Page 28 of On the Beat

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He sighs, a wordless sound suggesting that there are also things he’s seen that I wouldn’t want to hear. “Tell me how things are going on your end. You and Isla still aren’t talking, huh?”

Paulo has already been to check on his family, and was relieved to hear that most of them were all right, though there’s still one that hasn’t been in contact.

As I watched the storm wreckage on TV, with relief workers wading through waist-high brown water, all I could think of was the little kid, Eddie, on the beach.

A stupid thought, considering he wasn’t even there when the storm happened, but the rain as we drove to the airport pelted down hard enough to be a cause for concern even in El Nido.

“Isla and I were never friends, so I’m not sure it matters whether we talk or not. I mean, it’s better than us fighting, right? I’m sorry… sorry you had to deal with us. This was supposed to be a fun getaway. Instead, it’s turned into this.”

Paulo gives a dark chuckle. “You can now control natural disasters? Are you Poseidon and didn’t tell me?”

“You read too many Percy Jackson books growing up, and no. I’m talking about… the fighting…”

Paulo is busy tending to everyone who was hurt. He’s actually done something useful with his life, unlike me. He’s been passing out food and blankets while treating the wounded. “I don’t mind, since I’m no longer there to hear it.”

“You went directly into a storm to avoid your cousin fighting with your best friend. When you said you hated drama, I didn’t think you hated it that much.”

He laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

I try to lighten the tone of our conversation and think of something fun.

“Hey, isn’t your birthday coming up soon?” I say. Paulo and I would always celebrate his birthday right around midterms season in college, going to a concert or a basketball game. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Nothing much. Probably just get together with some close friends and family.”

“I’ll plan something for you,” I offer. Since arriving, one thing I have noticed about my old friend is that he’s a workaholic.

He’s even more work-obsessed than me, and I have no set work hours, meaning that I spend all my free time and thoughts being occupied by music. Though funny enough, since coming here, I’ve barely thought about music at all.

“Seriously? You don’t have to—” Paulo gets up, looking at me like I’ve offered to fly him to Vegas.

“No, no, I swear, let me handle it.” I shrug. “Think of it as an early birthday present.”

“In that case, I’d like a Ryder Black concert,” he jokes. “Just kidding. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Yeah.” I rub my nape, dread coiling in my stomach at the thought of another concert.

Paulo claps me on the back. “Hey, why don’t you ask Isla to help you? I’m sure she would want to.”

The suggestion turns my stomach even further. Still, if we’re going to be stuck together for however long I’m here, I might as well try to get along with her.

* * *

The sun bounces off the glass table in front of me as I sit in the waiting room of an office building. A headache throbs at my temples, and I rub the back of my neck as I glance out the window. Here, the sun is still shining, people are still going about their day, and the world still spins.

For Paulo’s family however… I shudder to think of how it looks. Watching the news broadcast was bad enough, even if I couldn’t understand the language. I saw the images of destruction and wreckage, water flooding the streets, buildings demolished, and people grieving the loss of their family members.

I can’t bring myself to just stand by and do nothing.

“Mr. Black?” The receptionist, Marisol, pops her head out of the doorway. “Mr. Dilag is ready to see you now.”

Having been summoned out of bed at five am by a call from George Hugh telling me that my lawyer has sorted out the problem of my accounts being tangled with River’s business, I hide a yawn as I follow Marisol down a hallway. She leads me into a surprisingly cozy office, the walls covered with family pictures in plain wooden frames, the chairs plush and the carpet giving way easily under my Keds.

To my confusion, a Hot Wheels racetrack is set up in the corner. Then, I see the reason why. A little kid—maybe eight or so—is in the office playing on the Hot Wheels track with decidedly little enthusiasm. If playing is even the right word. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, holding a car in one hand and staring at it like he’s never seen one before. He looks familiar to me, but I can’t imagine why.

“Good morning, Mr. Black.” James Dilag gestures toward the chair in front of his desk, a sombre expression on his face. He resembles Paulo slightly, as he is Paulo’s paternal uncle, with the same strong bones and the shape of his nose. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me on such short notice.”

“Good morning,” I echo. “How did you know I was in town?”

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