Page 76 of On the Beat

“That sounds fun.” Gloria pauses for a moment, sipping her mango juice. “I’m really glad you came to El Nido, Isla.”

“Me, too, Gloria.” I lie on my side, staring at the silhouetted outline of her face in the setting sun. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

I’ll miss her. And I’ll miss things I didn’t even know I could have.

* * *

The next morning, the jet engine roars as we take off. I grip the handle of my purse and stare out the window, watching as the tiny shapes of the palm trees grow smaller and smaller, the clear blue waters morphing from a narrow patch of coastline into an expansive ocean. From far away, everything seems so much smaller. I wish the same could be said for my problems.

I pull out my laptop. The device seems to incriminate me, humming with a faint buzz that tells me it’s on the verge of overheating. Should I forge on anyway and try to watch a Netflix film? The other occupant of the flight, Ryder Black, appears appropriately distracted. I take a deep breath. No. I should try to finish my second article. Not the financial scandal one, which I wrote in a hurry and pitched to a business magazine, not expecting a response, but the celebrity piece.

It isn’t the expose that Jane wanted from me, or a scandalous bombshell about how Ryder Black is doing cocaine and hooking up with models, but it’s the truth. And the truth is something I haven’t written about in a long time. Maybe that’s why the words refuse to come to my fingertips. I glance over at Ryder, who sits in the recliner on my left.

“Whatcha doing over there?” I say. Ryder has his headphones on, plugged into his laptop, and he’s fiddling with something I can’t quite see.

He gives a non-committal grunt that could mean anything. I shrug, easing the weight of a guilty conscience. It gives me more time to finish typing up my article. I check my email again like a bad itch that won’t go away no matter how many times I scratch it. Though I know there won’t be any other messages than the one I received this morning. The one I’m still hesitant to believe.

Dear Ms. Iris Hart,

Thank you for your pitch “Pop Star’s Brother Caught in Financial Embezzlement Scandal… or is it a Scam?”Though the title could be changed to better suit our editorial guidelines, there is no doubt that this is a story with great potential for our readership at Financial Buzz L.A. and we’d like to offer you the opportunity to write more pieces for us in the future.

If interested, please reply so I can book a meeting with you. The FBLA team would be happy to have you on board as a contributor.

Regards,

Tom Allen

FBLA Editor

I reread the message, my eyes scrolling over the text as my pulse races, the sound as loud as the jet engine roaring in my ears. FBLA wantsmeto write more pieces for them. Even if I’m not exactly a math whiz or even a great lover of finance, I submitted the article to them and some other magazines to get some exposure for my work. I’m also hoping for money since Kaiden called last week to tell me that he can’t keep my room empty for much longer and is considering renting it to someone else.

Maybe I won’t have to write any more celebrity exposes or stupid gossip or trashy tabloids. Maybe I can do somerealwork, even if finances aren’t my first love.

I sneak a peek at Ryder. Reality beckons me, no matter how much I’d like to stay in this island paradise. No matter how much the Philippines and all the familial bonds I’ve made here still call to me, anchoring me to this part of the world, L.A. has become home for me in a way that New York never was.

Although New York is where I grew up, where my family still lives, and where I feel like I was supposed to be–where everyone expected me to end up–it’s never felt like home. Not because it’s so cold, or because there’s something about the blunt rudeness of New Yorkers that I could never really stomach even if I tried to emulate it. L.A. feels like where I’m meant to be; whereIwant to be.

“What are you looking at?” Ryder takes off his headphones, glancing at me across the console between our reclining seats. I try not to enjoy the plane ride too much, knowing that soon I’ll be back to my regular life, flying economy-class between a crying child and a businessman who supposedlyneedsall the elbow room.

“Not much,” I lie, snapping my laptop closed. I fish around in my purse for something to do with my hands, hoping that I packed a book to read or at the very least a newspaper with a crossword puzzle–my guilty pleasure. I say guilty, only because I always end up so frustrated that there are a dozen answers that could fit into one set of squares. Thus, I always end up chucking the newspaper across the room and feeling bad if it hits something or someone.

“What are you going to do when you get back to LA?” He clears his throat. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do, I mean?”

“Probably get my luggage and take an Uber to my apartment,” I deadpan as I pull out a pen and click it uselessly.

“I didn’t mean that, smart aleck.” Still, Ryder grins at me. “I can’t wait to be in a real studio again.”

I flush at the memory of what happened the last time I was in a recording studio with him and our ensuing first kiss. “I wonder why.”

“When we’re back in Los Angeles…” His voice trails off. “Am I going to see you again?”

“We can just keep things… private.” My email to Jane Thornton burns a hole that seems to sear through my laptop, incriminating me before I can speak. I shove the laptop deep into my backpack and pull out a Sudoku book. It’s not a crossword, but it’ll do for now. “Low-key.”

“I’m perfectly happy with that,” he says. “So, you don’t want to be my date to the Met Gala?”

I roll my eyes. “I’d rather attend as one of the photographers than have to adhere to whatever weird costume theme they’re putting together this year.”

“Good point.” We both sit in silence, remembering the weird horse head costume that somebody had the misfortune of wearing one year. “Though, it was hilarious when Naoya showed up as—“

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