Page 80 of On the Beat

Maybe I should’ve listened to him.

If Isla hadn’t done what she did, would she be here with me now? Would we be on our way to my apartment, with the windows rolled down and both of us belting out the lyrics to the Taylor Swift song blaring on the radio right now? Or would we have gone our separate ways over time, drifting apart the way that the ocean pulls grains of sand from the beach, slowly but inevitably eroding it?

L.A. is cold, and all I see in it is Isla Romero.

TheFinancial Buzz L.A.article is splashed across my Twitter feed. A sandy beach on a billboard reminds me of her. Seeing kids splashing around a pool in a YouTube commercial reminds me of how I taught her to swim. I thought we were nothing.

I told her and myself that much.

So why does it feel like she’s everywhere and in everything?

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Ryder.” The cool, British tones of George Hugh reach my ears, and I fight to keep from gritting my teeth. I’m glad he’s dropped the fakemans anddudesin our time apart, but what I want right now is enough white noise to drown an elephant’s sense of hearing.

I don’t say anything. All I see is the sea-glass bracelet I made for her, how she smiled when I put it on, how we wantedforeverandalwaysbut it’ll never be any of those things. We’ll neverhaveany of those things.

And it’s all her fault.

“I read the article on River that Iris Hart wrote. It was quite interesting. I guess River wasn’t as much of a criminal mastermind after all. Though, of course, anyone could have told you that.” He chuckles. “The man isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”

My fists dig into my thighs, my fingernails burrowing into my palms.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention. Pictures of you kissing some mystery brunette in a hotel pool in El Nido have been found on TMZ. Any comment?”

Mystery brunette. That’s all she’ll ever be to the public. And that’s all I want her to be to me. I can’t tell myself that it was anything but that. Shewasa mystery to me, wasn’t she? If I had really figured her out, I would have known what she would do to me. I would have never allowed myself to get as close to her as I did.

“Shut up about my brother, Hugh,” I snap. “I don’t pay you to tell me all the gossip I can read myself.”

“No, you pay me to keep you in the headlines and to keep yournamein people’s mouths,” he says. “You pay me to do my job, which I do remarkably well.”

I need a fight.

I need to talk to someone.

Someone who won’t treat me like I’m a child.

* * *

I haven’t seen Poppy Calliope Black in months.

That doesn’t stop her from being the closest thing to home when I show up on her doorstep, however.

It’s the same small apartment she and Skye used to share. The same sage-green walls, the same tiny kitchen that’s been subject to countless smoke alarm beeps, and the same living room table that Poppy hauled from a garage sale and repainted. Everything that surrounds me is as familiar as it ever was, even though I haven’t visited in what feels like ages.

“Are you just going to stand there or come in?” she calls from the kitchen, shutting the fridge. “Water, beer, or coffee?”

I kick off my scuffed Vans and close the door behind me. “Water would be great, thanks.”

My footsteps creak on the hardwood floors as I walk into the apartment and take a seat in the kitchen, which still holds three barstools, one with a crooked leg that always leaves the person sitting there feeling like they’re on a seesaw.

Poppy sets the water glass in front of me. She’s holding a glass of rosé, her hair styled back in a tight bun that she always wears when she’s about to go to work or just coming from it. Her outfit is different, however; gone are the simple black jeans and t-shirt she always wore when working forLa Mode. Instead, she’s wearing a purple and orange dress with a ruffle at the shoulder and blinged-out earrings, looking like she walked onto the set of a circus and got tangled in the costume department. I don’t tell that to her, of course.

I survey her, the sister who betrayed me and loved me and begged me to forgive her. Out of all the repertoire of arguments and heartfelt statements to choose from, I decide on small talk. “Thanks for the package.”

“You’re welcome.” She adds an ice cube to her rosé, pointedly avoiding my gaze.

I try again. “How have you been? I heard about your new job.”

“What did you hear about it?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine.

---