Page 46 of On the Beat

“Great, I always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. How will they assassinate me? Sniper? Hitman? Will the chef come out to grill the food for us and accidentally set me on fire?”

“Maybe you should’ve gone into stand-up.” She sighs, adjusting her grip on me and loosening it. “Thanks again for doing this, by the way. You really didn’t have to go along with my scheme to just tick off my parents.”

“I understand scheming parents,” I say, half-shrugging. “My mom has been after me to get a girlfriend ever since I broke up with Skye.”

I feel her shift behind me. “You haven’t?”

“Are you curious about my love life?”

“Your fake love life only.”

“I love music. That’s all I really need right now.” Though if I’m being honest, coming home to the beach house has been… well, it’s been cozy. Homier than any cold L.A. penthouse has felt in a long time.

“Right. Your music that I’ve barely heard since I’ve been here,” she says.

“And you’re only here to see your family.” A sea of half-truths and an inch of physical distance lie between us on this motorcycle. As if on cue, Isla scoots closer to me, her chest pressing against my back. I pull over next to a beachfront restaurant. “We’re here.”

She sucks in a deep breath. “In case anything happens to you tonight, you should give me your lawyer’s number. And remember: I’m not responsible for any injuries.”

“Isla, it’s not going to be that bad.” Though come to think of it, I’ve only ever disappointed girls’ parents when I met them. Skye’s family, which was Holywood royalty, definitely didn’t approve of me, a small-town Kentucky boy. “What are they going to do, take me out back and beat me up?”

“I have two older brothers and a father who was in the military. One of my brothers is an Olympic swimmer—”

“Francisco, I remember,” I say, having chatted with them briefly before Isla dropped thewe’re a fake couplebomb on her family. “Swimming. It’s not like he was an Olympic boxer or even a hockey player. I mean, have you seen those guys duke it out on the ice? They’re even worse than MMA fight—”

“Ryder,” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m trying to save you. If you want to die, that’s on you.”

“Very reassuring words from my fake girlfriend,” I say. “How long is this charade lasting, by the way? I don’t think Paulo believes it at all.”

“Until they leave,” she says, staring up at the restaurant sign. “Okay, we can’t keep them waiting any longer. How do I look?”

I survey her: her dark hair is tousled—windswept, Poppy would say—and flows over her dark red dress, one calf-length cotton. She wears a coat of matching red lipstick and gold hoop earrings.

“Beautiful,” I say at last because it’s the truth.

A smile plays across her face for a moment, before it disappears into an expression of resigned dread. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

* * *

By the time we make it into the restaurant, Isla’s family, seated at a table with ten people of various ages, has already ordered a soup I recognize assinigang. I spy Paulo, sitting next to a teenage girl who I assume is his little sister. Next to him is his mother, Tita Evangeline. As Isla moves to sit next to her parents, I pull out Isla’s chair for her, eliciting an “aw,” from Gloria. It may be one of the only friendly gestures I receive all night. I’m about to take the seat next to her when her father, Cesar, clears his throat and gestures to the empty chair on his left. “Rylan, was it?”

“Ryder, sir.” I do my best impersonation of a nice, well-mannered Southern gentleman. Those manners are extremely out of use, so he doesn’t seem impressed, and I’m not sure why I want Isla’s parents to like me anyways.

She gives me a half–desperate,please don’t leave mekind of look as I sit between her father and older brother, Gabriel.

“I have a concealed carry permit,” Gabriel says to no one in particular.

“Wow, we have that in common, then,” I say jovially. I’ve been handling firearms since I was twelve, and BB guns long before then. One New Yorker–even if he is an Olympic champion–doesn’t scare me.

“Why don’t you guys dig in? The soup looks delicious,” Paulo suggests. I think I see a drop of sweat beading on his forehead as he picks up his water glass and downs it in one go. I thought being a doctor would mean he was prepared for high-pressure situations, but then again, maybe he’s just not prepared for a war zone. “Kain na tayo.”

I’ve picked up enough Tagalog to know that it meanslet’s eat.I agree.

The radio begins to play some sort of wistful, gentle song that I’m surprised to find I recognize. It’s one of Rey Valera’s greatest hits, something silky and swaying that makes me want to sip a cocktail out of a coconut and stare out at the beach, waiting for a lover who will never return. Or something like that. I think Isla played it for me when we were looking for songs to sing at the charity concert.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the girl who looks like Paulo’s sister says, perhaps in a pitiful attempt to break the tension. “I’m Gloria, Paulo’s much cooler younger sister.”

Isla gives her the tiniest of grateful smiles.

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