Page 81 of Seven Rules for Breaking Hearts

Erin was obviously waiting for me to say something else, so I said, “I was thinking we could kick things off with a one-on-one discussing Allegro’s mission, what you’re doing different, you know. Then maybe we could arrange a couple artist interviews from there?” The last part came out sounding uncertain. I’d grown comfortable with the same old song and dance in the years spent on Seven Rules; these were uncharted waters for me, and in a way, I was looking to Erin for guidance. Degrees aside, she knew the music industry firsthand, and I didn’t.

She nodded slowly. Her hair was loose around her shoulders today, and with the way it caught the stark overhead lights, it reminded me of molten copper. “That sounds reasonable.” Where her brother’s eyes were a bright hazel, hers were a deep honey brown, but she studied me with the same curious intensity. “Did you have an idea of a title for the podcast itself?”

“I was thinking Charting the Chorus. My plan is to focus on personal conversations with artists. You know, give them a bit of exposure while also diving into the more technical side of the industry, their creative process, that sort of thing.” When Erin only smiled faintly, warmth crept up my neck, and I added, “I’m still workshopping the name.”

“No, I like it,” she assured me. She nodded at the volunteer at the mixing board, and he flipped a switch. “All right. Should we get started?”

The entirety of the recording was finished within the hour. I stumbled over some of the initial questions, but once we got through the first five minutes, conversation flowed. I would probably need to clean up some portions where we veered off-topic and I still needed to create a decent intro and outro, but overall, I felt like the interview was a success.

“Thank you again,” I said as I rose to my feet and slung my bag over my shoulder to leave. “I’ll be sure to email you the final edit before posting anything. And if you’re willing to share to Allegro’s social media, that would be a massive help.” I’d created a few tentative profiles for the new podcast, but I’d kept them confined to my Mac rather than managing them from my phone—I found that it helped me compartmentalize.

“I’ll talk to the guy who’s managing our content right now, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Erin said. She didn’t rise from her seat to walk me out. Instead, she pinned me under another of those looks. Under any other circumstance, her warm brown eyes might have made her seem kind and approachable, but right now she was staring at me so intently that it made me feel restless. “Why did you quit the other podcast? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, I don’t mind.” More than anything, I was relieved she wasn’t asking me something more accusatory. Like what I had done to hurt her brother. “And I didn’t quit. Technically. We just haven’t quite figured out how we’re going to wrap things up.” Assuming we ever actually got around to it. But even as I was learning that I didn’t owe anything to my audience, I still wanted the chance to tell my side of the story after the whole GossipHub fiasco. “There are some … things that I want to explain to our listeners. And I’m not sure how I’m going to do that just yet.”

“Declan mentioned something about an article,” Erin said delicately.

“He told you about that?” I wasn’t surprised, but the mere mention of the article was like a punch to the gut. I had to come to terms with the fact that the story was out there. Even if we were able to convince GossipHub to take it down—and after consulting the PR firm and an attorney, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to open up that legal can of worms—there was no stopping people from talking. But there was also nothing stopping me from defending myself. “I never meant to hurt him. And my feelings were genuine. Are,” I amended, because even as I came to terms with the way things had turned out, my feelings hadn’t changed. “I know it maybe doesn’t look like it, with the way the article framed things. And I feel like I owe him more of an apology, but I get the impression maybe he doesn’t care to hear it.”

As soon as I was finished talking, I regretted opening my mouth. Erin didn’t bring me here to be my therapist or even a friend. This meeting was meant to be professional, but instead here I was, spilling my guts to his sister. “Sorry,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t dump that on you. That was unprofessional.”

“You’re fine.” She seemed to hesitate before releasing a sigh. With a motion of her head, she confirmed with the volunteer that the microphones were off. “I don’t know how well you actually know my brother, but he’s not the biggest fan of texting.”

I snorted, because yeah, that sounded like Declan. “Peter told me something similar. But I already tried talking in person. You were there at In-N-Out, you saw how that went.”

Erin studied me for a moment. “I haven’t read your article,” she admitted. “But given what I already know, I’m not sure I should be taking your side.” I swallowed, nodded, because I completely understood. “At the same time,” she continued slowly, “it does seem like you care about him.”

“I do care about him,” I assured her. “I don’t need him to take me back or anything. I just want him to know that I’m sorry.” I ran a hand through my hair before letting it drop to my side, defeated. “It just feels like no explanation is going to be good enough.” Perhaps because what I’d done wasn’t excusable. In failing to tell him the plans for the podcast, I had betrayed his trust, and there really was no excuse for that.

“He’ll hear you out whenever he’s ready,” Erin said.

I ended up leaving the studio right around the time that rush hour traffic was clogging up the 10. I flicked on my blinker and squeezed in behind a Prius still sporting an Obama ’08 bumper sticker. Once I was safely on the freeway, I turned on the radio and pressed seek until I found a random station—the Chevy was too old for an auxiliary port and the only CD within arm’s reach was my dad’s scratched-up Brooks & Dunn that spent more than half its life lying faceup on the passenger side floor. As I listened to the DJ laughing with a caller about her dating app experience, an idea started to take shape.

It was a gamble. There was every chance it was a bad idea. Harebrained, even. But I also didn’t have anything to lose. I needed to find some sort of closure in this whole mess, even if there was a chance that closure would push Declan even further away.

I reached across the center console to fish my phone out of my purse, and asked Siri to call Jo. It barely rang before she picked up. “I’m thinking it’s time we record Season Seven,” I said by way of greeting.

“With what content?” she asked, her voice a bit tinny, which was always a surefire sign that she had me on the Bluetooth in her Honda Civic. About that time—the clock in my dash read 4:36 p.m., which meant she was just leaving her job at the PR firm that Peter’s mom owned. “I’m married and you’re …”

She trailed off. There was a fun little fill-in-the-blank: Single. Stupid. Pining after a guy who wants nothing to do with you. But even as I recognized the implausibility of my current situation—less than a month ago, I would’ve never in a million years imagined myself here—that didn’t change the reality of it. “Let me worry about the content,” I said.

“The last time you said that, it ended in your phone getting stolen and your personal business leaked all over the internet,” she pointed out. Which yes, that was true, but this time was different. “I think we should just tell Renee there’s been a delay. Buy ourselves a couple more months. I’m super busy with work, anyway.”

“I’ll record by myself. Actually, it might work better that way.” I realized that it sounded like I wasn’t giving her much of a choice, so I added, “If you’re okay with that.”

There was a lengthy pause. I could practically hear the raised eyebrows when she asked, “What on earth are you going to talk about?”

“That part’s tentative. Conditional, I guess, in a way.”

“Whenever you’d like to start making sense, that would be great.”

“I need permission first.”

She sighed. “If you want to handle it, it’s no skin off my back. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I assured her before exchanging a quick goodbye and hanging up. Traffic was creeping at a snail’s pace—the sort of stop-and-go that had a history of getting me into trouble. But it was also the exact sort of drive that made me antsy. If I was going to be sitting here for a couple hours, I might as well do something productive with my time. “Hey, Siri. Send a text to Declan Walsh.”

“What do you want it to say?” she inquired.