Page 4 of On the Beat

“I know, and ever since I laid eyes on you, I’ve just felt such an instant connection to you. So Isla, please, won’t you do me the honour of marrying me?”

I glance at the ring: three-carat diamond in a Tiffany-blue box. Any girl could possibly wear it, love it, and become his wife. That’s the problem.

There’s not an ounce of personalization. This man doesn’t even know my middle name.

“Isla!” Kaiden appears to be fighting the maitre’d, which I spot in the reflection from the mirrored wall at the back of the room. “Isla, we have to go! Naoya Sugawa is back in town and I don’t want to have to fight the other paparazzi to take pictures of him when he leaves his hotel.”

“Kaiden, I’m in the middle of something here.” I toss the words over my shoulder. “Eric, you’re a very nice guy and all, but listen, we can’t get married. Everything we know about each other could fit in that ring box, and, as I said before, I actually have to go. So, thank you, I’m super flattered and all, but no.”

Thankfully, Eric stands up. His dejected expression reminds me of a kicked puppy. “It’s your roommate, isn’t it?”

“Uh…” He can believe whatever he wants, but I’m not sure believing that I already have a boyfriend is going to soothe his ego. Then again, who am I to try to understand men? “Yes.”

“I understand.” He nods, and gathers my ten-dollar bills into a crisp stack before handing it to me and waving the waiter over. “Keep your money. We’re done here.”

I walk out of the restaurant with my head held high. My career is the love of my life, not Kaiden. And I wouldn’t exchange this life I have right now, no matter how crazy it may be, for anything else.

Chapter 3: Ryder Black

“Houston, how are you doing tonight?” I shout into the microphone.

The crowd explodes, clapping and screaming in a deafening roar. I spot I LOVE YOU, RYDER signs and other signs with my lyrics on them. On a normal night, this would fill me with adrenaline, but tonight, I just feel drained. It’s the last leg of my tour for my latest EP, a five-song collection calledBody Languagethat I barely touched except to record.

It wasn’t that I was too busy to write, but every time I tried to write, every time I sat down with a group of musicians or songwriters or just with my guitar, I felt like something was holding me back. Fear. Anxiety. Maybe just plain ole exhaustion.

The show goes on, with me on autopilot. My brain darts through a hundred thoughts: River. Poppy. Everything I said. Everything I didn’t say. Even Skye finds her way there for a moment or two. Still, I go on with the concert, cramming just enough charisma and charm into my vocal cords to put on a convincing performance. At last, we make it to the final track.

“Are you ready for one last song?”

My audience starts chanting, a familiar chant that I easily pick out; not because of clarity, but because I’ve heard it so many times that it echoes in my dreams.Thought You Hated Me.

I don’t know why they love the song so much—maybe because it was my debut single, or because it’s so versatile, easily played as a ballad or even as a high-octane tour opener. But for whatever reason it is, I’m so damn tired of this song. I want to sing it as much as my childhood cat, Odie, wanted to take a bath.

“Girl, you put me on,” I start singing, closing my eyes. My voice is hoarse. I’ll stop right before the chorus, let the band play some guitar riffs, and get a drink of water. “Tried me out. Took too many years to realize that I wasn’t it.”

As I hold out the microphone, the crowd starts singing the lyrics right back to me. This—this is what I live for. Not the fame, not the attention, not the paparazzi following me everywhere. What I live for is the rush that comes with moments like these, not simply touring but knowing that there are more people out there than you who understand the inner workings of what’s between your skull.

I am fueled by the idea that I can encapsulate my life and my thoughts into three minutes and a handful of chords, and spin it into something that other people love, too. Not just something they love, but something they know like a heartbeat, a secret, a memory you turn over and over as one does a lucky penny.

Yet, Thought You Hated Medoesn’t feel like something I know or love. It feels like a former skin that I want to shed, but it keeps sucking me back in.

“But when did I say I thought you hated me? And when did I ask? For your excuses, your apologies, every shred of my dignity that you tore into strips?” I belt out, at the peak of the chorus.

We make it through the chorus to the end of the second verse, and as I sing the words, I can’t help but wonder if they apply to me. Not to Skye, my ex-girlfriend who I wrote the song about. “But the last time I saw you, you were nothing but bitter. And I don’t know if it’ll ever get better.”

I spy phone lights waving back and forth, people with their hands in the air, swaying to the music of my misery.

“Laid at my feet, like an offering to all the wrong gods. And maybe part of me still cares, but you took that part with you when you left,” I rasp out the last few words of the second chorus.

Breathing heavily, I grip the microphone stand as my drummer goes into an epic drum solo. The audience is always mixed on this part of the song, but I savour it. The pounding beats silence any frenzied thoughts in my head.

That is until I spy a sign in the crowd. Not friendly, not critical, not even obsessive. Just far too presumptuous, and getting all the facts wrong. RYDER, WHY DID YOU GO TO REHAB?

I didn’t. But the cameras caught me, and whatever they catch under that flashbulb’s glare must be accurate in this world of internet celebrity and social media fame.

Taking a deep breath, I ignore the things I read and keep going.

Finally, I reach the outro. “And screw it, I lied. I thought you hated me and it broke me inside. So go ahead, do with that what you will. I’ll be here, getting record deals.”

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