Page 33 of On the Beat

My mouth drops open. “I never eavesdropped on you.”

“Is that why I heard you breathing outside my door for a solid five minutes?” he says nonchalantly, discarding the cushion next to his phone. It slides off the bed and onto the carpet with a dull thud. “Do you want to tap my phone, too?”

I glower at him. Then I try to dial back my aggravation when I remember that the situation we’re in is more precarious than that of a polar bear floating on an ever-shrinking ice cap.

“I didn’t mean to listen in on your conversation,” I begin to say. “But, I didn’t want to disturb you when you were in the middle of a call.”

“A likely story,” he says. However, he doesn’t drop the subject. “How much did you hear?”

“Why does it matter? I don’t even know who you were talking to, so it’s not like I can sell any story to the press.”

“No, the press isn’t in the habit of selling stories tothemselves.” Ryder’s fingers twitch on the bedspread for a moment, and I wonder what urge he’s suppressing. To strangle me, maybe?

“I know you don’t like me,” I say, twisting a ring on my index finger, “but we have to work together.”

Not to mention, we live together. Alone, now that Paulo is in Cebu for another few weeks.

“I know.” Ryder doesn’t look up from picking at a stray thread on the coverlets. “That doesn’t mean I have to trust you, either.”

It feels like quicksand is closing around my ankles, ready to suck me down and mire me in joblessness and despair. “What can I do to earn your trust?”

“Well, for starters, don’t make it sound like you’re trying to impress me at a job interview or something. I’ll admit that I overreacted today. You were right. My singing did sound fake. Not a lot of people have bothered to point that out to me for the past few years or so, but you did.” He gives a sharp laugh. “That doesn’t mean I’ve particularly enjoyed it. But you were right, and I appreciate that you said something.”

I have to weld my jaw shut to keep it from falling open with surprise. He really thought that my critique was fair and honest? “Well, um, you’re welcome.”

“So, what else do you have for me?” He gives me the same expectant look as before, only this time, he’s not expecting an apology like I ran over his dog. Instead, itdoesseem like we’re at a job interview and he wants me to impress him. The only problem is, I’m not sure how thin the line is between the welcome truth and too-harsh honesty.

“Well…” I say again. “Why not write your own song?”

“I’m not sure if that would go over well.” Ryder fixes his gaze on the mirror across from him. But he’s not enamoured with his own reflection, instead seeming to be lost in thought. “I haven’t written anything good in a long time.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I try to say soothingly.

“Don’t patronize me. I know that my songs have not exactly been popular, or even good these past few years.” He tosses another pillow onto the floor. At this point, there will be a small mountain of throw cushions on the carpet. Almost like he’s trying to build a pillow fort–a veryangrypillow fort at that. “I don’t know why… But it’s like ever since I put out my first album, I’ve been so obsessed with trying to match it or do it that every time I sit down to write, I’m…”

He shakes his head and lobs another pillow to the ground. It skids off the edge of the mattress and lands next to my feet. I have the feeling he’s about to say that he feels scared. That he’s worried he’ll never match up. That he’s been so busy trying to make something good and perfect, that he ends up making nothing at all.

If that’s true, I know the feeling well. Haven’t I done the same thing? After all, I have spent the past few years in Los Angeles slaving away at a mediocre celebrity fan site, and posting music reviews anonymously, because a part of me believes that if I try to write music reviews for real, or get a real music critic job… Well, I’ll have tried. But if I try, I’ll have failed.

“Never mind,” Ryder says bitterly.

I pick up one of the pillows that landed next to me and chuck it at him. “Don’t younever mindme.”

A smile tilts his lips up as he dodges it, the cushion narrowly grazing his ear, and he says, “You have a good arm.”

“I grew up with two brothers,” I say. Maybe if I nudge the conversation toward family, he’ll follow suit. “We had a lot of snowball fights.”

“Right. You’re a New Yorker.” He picks up the pillow I threw at him, one of the small, round kind that rich people’s dogs sit on in fancy oil paintings. Ryder hurls it back at me like a frisbee and it hits me in the arm. “I had one brother, but he’s never been a very good shot.”

I try not to look too interested. “What’s his name?”

One of Ryder’s eyebrows reaches his hair. “Please, Isla, don’t tell me you don’t know everything about me already.”

“You know, the more time we spend together, the more I’m beginning to think you’re a megalomaniac.”

“River Black,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “He… He didn’t teach me much.”

Something about his comment seems to have a hidden meaning that I can’t quite tease out. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to go Google him.”

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