Page 50 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“Never,” I confirmed.

It was bizarre how readily the conversation flowed. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. I didn’t often do much talking with my hookups after the hookup part was done—usually, it was more collecting my clothes in the dark and tiptoeing out of a strange apartment, trying not to wake their roommate—but now here I was, my legs still jelly, admitting to Declan that we’d just done something I’d never done before.

The breeze in the golf cart tousled my hair, and I ran a self-conscious hand through it to try to keep it in order, my fingers catching on a couple knots. I still needed to figure out what I was doing with it for the wedding. The color was looking worse by the day, brown roots peering through the faded greenish-gray.

“Peter said the cake-tasting appointment was from eleven to noon,” Declan said, consulting his smartwatch. “Should we see whether they want a ride back?”

“Jo said they’re fine walking,” I said. “And besides, don’t you want to get back to the hotel? Pick up where we left off?” I slid a hand up his thigh just as he was steering the golf cart away from the curb. He’d already paid more than enough attention to my needs, and I was happy to return the favor.

He glanced at my hand and braked harder than necessary as we came to a stop sign. The tires squeaked. “Watch where you’re going, asshole, there are kids around,” snapped a woman who was crossing the road, without a child in sight.

“Sorry.” Declan gave her a sheepish smile and an apologetic wave, which only earned a scowl. Fixing his eyes back on the road, he swallowed and said to me, “As much as I would like to, I think it would be better to wait.”

I withdrew my hand from his leg. “Wait until what?” I was willing to respect his aversion to one-night stands. Fair enough. Everyone had their boundaries. But in that case, there really wasn’t anything to wait around for. He didn’t do one-night stands, and I didn’t do relationships.

Which meant we were at a stalemate, of sorts.

“Until I can take you on an actual date,” he said.

I withheld a scoff, mostly because I didn’t want this to go downhill like our conversation last night. “I don’t do dates,” I reminded him. There was something about dates that just struck me as … corny. Holding hands across the dining table or licking from the same ice cream cone while walking the pier or standing on your parents’ porch after being dropped off from prom, waiting to see whether your date was going to give you a kiss. I had a hard time believing that there were grown adults going on dates, in this day and age. People these days met on Tinder. Texted for a week. Met up at a bar and went home together and had mediocre sex and then never spoke again.

Declan was watching me as we pulled into the hotel parking lot. “What do you mean, don’t do dates? I get that you don’t want a relationship, or whatever.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help wondering whether he would even want a relationship with me, given the opportunity. I wasn’t exactly prime girlfriend material. Especially not for someone with his apparent aversion to social media.

He gave me a look that was in between stern and amused, the corner of his mouth hitching in a half-smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s just dinner. Or it could be lunch, even.” He paused like he was waiting for me to protest, but I didn’t. “One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t a lot to ask for. But I couldn’t shake the claustrophobia settling around me, boxing me in. Like the careful walls I’d built were shrinking ever closer, until there was no room to stretch or grow, to do anything that didn’t fit into the neat little confines of my own making. Until there was barely room to breathe.

I released my breath in a huff. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to give me an answer now,” he said, shutting off the engine. We were parked outside the hotel. “Just think on it.” He pinned me under one of those rare earnest looks, the curtain pulled back. “Please.”

“All right,” I agreed, because for whatever reason, I didn’t want to give him an outright no. Not when he was looking at me like that. “I’ll think on it.”

Climbing the stairs to our rooms left both of us winded, so by the time we arrived outside our respective rooms, neither of us had the energy to discuss it further. Declan excused himself to shower and I swiped my keycard, flopping onto my bed face-first and heaving a sigh into the comforter. If this was how I was going to go, smothered to death by an Egyptian cotton duvet cover because I couldn’t find the willpower to get back up, then so be it.

Sometimes, I wished I had other friends I could talk to—friends whose entire lives didn’t revolve around whatever was best for the algorithm. I needed to confide in someone, a neutral party, if only to get my head on straight. It was starting to feel like I had a couple screws loose. This thing with Declan had veered out of podcast territory and into uncharted waters. One week into my two weeks without rules and already I’d decided that I didn’t want to do this, but I also didn’t know what that meant moving forward.

It wasn’t that living without the rules was terrible or life-changing or anything. It felt, for the most part, like I was just living my life. And that was the issue. I’d always put details of my life out there for everyone else’s consumption, but I’d been able to compartmentalize it. The bits and pieces I put out were Go, and everything else was Margo Anderson. But this … somehow, this experiment had started to feel too personal. That was Margo last night in the elevator, and Margo in the changing room, and Margo right now in the hall. It wasn’t an act for the sake of telling another story. It was real, and it was my life.

From somewhere deep in the sheets, my phone blasted a muffled version of “Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways—a custom ringtone I’d set years ago, and had forgotten to change because I usually left it on silent. I groaned and felt around for the phone before rolling onto my back. My heart sank when I saw the incoming call. Mom, her beautiful contact photo split in half by the crack running down the middle of my screen. Not the ideal person to confide in. But I slid to answer anyway.

“Sorry for not calling you back,” I said as soon as I picked up. “The past few days have been hectic.”

I should have done my best to say more before Mom launched into one of her usual monologues, because once she started, it was hard to get a word in edgewise. “Margo,” she said, as though she couldn’t believe her ears. You’d think it had been years since we last spoke, not a handful of days. “How are you feeling? You sound tired. Your voice is all crackly. Maybe you need to drink some water. I know weddings can be exhausting, but you have to remember to take time for yourself, otherwise the stress can take a toll on your—”

“I’m literally fine, Mom,” I interrupted. She’d always worried about me, but it had gotten worse ever since I’d helped her get by after the divorce. Every day, I’d come home from work and it would be dinner’s on the table and remember to take your vitamins and are you sure you’re getting enough sleep. My well-being became the one thing she thought she could control, but the truth was, nobody could control that but me. I could stress myself half to death and no amount of homemade mashed potatoes or gummy vitamins was going to fix it. “I just got back to my room two seconds ago.”

“Is the wedding keeping you on your toes?” she asked, sympathetic. “I can’t imagine what they have you guys doing out there for two whole weeks. It’s kind of weird for the bridal party to be that involved. When I was in Diane Feldman’s wedding—”

“I told you, it’s a vacation. I’ve barely had to do anything wedding-related at all. Really, it’s not bad,” I insisted, because I knew she would beat that particular dead horse to a pulp if I didn’t put a stop to it now. And it was easier to downplay how much side work I did for the podcast. She’d only worry I was working too hard, if she knew. “Actually, I meant to tell you, that’s why I didn’t answer last night. We were doing the bachelorette party.”

“Oh! How fun. Did you play—what’s the game?—Pin the Peter?”

“Peter wasn’t at the bachelorette party, Mom, he was off with the guys.” I extracted a throw pillow from its awkward place beneath my back, and added it to the hoard propped up against the headboard. “For most of the night, anyway.”

“No, peter is slang for, you know,” she said slyly, but I did not, in fact, know. When she elaborated, it was a near whisper, as though this were top-secret information and the government might be listening in on our mother-daughter phone call. “A guy’s business.”