Page 54 of On the Beat

We both look up. It’s one of her brothers–Gabriel, I think–hunched over the balcony railing. More cameras flash, causing my heart rate to spike even more. What if the paparazzi see him? Now they know her name, presumably. I glance at the hedges separating the pool area from the outside world, which are definitely not high and protective enough for my liking. More camera lenses jut out over the bushes.

“Rileyand I were just leaving,” she yells back, at least having the presence of mind not to use my real name.

The flashbulbs, shouting, and picture-taking doesn’t seem to bother her at all. I wish I could be as unfazed, but somehow, this whole fame thing–and its negative side effects–never seems to get old for me. And not in a good way.

“Good, because otherwise, I’d have to tell Francisco, and you know how he feels about your… boyfriend.”

Right. The fake boyfriend skit. I guess we could chalk this up to playing the role well.

Gabriel retreats back into the balcony, somehow ignoring the scads of paparazzi surrounding the pool. Surrounded, without any line of attack, I’m about to suggest we pretend to drown to get out of the situation. Then, Isla nudges me. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

She paddles over to the side and pulls herself out of the pool, wrapping a towel around herself and dripping water onto the concrete. “I’ll be right back.”

I have the urge to say,please don’t leave me. Camera clicks, shouts to look this way or that, and questions about what I’m doing in the Philippines assault my senses. Feeling like a sitting duck, I tread water, my fingers turning pruney as I wait for Isla to emerge. She does, with what seems to be a concierge behind her. “Hurry! I think he’s having a medical emergency.”

I scan the perimeter as I decide on what emergency to have. Should I pretend to be choking on something? The press seems to have abated somewhat, and I don’t hear any more camera flashes or paparazzi taunts, so I feel safe enough to get out, fake-coughing.

“Let’s get you into the hotel, sir. Can I get anything for you? Water? Towels?” the concierge asks when I near him and Isla.

As I stand next to Isla, I lean down and whisper, “How did you get them to leave?”

“I told them SB19 was staying across the street.” She grins. “Somehow, they fell for it. I guess paparazzi are the same everywhere.

It’s warm enough that I don’t even bother reaching for one of the towels as we put on our flip-flops and walk into the hotel. A gust of air conditioning makes the hairs rise on my arms. “Just in shock, then?”

“There’s nothing shocking about it. I knew who you were. You’re a celebrity. Of course, paparazzi and crazy stalkers are going to find you, no matter where you go. Nothing’s changed.” She stares straight ahead as we get into the elevator and Isla pushes the button for her parents’ floor. “Not sure what I expected.”

From the world? Or from me?

“Isla, we didn’t kiss because we were fake-dating or whatever. I don’t know about you, butIdid it, because–”

She plasters a smile on her face, one faker than any dental veneers or cosmetic facelift I’ve seen in the past ten years of living in L.A. “You care about me. Got it.”

I run a hand through my hair, unsure of how to break through her sudden ice shell. “Isla…”

“Was this a mistake?” she says, wrapping the towel more tightly around her frame. We kissed once. Once before, one time that I wanted nothing more than to replay for the rest of my life.

“If it was a mistake, it’s one I want to repeat.”

She tilts her head back, looking up at the mirrored ceiling. “You don’t mean that, either.”

“How do you know?

“You’re… you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, glancing at her and remembering my own similar words to her. Now, she’s throwing them back at me like an accusation. “I thought–”

I cut myself off. Surely, I’m not stupid enough to think that sheknowsme. How could she?

“You’re from a different world from me.”

“I’m hardly a prince in an ivory tower, and you’re not a peasant, last time I checked.”

“When this is over…” She jabs a finger at the elevator’s button for the tenth floor, where her parents are staying. A bead of water slides down a strand of her hair, and I follow its descent with my eyes. “When you and I leave, and go back to L.A., we’re not even going to be friends.”

I want to say it’s not true. But the truth lies between us. It always has, maybe.

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