Page 80 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Erin’s brown eyes flicked back and forth between us, and Declan—catching his sister’s eye—cleared his throat. “I’ll text you the contact details,” he said.

“Thanks.”

An uncomfortable silence descended over our booth. I wondered if I’d made a mistake by inviting them to sit with me. If maybe the better option had been to duck out of the restaurant and pretend I hadn’t seen him, because now there were probably questions racing through his head about what I was doing here, in Glendale, alone at an In-N-Out. And really, there was only one logical explanation. An explanation that happened to make me look like a clingy ex-girlfriend at best, and an outright stalker at worst.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing good,” he told me after a long moment.

“You, too.” But I knew I needed to say something more. The words just tumbled out. “I mean, you look great. I like the beard.”

“Ah.” He ran a hand over his jaw, self-conscious. “Erin keeps telling me to shave it.”

“I told him he looks like a caveman,” Erin said, gesturing at the scruff. “No girl’s ever gonna want to kiss him with all that.”

At the mention of kissing, Declan’s gaze held mine for one long, fleeting moment. I swallowed and tore my eyes from his, popping the bubbles on the lid of my milkshake that marked it as cola, diet, other. “He makes a pretty handsome caveman, so he gets a pass.”

He gave a husky laugh, turning toward the window with a light blush tinging his cheeks. Erin frowned, her gaze cutting to me. I searched for something more to say—something to at least end things on a friendly note, if nothing else. One of the employees called an order number over the loudspeaker.

Declan released a breath like he’d been about to say something, too. “That’s us.” With that, he was sliding out of the booth after his sister. My mouth was still hanging open, but no sound was coming out. He stole a glance back at the table. “Nice seeing you.”

“You, too,” I said in a small voice, and then I watched him walk away.

I wrestled with myself for maybe ten, fifteen seconds. I could let him go. Do exactly what I’d promised Jo and drop it, accept that he would text me if he ever decided he wanted to talk. But it felt like if I let him walk away a second time, I’d never see him again. And while I didn’t get the impression that he was open to hearing another half-baked apology, I still wanted closure. Even if that closure was as trivial as an envelope sitting in my glove box.

I flung myself out of the booth. “Wait up!” He was already cradling the brown paper bag in his arms, but turned, his brow creased in a question. “Come with me to my truck,” I said, breathless. “I need to give you something.”

Erin shot her brother a quizzical look when he handed her the In-N-Out bag, but she didn’t try to follow as I led him out into the parking lot and over to my run-down Chevy. He waited as I unlocked the passenger’s side door and grabbed the envelope out of the glove box before handing it to him.

He stared at it. Declan, I’d scrawled on the front of it, and nothing else. It felt a bit underwhelming, in retrospect. I should have done more. There was no letter inside, no explanation, because I’d planned to say everything I needed to say to his face. He looked up from the envelope, his expression unreadable. “What’s this?”

“It’s two hundred dollars and some change. For the maid uniform and the dry cleaners,” I explained when he only frowned at the envelope. “I promised I would pay you back.”

When he looked up again, there was that familiar flicker again—something bright and curious, a laugh condensed down to a single look. But then he blinked, and it was gone. “You’ve been driving around with this in your glove box?”

I winced. “Come on. You don’t really believe I’m hanging around by myself at an In-N-Out in Glendale because I felt like it, do you?”

He exhaled slowly. “Margo—”

I waved my hands to stop him going any further. “Don’t say anything.” I couldn’t handle getting rejected all over again. “And before you tell me something dumb about how you can’t accept this, it’s not up for discussion.”

He pressed his lips together. It looked like maybe he wanted to say something more, but he held back. “Thank you.”

“I’ll watch for that text. About working with Erin, I mean.” I pushed past him because I couldn’t stand to look at him without kissing him, but the narrow space between the cars forced us together. His hand caught my shoulder as I brushed into him. My pulse rocketed beneath my skin, but he only stepped out of the way, hand dropping back to his side. My skin tingled where he’d touched me, frayed nerves screaming for him to grab me, stop me, make me stay for just a minute longer.

But he didn’t try to stop me. He just nodded faintly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “See you around,” he muttered, but he managed to make it sound more like a goodbye.

I tried my best to ignore the tears welling in my eyes as I climbed up into the cab of the truck and turned the key in the ignition.

CHAPTER28

It was 8:36 at night and a full week later when Declan finally texted me his sister’s contact details. My phone buzzed when I was curled up on the couch, Cat Benatar nestled between my legs as I watched Friends reruns with my mom. I texted him back to say thanks and watched as the notification switched to delivered, but he didn’t text me again. Not that I really blamed him. A simple thank-you wasn’t really conducive to conversation.

I was starting to be okay with the way things had turned out. I wasn’t happy, per se, but I understood why things had happened the way they did. And despite my mistakes, I’d learned a thing or two over the past month-and-a-half. Most important, I’d learned to hope. So maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that I’d screwed up something good, if that was what it took for me to recognize that there were good things out there; maybe I could live with my screwups if I just focused on a brighter future.

I debated whether I should even reach out to Erin. Would spending time getting to know his sister only prolong my suffering? But after exchanging a few texts with her, I realized that this was strictly professional. And when she offered for us to use one of the sound booths at Allegro to record the first season of my new idea for a podcast, I was sold.

“How was traffic?” Erin asked as she led me into the studio. The whole setup was a far cry from the desktop computer and IKEA desk that Jo and I had managed for years. One of their volunteers worked the console as we stepped into the sound booth. A microphone dangled in front of my face where I settled onto a stool.

“Not terrible.” I was disappointed—but not surprised—to realize that we were alone in the sound booth. A small part of me had been holding out hope that Declan would turn up, but I realized now that was silly, because of course he wouldn’t. This was strictly professional. And I was okay with that. I had to be.