Page 72 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“So what?” Liv said, blotting her lipstick with a tissue. “Margo has blowjob knees, and you don’t see her trying to hide it.”

“They’re not blowjob knees,” I said, exasperated. “I fell and scraped them at a restaurant, the first night here.” I ushered Autumn back inside and searched my makeup bag. “I’ll cover it for you.”

Normally Jo was the makeup expert, but she was off somewhere having first-look photos taken with Peter. I squatted in front of Autumn with a concealer palette in hand as she pointed out the bruise, barely noticeable against her bronzy skin. “Look, it’s all green and nasty-looking.”

“Hey, Margo,” Liv called from out on the balcony, while I was in the middle of debating whether orange or pink would better conceal the bruise. “Did you post on Twitter this morning?”

“I don’t have my phone, remember?” I shouted back, distracted. Orange, I decided, dabbing my brush in the concealer. Only as soon as I started applying it, it became woefully apparent that orange was not the right color.

I grabbed a few tissues off the nightstand. Before I could finish wiping it back off—with Autumn wincing and sucking air through her teeth like I was trying to hurt her—Liv shoved her phone into my hand. “You might want to check this out.”

“What—” I stared at the screen. Wow, no cracks or anything; some people really took care of their phones. It was open to a Tweet from the Seven Rules official Twitter account, posted today from mobile at 10:37 a.m.:

https://bit.ly/6akb3o2

That was all it was. Just a URL. My heartbeat thudded in my ears as I pressed my thumb to the link. It loaded to a random website called GossipHub, and for a split second, I was almost relieved—maybe whoever had stolen my phone had decided to use our social media following to increase their own traffic, and this whole nightmare would end there. But then I scrolled and saw the picture at the top of the article.

It was a picture of me and Declan. The selfie we’d taken on the hike to see the bison—both sweaty and a little sunburned, him pressing a kiss into the side of my head. Okay, so whoever had stolen my phone decided to leak the picture. It wasn’t the most flattering picture, and it wasn’t how I would’ve chosen to announce to the world that I was seeing someone, but I could live with it. Except then there was the title above the article: seven rules co-host margo anderson didn’t just lie to fans. she lied to her boyfriend too.

My mouth ran dry.

Between screenshots of my private conversations and flashing ads for magic weight loss pills, someone had laid it all out there. The Patreon post. The plan to ditch the rules for two weeks. They’d even posted a screenshot of my search history on Instagram from that night at the club in Studio City, when I’d clicked on a couple different Declan Walsh profiles to no avail. It was clear that someone had at least a rough idea of what was happening in our lives, and then they had used my phone to piece the rest of the story together. Except it wasn’t the real story—they were painting me as the villain. Like I’d been planning this for weeks.

I closed out of the article and opened Instagram without asking Liv whether it was okay, typing my own username into the search bar in a panic. The URL in my bio was changed so that it now linked to the same article, and the podcast’s official Instagram was the same. I switched over to the browser and pulled up our website. Even LinkedIn. Everywhere I went, the link followed.

I looked up at Liv and Autumn in a daze. “What do I do?” I asked stupidly, because right now I couldn’t think straight.

Liv held up her hands when I tried to give her the phone back—like she wanted to wipe her hands clean of it. “This is above my pay grade.”

“I think maybe you should talk to Jo,” Autumn suggested.

I swallowed. Nodded. She was right. If anyone would know how to solve this, it was Jo. She’d always been better at this sort of thing than I was.

The landline phone on the nightstand rang—a jarring, metallic sound that should have jolted me out of my stupor, but it didn’t. I grabbed it off the cradle. “Margo Anderson,” I answered wildly, because how were you supposed to answer a hotel phone, anyway?

It was one of the employees down at the front desk. “There’s a golf cart here to take you to the Casino.”

Right. I couldn’t talk to Jo right now because she was currently smack-dab in the middle of the biggest day of her life. I hung up and turned back to Liv and Autumn. “It’s time to go to the wedding.”

By the time we were standing in front of the guests, the haze over the island had scattered, making way for another beautiful day. A salty breeze stirred the palms that lined the walkway. Peter waited beneath an arch of wisteria in front of the old Art Deco mosaic that adorned the Casino, shaded by the round arches that guarded the entrance. Rows of white chairs were arranged before us, almost all of them filled. A golf cart approached in the distance.

It felt like today was happening on fast-forward. I hadn’t even seen Jo since last night. On the other side of Peter, Declan caught my eye and smiled, his hands clasped in front of him as we waited for the golf cart buzzing down the boardwalk toward the Casino. We hadn’t had a moment alone in all this, either. I needed to figure out how I was going to explain the article—I doubted he would have seen it yet, but it would have to be addressed sooner or later. Guilt ripped through me. I should have told him last night. Should have come clean about the podcast and the plan to take a couple weeks off from the rules the moment I felt uneasy after that conversation with Shelley. Now, every explanation I tried to conjure up felt like I was doing damage control. This wasn’t me being honest—I was caught red-handed, and now I had to scramble to explain.

The golf cart rolled to a stop. It was decked in flowers and layers of white tulle, and someone had prematurely scrawled just married across the back in white chalk paint—fun and cheesy and very on-brand with everything this island was about. Necks in the audience craned to catch a glimpse of the bride. Jo’s dad was driving, and he honked the horn twice before jumping out to help her with her dress.

The music changed as Jo stepped out of the golf cart and accepted her father’s proffered arm. She fussed for a couple of seconds with the sleeves of her dress—they were loose and off-the-shoulder in a way that looked elegant, but also effortless—before she took her first step down the aisle.

The ceremony was short and sweet, which I was grateful for, given the way the sun was beating down on the wedding party. They got through the vows without any objections, Peter swept Jo in a kiss, and then it was done. They were married. The guests were ushered inside the Casino Ballroom while the wedding party hung back to take pictures before we were excused so that the photographer could get some pictures of just the newlyweds. Stepping into the air-conditioned Ballroom, I wiped my forehead on the back of my arm and broke away from the rest of the wedding party to throw back a shot of tequila at one of the bar carts. Afterwards, I grabbed a seat next to Declan at the table.

“You look amazing,” he said in my ear.

And there was the guilt again, clawing at my throat like it was desperate to find a way out. I swallowed. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself.” Jo had selected a rich shade of blue for the groomsmen, though Declan had already shed his suit jacket, revealing a white dress shirt and loosened tie underneath.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, setting a hand on the knee I hadn’t realized I was jiggling. I forced it still. “You seem … I don’t know, tense.”

“Just weddings, you know?” I said with what I hoped was an airy wave of my hand.

His forehead creased in a frown. “I’m not sure I do.”