Page 37 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

She waved a hand to cut me off. “If this is your way of trying to get another free drink, we don’t comp on Saturday nights.”

My defensiveness flared, but it was just as soon smoothed over by the heady mixture of alcohol and pot brownies coursing through my system. “No, nothing like that. Our whole podcast was centered around these rules. For dating,” I clarified. I was being vague, but I hoped it would get the idea across. “But then my best friend broke some of the rules. Publicly. And now everyone’s questioning why we have the rules in the first place, so I’m supposed to be breaking them on purpose, to prove that we follow the rules for a reason. The guy I’m texting is sort of …” I wobbled my head back and forth, unsure of how to describe him. “Caught in the cross fire, I guess.”

“Sounds like you’re making things harder than they need to be. Life is complicated enough without imposing a bunch of made-up rules on yourself. ” Shelley double-fisted a bottle of Tito’s and a bottle of Bacardi, adding a dash of each to the shaker before she popped the cap on and started shaking. “But don’t take my advice. I’m a thirty-something still stuck working the same summer job I’ve had since I turned twenty-one.”

I smiled, remembering the summer I spent lifeguarding in Two Harbors. Life was easier when I wasn’t worrying about social media analytics every waking hour. “Spending your summers on an island doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Only reason I still come work this gig every year is because there’s nothing keeping me back home.” She poured the mysterious concoction into a glass and topped it off with a slice of pineapple and a dash of Cactus Cooler before sliding it across the counter.

“For me?” I asked, eyeing it warily. “I thought you said no free drinks.”

“I said we don’t comp. That one’s on me.” She nodded at the drink in question. “Figured it might help you sort through your problems.”

I probably should’ve been wary of this newfound generosity, but I was on the verge of admitting I was maybe more than a little confused about whatever was going on with Declan, and that deserved a drink. “Doesn’t drinking create more problems?” I joked before taking an experimental sip. It was similar to a Long Island iced tea, except the Cactus Cooler completely and utterly failed to mask the burn of alcohol.

“You’re asking a bartender for life advice,” Shelley pointed out. “Alcohol’s the only solution I can really provide.”

“Touché.” I stirred my drink with the straw—a regular straw, this time, because I’d misplaced the phallic one somewhere between drinks four and six. “Thank you. For the drink, and for listening.”

“No problem.” She braced herself against the counter, watching me with narrowed eyes. “Out of curiosity, though, why are you talking to me and not your best friend?”

“It’s complicated,” I said, because that was easier than explaining.

My phone vibrated against my thigh, and I extracted it from my pocket.

Declan: Here.

My head snapped up and I searched the crowd, but I didn’t spot any sign of his familiar red hair. Here? He was supposed to text me when they were headed this way. Not when they had already arrived. I sent him a quick text back—Where?!—just as Jo materialized at my side, breathless and glowy from all the dancing. I locked my phone and stowed it back in my pocket. She flung a sweaty arm around my shoulder. With me sitting and her standing, we were close enough in height that she could shout directly in my ear. “Aren’t you going to dance?”

“Just finishing my drink,” I said, indicating the glass, which was nowhere near empty. I lifted off my stool to get a better look at the crowd, but it was almost dark now, and the DJ had a strobe light throbbing to the bass of a song that might’ve been “Sandstorm” by Darude—I was way too close to the speakers to make it out clearly, and also, did people actually play that song unironically? I reached back into my pocket and stole a glance at my phone. Declan hadn’t responded to my last text. Here. What was that supposed to mean? Maybe he led them to the wrong bar. I would’ve noticed if they had arrived here at this bar. Everyone would have noticed if they were at this bar.

Jo was eyeballing my drink. “Can I try a sip?” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the drink and took a few gulps, the straw forgotten entirely. “Not bad,” she said, setting the now half-empty glass back on the counter. “Is that tequila?”

Shelley nodded. “Among other things. It’s one of my own creations. Tentatively called a Channel Islands Iced Tea.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m still workshopping on the name.”

Without warning, Autumn was there, too, looking about as sweaty as Jo’s arm felt. “Let’s give it a go,” she said, smacking a twenty on the counter with all the bravado of a businessman buying a round of Gold Label Reserve for his colleagues.

Shelley opened her mouth to reply—probably to inform her that a twenty wouldn’t even cover the one Channel Islands Iced Tea, not with how many shots she’d dumped into that shaker—but before she managed to say anything, our conversation was drowned out by a series of loud whoops and hollers from the end of the bar. Heads turned and necks craned to catch a glimpse at whatever was causing the commotion. A pair of women seated across from us covered their mouths to stifle giggles, one of them whispering behind her hands. The old guy in the sunglasses and Speedo pinched his fingers between his lips and wolf-whistled.

“Can’t say I see that every Saturday,” Shelley mumbled, turning her back on us to wipe down the opposite side of the bar.

My eyes fell on Lucas first, standing far enough off to the side that it was easy to spot him, even with the San Francisco Giants cap tugged over his curls. He was nursing a flask of God only knew what and kept his distance, probably trying to disassociate himself from the scene that was unfolding. I searched where Lucas was looking and was able to pick out Declan’s red hair next—he was more in the thick of it, tugging on someone’s arm and shaking his head as he mumbled something to someone just out of my line of sight. As though he sensed me watching him, he turned and caught my eye. He smiled sheepishly and held up a finger that plainly said just a moment, but he didn’t have a moment to orchestrate a better entrance because Jo was already standing on tiptoe, trying to figure out what was going on. Autumn’s twenty-dollar bill lay forgotten next to my half-finished drink.

Someone got up from the bar to get away from all the noise just as Declan gave the arm another forceful tug, and the person the arm was attached to stumbled into view.

“Peter,” Jo said, her face lighting up like the Fourth of July at the sight of him, but her smile was replaced by a look of utter horror as the pair of them approached and she was able to see what, exactly, had caused all the commotion. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

CHAPTER14

“The feather duster was a nice touch,” I said, tilting my head toward Declan so that he could hear me over the music. I was close enough that I could’ve kissed him on the cheek. He breathed a laugh as Peter did a little twirl for Jo, who was looking marginally less disturbed now, though still a bit bemused. The brownies probably weren’t helping matters, but all things considered, she had managed to stay pretty composed when her fiancé showed up to a very public bar dressed in a starched and ironed maid uniform. I would’ve preferred one of those lacy Halloween costumes with the generous cleavage and too-short skirt, but beggars couldn’t be choosers on an island of a few thousand people. And besides, this kind of made for a better story.

“Believe it or not, they actually sold the feather duster at Vons,” Declan said. He was leaning against the bar and sipping at a Maker’s Mark neat he’d ordered from Shelley, who’d once again been all too happy to serve him on a moment’s notice. I tried not to be too annoyed, considering it was her job, but I couldn’t help feeling she treated him just a little different from the way she treated me.

“Have any trouble convincing him?” I asked.

“None. He said, and I quote, ‘If it makes Jo happy.’ ”

On that, it seemed Peter and I were in agreement. I studied the groom-to-be with a critical eye. The sleeves of the dress were strained by his broad shoulders, but otherwise, it looked like it was custom-tailored to him, complete with a little white apron and everything. I had to give credit where it was due—Declan worked quick. “I’m surprised the uniform actually fit.”