Page 14 of On the Beat

“Oh, cool. What kind of music do you listen to?” Before I can answer, he snaps his fingers. “My mother would have my head for being a terrible host. You probably haven’t eaten yet, right?”

I shake my head. The time difference between El Nido and Los Angeles has done unpleasant things to my circadian rhythm, leaving me up at all hours last night. Not to mention that I lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan hanging from the ceiling, wondering how I was supposed to get a single word out of Ryder Black.

He’s been nothing but cautiously polite so far. But what I see in him is an icy distance, the way an animal curls up over a broken leg, refusing to let anyone touch it. He’s going to keep his distance from me. Maybe I can ask Paulo about him, their university exploits, or even ask him to be a go-between. Though that does seem like an awkward position for my cousin to be in, and I don’t want him to think that I’m interested in Ryder in some other way, like being an obsessed stalker (I am, maybe) or worse yet, romantically interested.

“Okay, here we are.” Paulo shifts from one foot to another, a restless energy emanating from him that might have more to do with the coffee pot on the counter than any personality trait. Or I could be wrong. How well can you really know a person, just because you happen to share an eighth of the same genes? “Coffee, pandesal, eggs, fruit…”

“Do you havehotsilog?” I say. Back home, my mother used to make fried rice with garlic, eggs, and hot dogs for breakfast every Sunday and paired it with banana ketchup, the sweetness always reminding me of Sunday mornings.

Paulo looks at me like I’ve grown a second head with flaming snakes for eyes. “Of course.”

I smile. “My mom used to make that in New York, too.”

My cousin slides the dish of rice, eggs, and bright red hot dogs across the dining table to me and I dig in.

“What are your parents like?” Paulo asks me as he hops onto the chair next to me, leaving an empty seat on my left. “I haven’t heard much about them except that they’re both in the medical field, though I think we met once or twice.”

I swallow, nearly choking on my garlic rice. Talking about my parents—especially in the context of medicine—always makes me uncomfortable. “They’re… yeah. My mom is an anesthesiologist, my dad is a surgeon. They’re great people.”

“They try to set you up with guys, don’t they?” Paulo nudges my side, sipping his coffee.

“How did you know?” My eyebrows rise.

“You have a relatively stable career. You know what comes after that…”

I chew my hot dog slowly, adding more banana ketchup to bide my time. “A promotion?”

“Sending money back home, then being financially secure enough for a ring.” Paulo rakes a (ringless) hand through his hair like he speaks from experience, since he’s a doctor now and has been for a few years at least. “Oh, hey, Ryder. Sit down.”

“Good morning,” Ryder says, easing onto the barstool on my left. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Hotsilog,” Paulo says, gesturing toward the large buffet-style spread of food. Not only is there rice, tomatoes, but various proteins: bangus, tocino, tomatoes, tapas, longganisa, and fresh fruit laid out on plates.

“The hot dogs remind me of what I ate as a kid,” Ryder says with a smile. “My parents would get up early and be off to work before I had to go to school, so Poppy and I would boil hot dogs with mac and cheese for breakfast. It was all we knew how to make.”

There’s something sweet in his smile. Something tender, fragile as a butterfly about to get pinned to a bulletin board. And it vanishes just as quickly, bright wings snapping shut and flying off to escape capture.

“Sounds fun,” Paulo says. “Though knowing you, I’m surprised you didn’t have that for three square meals.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ryder and Paulo trade inside jokes that I don’t quite get, lobbing banter back and forth as they eat.

“We are in the presence of a man who bought a hundred-pack of Cup Noodles when we were in freshman year and ate all of it in a month, for every meal,” Paulo explains to me. “It was depressing.”

“It was frugal,” Ryder argues.

“Depressing,” I echo my cousin as I stir my coffee.

“I was either in the studio, in classes, or performing in some cover band. I didn’t have time tocook,” he says, rolling his eyes.

I picture the world-famous pop star microwaving his ramen in a dorm room somewhere. Somehow, the image doesn’t come. “I guess you have someone to cook for you now?”

“Actually, no,” Paulo interjects before Ryder can answer. “In our senior year, he actually displayed some culinary brilliance.”

“I had to take a chemistry class to graduate, so I chose the easiest one, where they just teach you cooking,” Ryder explains. “It was practical and it gave me the credits I needed.”

“What’s your best dish?” I finish eating and fiddle with my camera, looking through my recent photos.

“I make a mean tuna casserole.”

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