Page 75 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Up on the stage, Renee had the microphone in her hand and the band was winding down. “First and foremost, on behalf of Jo and Peter, allow me to thank you all for being here to share in this momentous occasion. Tonight’s festivities are provided by Castaway Catalina Events. Please consider us for the next important event in your lives, whether it’s a birthday party or a work retreat.”

One table over, a teenaged Hernandez cousin coughed into his hand, and it sounded suspiciously like tacky. Beside me, Declan’s lips parted slightly, his brow knit as he flicked a thumb over the screen to scroll down the article.

“And now, I think we’re a touch overdue to hear from our maid of honor. So, Margo, if you don’t mind coming up here to give your toast—”

Whatever else she’d said was drowned out by my heartbeat hammering in my ears. Declan looked up from his phone, slowly, like he’d just registered that someone had said my name. His hazel eyes found mine, but there was none of the warmth in his expression that I’d grown so used to, none of the quiet amusement or the bright, uninhibited curiosity. There was just … nothing. Like a curtain had drawn shut, and the lights on the stage had dimmed.

“Margo,” Renee said again, her voice echoing in the wide ballroom.

“Please,” I whispered, searching his face for some sign that he wasn’t going to shut me out completely—that this was just an intermission, and we’d be back for a second movement. “Just give me a few minutes. I can explain.”

Before I knew what was happening, someone was ushering me out of my seat and shoving a microphone in my hand.

CHAPTER26

Champagne sloshed over my trembling fingers as I climbed the steps to the stage and turned to face the audience. I didn’t remember grabbing my champagne flute off the table. The lights had always disarmed me, standing on this side of a stage—it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust so that I could pick out individual faces in the crowd. Bile burned at the back of my throat, and I was tempted to wash it down with the champagne, but I had to make a speech first. I could do this. I hadn’t prepared what I wanted to say, but I was always better at improvising. I’d put on an act for the podcast a hundred times. I just needed to say a few words and smile for the camera.

“Hi,” I said, and my own quivering voice echoed back at me, magnified times ten. Okay, so maybe this was a little different from improvising behind a computer screen. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the maid of honor. Some of you might know me as Go from the podcast that Jo and I run together, but in real life, my name is Margo.” My gaze met with Jo’s where she sat beside Peter at the sweethearts’ table, and she nodded her encouragement. I directed all my attention toward her because I was scared that if I looked over at Declan, I’d fall apart.

“I met Jo the first day of kindergarten. She wasn’t ready to spend a whole day at school away from her parents, so I tried to cheer her up by smearing Crayola paint all over my face.” A few people laughed. “We might’ve gotten put on time-out, but it worked. By the end of that first day, Jo was fine. And that was the last time she was scared to take the next step. Since then, she’s always been the first one to do everything. The first to volunteer to speak up in class. The first to go to college. And now, the first to get married.”

Peter leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Jo frowned, tearing her eyes from the stage to search the ballroom.

I took a deep breath, the rush of air picked up by the microphone, but it felt like I couldn’t breathe deep enough. I didn’t want to be up here. I needed to wrap things up. “I’ve always looked up to Jo, because all those firsts have inspired me to do better in my own life. When I look at Jo and Peter, I see something to strive toward.”

Jo mumbled something. Peter was rising from his seat. Somewhere, a door slammed—one of the French doors, I realized, as heads in the audience whipped around for the source of the sound. Unable to restrain myself any longer, my gaze cut to Declan.

Or rather, to his chair, because it was empty.

I turned back to Jo, my mouth half-open. Go, she was mouthing. Why was she mouthing my name? It wasn’t until she stood up and flung a finger at the French doors where Peter was slipping outside that I realized what she meant. “Go!” she ordered, and this time she shouted it.

“So, here’s to Mr. and Mrs. Figueroa,” I said, my voice cracking as I raised my champagne flute in a sloppy toast. “May you have many happy years.”

Half of the guests were too busy craning their necks and muttering their confusion to bother raising their glasses in a toast, but I didn’t wait around for them to catch up. I chugged my champagne and shoved the microphone into Renee’s arms. “What—” she sputtered, but I didn’t wait around to hear the rest of the sentence, because I was flying down the stairs and across the dance floor. Behind me, the band struck up a jazzy version of “Crazy in Love” to fill the lingering silence, but the click of my heels seemed to echo off the domed ceiling anyway.

I burst through the French doors onto the promenade, but there was nobody standing there. The sun was setting behind Avalon, the sky a grayish-purple and the mountains charred black against the yellow glow of the city, the promenade lit by yellow overhead lights. I followed the pillars as they wrapped around the cylindrical building, to the east-facing side that looked back toward the mainland.

I saw Peter first—standing with his back to me, his arms folded as he said something in a low voice that I couldn’t quite make out. Declan appeared as I rounded the building. He had a shoulder leaned against the pillar as he stared out at dark water, which seemed to stretch on forever before it was swallowed up by the night. They both looked over at the sound of my footsteps.

Peter glanced back and forth between the two of us, and seemed to conclude it was best if he saw himself out. “All right, man. I’ll see you next weekend.” He caught my eye as he turned to leave and raised his eyebrows. It was a brief expression, there and then gone again, but his meaning was clear: good luck.

Declan had straightened up so that he wasn’t leaning against the pillar, but he made no effort to initiate conversation. I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in his chest, to have him draw me into his arms and whisper into my hair that it would be all right. But the chances of that happening looked pretty slim, at the moment. I took a deep breath and took a tentative step toward him. “What’s next weekend?”

He made a show of buttoning his suit jacket before stuffing his hands in the pocket of his dress pants. “Going over to Pete’s house to help pack.”

In the midst of everything, I’d almost forgotten that Jo was moving out of our apartment. I’d be packing myself, soon. “You’re leaving.”

He pressed his lips together. I got the impression he didn’t want to meet my eye—he kept looking back at the water, even though it was dark. “The wedding’s over. I figured I’d catch the last ferry tonight. Have some time to relax before going back to work on Monday.”

He wasn’t giving me much of an opening, but he also wasn’t walking away yet, and I thought maybe that was a good sign. I searched for the right words. Reggae drifted from one of the yachts parked down on the water, followed by a splash and raucous cheers. It felt like it was worlds away. “I know I probably don’t have the right to ask anything of you,” I said, my voice unsteady, “but please. All I’m asking is that you hear me out.”

“What are you planning to say? That it’s all made up? You sent those texts, Margo.” He looked like he wanted to say more but his mouth clamped shut. A muscle feathered in his jaw. The unspoken accusations hung in the air between us: I sent those texts. I made that Patreon post. And I searched up his name on Instagram before this vacation ever happened, but not for the reasons he was thinking.

“I know I did,” I said. “But it’s not the way the article made it look. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

“Didn’t plan to catch feelings, you mean?” he shot back.

Tears stung at my eyes. I wanted to rip my heart out of my chest if it meant I could stop feeling like this, because yes, of all the rules I’d broken, I’d broken Rule Number Seven the worst. And I didn’t want to regret that, but I was having a hard time being okay with it right now, because this fucking hurt. Even worse, I wasn’t sure I deserved to feel sorry for myself.