Page 35 of On the Beat

I tap the pen against the notebook, staring out at the beach. I’ve been seeing a lot of Eddie lately, since his uncle James, has brought him to the beach house. I think he’s hoping to get him to break out of his shell of grief over losing his mother. He and I have played cards or just watched movies together sometimes, neither of us acknowledging his loss.

He wants to see his mother. Eddie wants her back so desperately that he’ll do everything possible to cling to the pieces of her. They say grief is love with nowhere to go, and all I can see in Eddie is how desperately he wants to direct his love somewhere. I’ve never experienced that loss at such a young age, but I can’t imagine the pain it would cause anyone, let alone an eight-year-old boy.

Isla, on the other hand… After talking to her last week when she eavesdropped on me, I haven’t seen much of her since.

I haven’t wanted to see her. I haven’t wanted her to pry any more uncomfortable truths out of me than I’ve already given her; any more than I’ve already let myself spill to her. I don’t know why I let her know any of it—about my fight with Poppy, about any part of my past, let alone my childhood, which feels like a century ago. Well, over a decade, so close enough.

It was just in exchange for help with Paulo’s birthday party. Only, it wasn’t. It was some other reason–something in the way she looked at me, something in the way she spoke. Only it might as well be none of that. It might very well just be her journalistic skills and her interview techniques or whatever else they teach in journalism school, aka Black Ops interrogation school.

I groan and resist the urge to bang my head against a wall, mostly resisting it because I’m outside.

“TitoRyder!” A voice rings in my ears, past the pounding surf and wending its way through the faint rustling of the palms.

Crumpling the paper into a ball, I turn my head to see Eddie bounding towards me. My shoulders relax slightly at the sight of him–this little kid who’s taken to trailing me around. Sometimes, he acts like a normal eight-year-old boy who hasn’t just gone through the worst loss imaginable. At other times, he’s moody and sullen enough to rival any teenager.

I chuckle at the use oftitoto describe me, even if Paulo did tell me it’s just a common term of address for anyone old enough to be considered your uncle. Though he’s Paulo’s cousin, and his mom is Paulo’s aunt, Eddie, for some reason, has attached himself to me, a la barnacle. I can’t say I completely mind, as it gives me something to obsess over other than the upcoming charity concert or my music. Plus, it reminds me of lifeguarding at the local pool back in my high school days. A simpler, more peaceful time. Before fame drained me. Before it changed Poppy.

The small crucifix around his neck bounces up and down as he runs toward me, launching himself onto the beach chair next to mine. He jumps up and down on the chair, gesturing toward the Taylor guitar on my lap. “Can you teach me how to play?”

I don’t have another guitar, and I don’t usually let anyone touch this one, not since I bought it three years ago. But he’s looking at the guitar like a starving child looking longingly at a piece of chocolate cake in a bakery window, knowing he doesn’t have the money to buy it. I knew that feeling all too well growing up.

“Of course.” I loop the strap over my head and around his neck, showing him where to put his hands. “Here’s how you hold it…”

After a few moments of me teaching him the basics, he interrupts me. “Can you teach me how to playChristmas in our Heartsby December?”

“I think the question is, can youlearnto play that by December?” I say, puffing out my chest with mock arrogance. The mention of the future makes my stomach twist. “Why that song specifically, buddy?”

“It’s my mom’s favourite Christmas song.” I notice that he doesn’t sayit was. He looks down at the guitar, his small hands on the strings, no callouses formed yet on his fingertips. They’ll come in time, just like the grief will endure. “What’s your mom’s favourite Christmas song?”

“I…” I’m not sure I have an idea. But then, when I think about it, I remember. Growing up, every December my mom would always set out our tiny artificial tree, so laden with ornaments and tinsel from Poppy’s and my arts and crafts, or from the dollar store, and put it by the window, waiting for the rare snowfall in Kentucky. We would drink cheap eggnog and my dad would find branches for my mom to make a wreath. He’d hang up the mistletoe and kiss her in front of the TV while we were watchingHome AloneorA Christmas Storywhile the three of us complained and made grossed-out faces. She would put on old Christmas music: Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole or sometimes even Michael Bublé if she was feeling “hip.” I let myself smile at the memories. “Let It Snow.She really likesLet It Snow.”

“Can you sing it for me?” Eddie asks, but I don’t think he’s asking because he doesn’t know how the song goes. I think it’s because he wants to be distracted by something else, from the pain and grief shadowing him. I don’t blame him.

So, I agree to his request and Paulo finds us on the beach singing Christmas songs, because afterLet it Snow,Eddie demands that I singWhite Christmas,I’ll Be Home for Christmas, and half a dozen other old jazz standards that my mom loves.

“You’re back!” I rise to my feet, giving him a one-armed hug. “How was it? Is your family okay? Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve picked you up at the airport…”

“Ryder, you wouldn’t survive driving here. Tito James picked me up, and–oh, hey, Eddie. What are you doing here?” His eyes widen as he perhaps realizes the impropriety of his question and the fact that Eddie’s just lost his mother. “I mean, I’m happy to see you. What are you two doing out here, though?”

“TitoRyder was showing me how to play guitar,” Eddie says, looking up at his older cousin “How come you never told me you were friends with a famous person, Kuya Paulo?”

Paulo laughs, sitting on the beach chair next to mine. “When I met Ryder, he wasn’t famous. Come on, it’s time for dinner. You two have been out here so long, Ryder’s getting sunburned.”

I touch the bridge of my nose gingerly only to discover that it is, in fact, peeling. I’ve lived in the South for so long and then moved to L.A.—both of those sunny and neither of those are the climactic equivalents of the North Pole. I thought my complexion might have adjusted to the sun, giving me freckles or a tan instead of redness and sunburns. “Great.”

Eddie laughs. “You look silly.”

“My face is melting off,” I joke. “I’m going to go see what I can do about this… I’ll join you guys for dinner in a bit, okay?”

Paulo nods, herding his younger cousin into the beach house. I watch the two of them retreat into the back door before walking in with my guitar in hand, bounding up the stairs with my flip-flops still on. I look for the bottle of aloe vera gel, but realize that I used the last of it and never bothered to get more.

Lovely. I try to figure out where I could acquire some on such short notice, when someone knocks on my door. “You look like a lobster.”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” I say, touching my face almost self-consciously. I haven’t been this self-conscious about my appearance since high school, when I had ten piercings, wore black eyeliner, and all-black clothing. In the South, that didn’t exactly repel bullying. Nor did it repel the heat. “Are you here to offer something of help, or just make more crustacean comparisons?”

“I foundyouraloe vera gel inmysuitcase.” She tosses it at me and in the most humiliating fashion, I fumble the catch. There’s a reason I did high school swimming, instead of playing basketball or football.

The tube of gel skids onto the floor, by her feet, and she picks it up. I half-expect her to throw it at me again, but to my surprise, she walks into the room and hands it to me. A gentle breeze pushes the door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving the two of us alone in a room together.

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