Page 74 of On the Beat

“I’m writing a review of Naoya Sugawa’s new album. You asked me whose music I was critiquing, and that’s the answer.” Her gaze is closed-off, like she’s already back in Los Angeles, already back in that city of fame and emptiness.

“How’s his album?” I prod, half-wanting to hear her reply and half-desperate for what I want to hear. For her to tell me she absolutely hates it. To say she’s never heard something so soul-draining.

Isla smirks. “Can’t you just listen to it yourself?”

“What’s the fun in giving him more streams when I can just ask you for your opinion of it?”

“Well, in that case, it’s… it’sokay.”

“Just okay?”

“Do you want me to tell you how much I love and/or hate every song?”

I’ve already read her notebook, so I could guess her taste.

“I guess I could just read your music review blog,” I say. “Do you have one of those, or are you writing reviews just for yourself?”

“I have a blog,” she says. “Well, it’s a vlog, too. I write reviews and I also expand on them on my YouTube channel. I do some reaction videos, too.”

“How many subscribers do you have?” I rest my elbow on my knee. I haven’t met anyone with a reaction or music review channel who seemed to actually care about music, instead of just being a shallow influencer trying to garner likes and attention from strangers on the Internet. Isla is different. There’s a real light in her eyes when she talks about music that I only ever see when I’m looking at fellow musicians or producers or songwriters.

“A few hundred thousand. I’d love to make it into a full time business one day, but… I don’t know if I’d be good enough.” She shrugs. “I started it about a year ago, when I was bored at work.”

“That’s not bad.” I see a fire in her eyes when she talks about the channel, no matter how she tries to disguise it with nonchalance. “If you ever wanted any help with it… I’d be happy to get your channel some publicity, or give you feedback on your videos.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

I shrug in response. While it’s true I’d never offer this to anyone else, I can tell Isla isn’t using me. She didn’t tip off the paparazzi when we kissed. She’s had a dozen chances to give me away and she hasn’t taken any of them. She’s genuine. She’s the real thing.Wemay not be, but she is. “Yeah. I want you to succeed.”

Something softens in her expression, like a part of her melts away, leaving a hole in her defences. “You really mean that?”

“Of course. I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

She wraps her arms around herself, as though the air conditioner has suddenly kicked in. “Thanks, Ryder. I… I won’t let you down.”

I smile. “I know you won’t.”

* * *

I stare into my duffel bag. Poppy’s scarf stares back at me. If I say I bought it for her, I’ll have to give it to her. In-person, even.

How will I deal with that? I’m not quite sure. All I know is… no matter what she’s done, she’s still my sister.

And she did try.

Since I got the text from George Hugh, I’ve called the private jet, made travel arrangements, and now am faced with the task of packing. The act that makes abstract plans feel like reality. Instead of just saying I’m going, which I already did to Paulo and his family and Isla, I’m really going to have to force myself to leave El Nido.

I yank open my closet door and start folding my meagre belongings into my luggage. As it turns out, they’re not so meagre after all. Paulo wanders in at some point, either to help me pack (unlikely) or to just hang out and reminisce about our college days. It turns out to be the latter.

“Geez, it feels like you just got here,” Paulo says. “Now you’re leaving?”

“Come on, don’t act like you’ll miss me that much,” I say, trying not to let my emotions get to me as I fold a pair of shorts and tuck them in my bag. “Maybe next time, you can come to my neck of the woods.”

“I don’t think there are very many forests in LA,” Paulo says. “Or any trees that aren’t palm trees.”

“You are being way too literal,” I say, with a laugh. I throw another t-shirt into my now-full duffel bag. How did I manage to accumulate so much stuff in the course of a few months?

“Ryder!” Eddie launches himself, cannonball style, into the room and somehow lands neatly in my bag in a somersault on top of my clothes. I wince as I hear something crack. That kid should be a gymnast. “How can you leave already?”

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