Page 61 of On the Beat

“You’re so gracious, Isla Jane Romero.”

The oar she holds drags against the sand as we pull to a stop by the docks. “How do you know my middle name?”

“Your mother yelled it when she was scolding you this morning.”

I help her out of the kayak, and she’s apparently still surprised enough to take my hand and allow me to lead her toward the beach.

“I didn’t know you heard that.” I can feel her guards rising. That should be what I want. Nothing complicated or difficult or emotional. Nothing with strings not only attached but entangled, tying us into knots. I should keep my guards up, too.

But somehow, I can’t.

“Yes, and I also heard you valiantly defending your choice of fake boyfriend, which I appreciated.”

This morning, before we left to come here, her mother chastised her for dating me, since I’m a bum with no job prospects, and for turning down a marriage proposal from a doctor.

Isla draws a heart in the sand with her flip flop, a pink flower design painted on her toenails. Neither of us speaks for a moment.

“I guess we’re even. Since you eavesdropped on my familial conversations…”

She breaks out of her silence, smacking my arm. “I didn’t purposefully eavesdrop! You were speaking really loudly.”

“So was your mother. Also, who is this doctor whose proposal of marriage you refused? Are you sure you’re not living in a Jane Austen novel?”

She fiddles with the end of her braid. “I didn’t know guys knew who Jane Austen was.”

I press a hand to my chest as we walk toward her parents, using my free hand to grab hers. “I was educated by my sister, Poppy, and all the period dramas she watches.”

The mention of my sister no longer stings as much as it did a month ago. I guess that’s progress, even if she didn’t pick up the phone when I called.

And she did have that weird answering machine message…Hey, it’s Poppy. If you need me, I’ll probably be fending off jokes about flowers or running a fashion errand. If you’ve seen me on TV–no, you haven’t.Leave a message after the beep.

The first two sentences were perfectly standard; they were part of the same message that I’ve heard a thousand times. But the third one really got to me. Why would she be on TV?

“Poppy Black…” Isla interlaces her fingers with mine. “Isn’t she on some show–”

“Isla!” Her father waves a hand, gesturing for us to hurry up. “What’s taking you two so long?”

We quicken our pace, the sand uneven beneath my feet. Though I used to run track in college, I find my pulse speeding up. Or maybe it’s the secret that I’m certain Isla was about to reveal to me. The secret about my sister.

I do my best not to dwell on it in front of her family, not wanting anyone to ask me why I look like I’ve seen a ghost–or the clown fromIT–and it’s easy enough as they decide to have a snack on the beach.

Over fresh fruits–a dizzying array of guava, mango, and a special kind of sweet pineapple that can apparently only be found in the Philippines–Isla’s mother asks me, “What’s your family like, Ryder?”

In an effort to compose my tangled thoughts about my sister (a traitor who semi-apologized) and my brother (a white-collar criminal and drug addict), I take a long sip of the coconut drink in front of me.

Isla clears her throat. She saw my face when I was reading the letter from Poppy, so doubtless she knows it’s more complicated than I’d like it to be. “Ryder has two siblings.”

Finally abandoning my quest to avoid my problems by prolonged bouts of beverage consumption, I clear my throat. “My younger sister, Poppy, is a fashion intern forLa Mode.” Well, last time I checked, she was. “And my older brother, River, he’s…”

Unsure of what to say–what lies to concoct or story to tell–I squeeze Isla’s hand under the table in ahelp megesture.

“He’s a businessman,” Isla says. “Runs a cryptocurrency business.”

Wow. She actually made him sound respectable and legitimate. Props to her.

The answer seems to mollify her parents, and the conversation turns to other topics. For a brief moment, I allow my mind to drift as I stare at Isla, tracing my eyes over her face, animated and lively as she talks to her parents.

A song percolates in my mind, the perfect chords and lyrics running through my thoughts. My fingers itch for a notebook, a guitar, some way of preserving this moment before it disappears into the ether. But I’ve never been good at saving anything. I want to fold her into the chords of a song; to entrap her in lyrics and melodies that will never fade, even after whatever between us may have died.

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