Page 88 of On the Beat

When everything else leaves… music never walks out.

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“There’s someone waiting for you in your dressing room,” Mia Rose tells me, right as I step off stage. Her hair has changed since I left for El Nido, now in a different style of braids. It looks nice on her.

She’s pretty. Smart. A good songwriter. I wish I could feel anything for her, but I realize I can’t.

Isla Romero took my heart when I wasn’t looking, and she tore it out and stomped on it.

Marching down the hallway to my dressing room, I expect George Hugh or maybe even Poppy to be there.

I sure as hell don’t expect Isla Romero to be standing in the middle of the dressing room, holding a red notebook and my sea-glass bracelet in front of her, like a present.

“Romero,” I say stiffly before I realize I’m greeting her the way I greeted Naoya. “MissRomero. What can I do for you?”

She sucks in a deep breath, her chest rising. Isla looks prettier than I’ve ever seen her, wearing a red dress with matching lipstick, the colour a shade brighter than that of her notebook. I want to open my arms and tell her all is forgiven. I want to open the door and tell her to get out.

I do neither, and my silence must propel her to say her piece.

“I went swimming the other day. I couldn’t have done that without you.”

“I saw that.” She posted it on her Instagram. I checked it because I wanted to torture myself.

”I was standing there in my editor’s office, getting that promotion and I realized… I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any of it, because it wasn’t mine. It was yours. It was your brother’s story, and part of your life, and I had no right to any of it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have written about him. At the very least, I should have told you I was going to write the article, and I didn’t. For that, I’m sorry.”

In the time that she speaks, I compose myself. Words mean nothing. They mean nothing. It’s actions that really matter. And hers have proven that she’s only wanted to hurt me.

I clear my throat. ”What did youreallycome here for, Miss Romero?”

“I quit my job. I know you don’t want me anymore, and you’re hurt by what I did, and you’re—“

She quit her job?

“The job? You quit your job, the one you betrayed me for, the one youbrokeus for?”

Isla nods wordlessly, like speaking will break whatever moment is crystallizing between us.

“What’s in the notebook?”

“All my music critiques.” She holds it out to me. “I thought you might like to have this. You’ve read some of my writing. But now… now you might want to read all of it. I know you. But maybe I never gave you the chance to know me. Some of it… some of it’s about you.”

“Where are you staying?” I ask.

“My apartment with my roommate.”

“Funny, I could have sworn you said it burned down because you couldn’t do laundry.”

“I lied.” She steps closer to me, looking up at me like she’s drowning and I’m just beyond the surface of the water. “That was the last lie, I promise.”

“I want to believe you so badly.” I rake a hand through my hair. “God, Isla. You have no idea.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I want to trust you.”

“You know who I am now. The real me. Not the person who’s trying to wheedle a story out of you or someone who wants you for fame or a career. I’m just Isla, and I love you, Ryder.”

“I wrote a song about you and I just sang it onstage. I’ve written so many songs about you that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to play them all. They’re all about you.” I shake my head. “I guess that’s how I know it’s real.”

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