Page 78 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

“So you’re saying I need to do something he can’t ignore?” I asked, perking up. It felt like both Peter and Jo were making a solid effort to be impartial in all this—not that I really blamed them—so that was as close to real advice as I was likely to get.

“Margo, do not take that as a sign to show up at his work,” Jo shouted in the background. “There’s like a ninety-nine percent chance they’ll arrest you for trespassing on government property.”

“Hey,” Peter said. “That’s not true, they do campus tours for students and stuff all the time—”

“Oh my God, shut up—”

They bickered back and forth for a few minutes before Jo wrestled the phone from her husband and made me promise I wasn’t about to hop off the freeway and turn around. She didn’t need to worry—I was already about five exits past the interchange, and anyway, I wasn’t going to stoop that low.

We chatted for a while about other things before the conversation drifted to the podcast. Neither of us had any ideas for Season Seven, but Renee had already sent several follow-up emails since we got back to the mainland, reminding us that we were contractually obligated to shout them out—or else Jo would be responsible for the cost of both the wedding and the two-week vacation, which we agreed was out of the question. We’d planned for the podcast to be back on air by September, but already it was the first week of August.

After rehashing a few lackluster ideas and failing to come to any sort of decision, we hung up. I pulled into the carport outside my mom’s apartment. I was able to haul my stuff into my old room in a couple trips. It still felt like a sauna because Mom never ran the air below eighty-five and my black tuba bag was still propped up against the side of my dresser, exactly where I’d left it when I moved out. My old fuzzy pink blanket was folded at the foot of the bed with a little welcome basket full of soap and candy bars and a handwritten note—happy to have my girl home, it said, signed with a heart-shaped smiley face.

In the middle of unpacking, there was a knock on my bedroom door, and Mom opened it without waiting for an answer. We’d have to work on that. She was dressed in a ruffly black dress, beaded clutch in hand, and she smiled when she saw me sitting on the bed in my old university sweats. “It’s so nice to see you in here again.” Cat Benatar took advantage of the open door to weave between her legs and hop up on the bed next to me, purring. I scratched beneath her chin. Nothing as flattering as a cat actually wanting to spend time with you. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge and ice cream in the freezer, so help yourself while I’m gone.”

Ah, yes. Not even my mom would be wallowing on the couch with me tonight and watching reruns of reality TV, because tonight she was going out to dinner with Tony. “Have fun on your date.” I hoped it sounded like I actually meant it. I wanted my mom to be happy, but it was hard not to feel a bit disheartened when she had a date on a Monday night and I had … well, nothing except a tub of Tillamook Mudslide and a bottle of three-dollar wine I picked up at Sprouts. And Cat Benatar. Who I now realized did not want my company, but rather had snuck into my room to knead my fuzzy blanket.

“Oh, I will,” Mom said, with a naughty wink as she turned in the doorway to leave.

“Tell him to have you home before midnight,” I called after her. “Otherwise you’re grounded.”

“No promises.”

The smile stayed plastered on my face until I heard the jangle of her keys being lifted from the hook of the entryway, and then the front door closing behind her. I looked around at all the half-emptied moving boxes and lost all motivation. I could finish unpacking tomorrow. For now, I flopped back on my bed and grabbed my phone off the pillow.

I wasn’t sure what to do without all my usual apps, but on the bright side, I’d clocked a lot less screentime this week. I pulled up the conversation with Declan—empty save for my unanswered text—and drafted a new message: I miss talking to you.

I hesitated before clicking send. Why did I always hesitate? Like I wasn’t entitled to express myself honestly, like I always needed to be filtered, every word picked apart before it was approved for sending. I’d had enough of censoring myself. If nothing else, the fiasco with the GossipHub article had taught me a thing or two about honesty. I needed to learn to say what was on my mind. No filters, no editing.

I closed my eyes, pressed send, and chucked my phone across the bed like it had bit me. The message would probably go unanswered. If I was honest with myself, it deserved to go unanswered. But over the course of the last three weeks, a tiny bubble had blossomed in my chest. Some small part of me that dared to hope, to believe in happy endings, and I was terrified of popping it. Scared of going back to the way things were. So I just had to keep hoping, and I hoped against hope I’d get an answer.

The following Thursday marked a new low.

I told my mom that I needed to run back to the apartment in NoHo to finish tidying up, but instead my truck was idling next to the curb on a shady street in La Cañada Flintridge as I stared at the gleaming black sign that marked the entrance. It had the blue-and-red NASA logo and everything, because of course it did. jet propulsion laboratory, it said, and beneath that, california institute of technology. The campus itself was massive, if Google Maps was any indication. Building after concrete building tucked into the arid foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

I thumbed the corner of the envelope resting on my lap and chewed the inside of my cheek. This was stupid. I didn’t even know which building he worked in. How many people actually worked here, anyway? I had imagined myself walking into an air-conditioned government building and asking the receptionist to point me in the direction of Declan Walsh in the Mechanical Engineering Department, but I was coming to the fast realization that there was no front desk and there was a very good chance that no one would know who the hell I was talking about.

I shifted the truck back into drive and flipped a U-turn, snatching the envelope off my lap and reaching across the center console to shove it into the glove box. He hadn’t texted me back. Twice now, which meant he didn’t want to talk to me, let alone find me wandering around his work with an envelope full of cash, blurting his name and job title at random passersby. He’d probably call security and have me chucked back out into the street.

I drove aimlessly for about ten minutes before I spotted a telltale red roof and crisscrossed palm trees. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but it felt like I needed to do something to kill a little time before showing up back at my mom’s again, so I swung into the parking lot. It was packed to overflowing and the drive-thru line spilled out into the road, but that was normal for In-N-Out. I grabbed a parking space right as an old dinged-up Explorer was backing out, and then locked the truck and headed into the dining room, where I ordered Animal-style fries and a chocolate shake before snatching up the booth that had just opened. The tabletop was still littered with used napkins and wadded-up wrappers from straws, but I plunked down onto the bench as I waited, double-checking my receipt for the order number.

When, exactly, had I turned into the sort of girl who showed up outside a guy’s work? That was definitely a new low. I’d always known I wouldn’t be very good at dealing with rejection—I’d just been lucky enough not to deal with it up until this point. My phone buzzed while I was waiting for my fries and I fished it out of my pocket.

Jo: Is there a REASON your location is off??

Jo:

I’d learned my lesson with the stolen phone and set up Find My iPhone this time around, as well as sharing my location with Jo and my mom. But the flip side of that, of course, was that Jo kept checking to make sure I wasn’t doing anything stupid. While I appreciated the concern, I was able to recognize stupid all by myself. And this had definitely been a dumb idea.

Margo: Don’t worry. I’m at In-N-Out

Jo: Which In-N-Out?

Margo: That’s not important

Jo: Omg I’m actually going to kill you

Jo: WHICH In-N-Out, Margo???