Page 47 of On the Beat

“Ryder.” I extend a hand over the table and shake hers. Maybe I have one ally here. “Paulo’s told me about you.”

“Oh no, now you know all my embarrassing stories,” she says, covering her face and sneaking a peek at her older brother.

“Just a few,” I say, laughing. Truthfully, back in college, Paulo always spoke fondly about his family, especially his sister, even if his fondness was tinged with annoyance about the times she trailed after him, asking him to play cards or go fishing with her. “But I’m sure you can redeem yourself.”

Clearing her throat, Joy Romero looks at me like I’m a spider that she has to choose between carrying outside with a paper cup or crushing under her heel. “So, Rylan, what is it that you do?”

I give up on correcting either of Isla’s parents about my name, running a hand through my hair. Despite the air conditioning, a faint sheen of sweat forms on my nape. “I’m a musician.”

Trying to cast a side-eye at Isla and somehow read her mind to see if she ever mentioned me to her parents, I receive nothing but a blank stare. Oh, well. It was worth a shot.

“And have you found any success?” Cesar Romero waits expectantly for my answer.

Isla, wide-eyed, shakes her head at me, but I have no idea if she means that I should say yes and tick off her parents, who clearly think I’m a dirt-poor starving artist, or say no and let them believe whatever they want of me.

“I manage to get by,” I say, trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice, keenly aware of Gabriel and Francisco on my left side and Tito Cesar on my right. “I can pay rent and eat on a regular basis, so I’m doing better than most.”

“But you’re here on the charity of my nephew, who has so graciously offered you his beach house,” Joy says, not a curl of her immaculately coiffed hairstyle falling out of place as she leans forward, putting one elbow on the table. When I don’t respond, she continues. “Is that not what Paulo is doing?”

Paulo has to hide a snicker behind his water, nearly choking, and he waves a hand to summon the waiter. “A Red Horse beer, please.”

Tita Evangeline breaks in to save the day. “You know, I did hear Ryder sing before. We had karaoke and he sang quite well. You should go on that American talent show,The X-Factor.”

I pick at the soup that’s been ladled into my bowl, peeling a piece of pork off the bone in the citrusy broth, while both Paulo and I try not to laugh. If only she knew. “I’ll take that under advisement,TitaEvangeline.”

Isla chokes on her spoonful of soup and I’m about eighty-seven percent sure she’s hiding a laugh. I see my escape opportunity and get up to go pound her on the back. Visions of us riding away into the sunset dance through my mind and I have to shut them down.

“You good?” I glance down at her.

Tears have formed in her eyes, but she nods, her cheeks slightly reddened. She takes a sip of water. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No, you reallydidn’t, Riley.” Cesar looks on like he wants to borrow his son’s firearm and aim directly at the hand that I have on his daughter’s back.

“So, Isla tells me you’re both doctors, Dr. and Dr. Romero,” I say when I return to my seat, not a moment too early.

“Yes, we both work at Cornell,” he says, puffing up slightly.

“You must be very accomplished to have attained a position there,” I say, trying to lay on more charm and make it out of this dinner alive.

He clears his throat again but says nothing, apparently mollified by my flattery. Well, hopefully, even if he doesn’t acknowledge the compliment verbally.

“So how long are the four of you planning to stay in El Nido?” Isla asks, apparently hoping to end our dating ruse as soon as possible.

“We booked two weeks off of work, though the boys will be here for only a week,” her father responds.

My shoulders relax. At least, we won’t have to pretend for that long. I don’t know why a frisson of disappointment goes through me, mingling with relief.

The conversation turns to upcoming Christmas parties—the lack of Thanksgiving in the Philippines seems to throw away all inhibitions against celebrating Christmas as early as September—and I relax slightly. That is, until something brushes against my foot under the table and I nearly jump out of my skin.

I fix a questioning look on Isla, but she’s completely unfazed, in the midst of a conversation with Gloria about bubble tea. As surreptitiously as possible, each nerve standing on edge, I peek under the tablecloth. Nothing. It was probably the table leg or something.

Fidgeting, I pick at the food, too nervous to eat much of anything. On the pretense of getting up to go to the bathroom, I instead make my way toward the hostess stand and pay for the meal, figuring it might be good fun just to see the look it puts on Isla’s dad’s face.

Returning to the table, I finish out the rest of my meal in uneasy silence. Someone kicks me in the shin and I grit my teeth.

Gloria notices my expression across from me, and gives an apologetic, sheepish smile in return. “I’m sorry! That was meant for Isla…”

“Why were you going to kick me?” Isla turns to her younger cousin with a frown, playful indignation dancing in her eyes.

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