies, at any rate—I’d enlisted her help in coordinating things, which meant keeping Jo nice and distracted until the moment was right.

When I returned to the bar, I scanned it for where I’d left the empty glass, but my phone was nowhere in sight. “Excuse me,” I said, forcing myself to sound as polite as possible. The surly bartender looked up in the middle of filling a beer from the tap. “Did you happen to see where my phone went?”

There was a pause, and for the briefest of moments, I didn’t think she was going to answer. She slid the frothy beer to a customer on the opposite side of the bar and then ducked beneath the counter, procuring my phone. “You shouldn’t leave it lying around like that. People around here target drunk tourists. They’d pocket it without a second thought.”

“Thanks,” I said, distracted as I typed in my passcode to view my messages. The bartender watched me, a frown marring her features.

Declan: Our waiter looked like Joe Pesci and they only had Coors Light on tap. So I’d say it was a solid ten out of ten.

Margo: Of course it was. All the hot babes drink Coors.

Declan: Unless you’re drinking Coors right now, I refuse to believe that.

My stomach fluttered. It wasn’t the first corny line he’d dropped on me, but the more he flirted, the more I thought he might actually mean it. But that wasn’t the part that worried me. What worried me was that flirting with Declan didn’t feel like I was going through the motions, reciting from a script. I was actually enjoying myself. I liked the little hints of interest. Who was I and what had I done with Margo Anderson?

My phone buzzed again. A double text.

Declan: Also, who says ‘hot babes’ anymore?

Margo: I don’t know how dudes talk

Declan: Really? I thought you were some kind of expert. Like a man-whisperer.

Margo: Expert at avoiding commitment. Not so much the whole man thing.

“Boyfriend?” the bartender asked, and I looked up from my last text. She shrugged. “You keep smiling at your phone. Usually means you’re talking to a guy.”

Since when was I so easy to read? Maybe it was my face. The weed brownies hadn’t worn off yet, but their effects had been less noticeable ever since I polished off my fifth glass of wine. I slid the phone into the pocket of my romper, more than a little wary of the bartender’s sudden interest. “That’s assuming I actually enjoy talking to men.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have assumed. Though to be fair, you are completely covered in …” She made a vague gesture at my general person as she struggled to find the words. “Male genitalia.”

I glanced down at my Mardi Gras necklaces. The beads were shaped like tiny penises. “It’s my best friend’s bachelorette party,” I explained. “I should be out there dancing, but—”

“But instead you’re sitting here, texting …”

“A guy,” I admitted, slumping against the bar in defeat. I might have put my head down, hid my face in shame, but the whole countertop was alarmingly sticky. Even resting my elbows on it was a questionable decision.

The bartender gave me a knowing look. At least she was making a conscious effort to be … not friendly, exactly, but less standoffish. And my tongue was feeling looser than normal, thanks to all the alcohol tonight. “It’s not what it looks like.” I hesitated, but I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it. Bartenders were probably used to playing therapist to random strangers. I glanced at her name tag. Shelley. Shelley seemed like someone who would give harsh advice, if needed. “I’m supposed to be conducting this sort of experiment.”

She set about her work while she listened, ducking to grab a bottle of tequila from beneath the bar and measuring out a shot before adding it to the shaker. “Go on.”

“So I run this podcast with my best friend.”