Page 32 of On the Beat

It strikes me that I met Ryder Black once before this. We were at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding. Both of us were unwelcome: I was part of the press, and he was persona non grata, despite being related to one of the bridesmaids.

I reassure myself that he wouldn’t remember me, since it was so long ago and he’s no doubt met dozens of members of the press, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s one of those people who never remembers where they left their keys but always remembers a face.

Even if he is, I was wearing a press badge that read Iris Hart, not my own name. Though it might be too close to my own name for comfort.

“My job right now is to help make this event a success.” I square my shoulders. “I want to help my family and other people who are affected by this storm.”

“So do I.”

“Are you sure about that?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Something about him is making me lose whatever semblance of tact I once possessed, and throw all my etiquette down the drain. However, his detached singing only reinforces his image of being a selfish, messed-up celebrity.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Ryder plays an ominous chord on the piano, the opening of one of Beethoven’s symphonies.

I shrug. “I’m just wondering why you would bother helping with a charity concert when this isn’t even your country and no one would blame you if you left.”

“One of my oldest friends lives here, and all of a sudden, just because this place isn’t my home I can’t care about it? You don’t live here either.”

I am beginning to suspect I should leave the room or shut my mouth before I talk myself into more trouble. Yet I remain glued to the piano bench. “I didn’t mean it like that… I’m just wondering if one of your motives for doing this is to make yourself look good.”

Ryder gives a sharp laugh. “You know, when people say they think celebrities aren’t human, I usually assume they mean something about being ninety percent plastic surgery or being so out of touch with the common people that they can’t possibly be human anymore. But now I guess what you mean is that I can’t possibly have any human emotions or compassion for humanity. Everything I do has to be about my image, right?”

I say nothing, doing what I should’ve done, to begin with.

“If I really cared about my image…” He scoffs. “If I really cared about my image, I wouldn’t be here.”

Before I can ask him what he means, or try to salvage the conversation, he picks up his guitar and storms out of the room.

Chapter 16: Isla Romero

“Have you talked to Poppy?… No, I haven’t talked to her since…”

My stalking has taken on new lows. I have now been reduced–well, really, reduced myself—to listening at Ryder Black’s door. Guilt surges up in me, but I quickly tamp it down. If I feel guilty for stalking him in addition to accusing him of being callous, I’ll have to form a full-fledged apology. If I dothat, there’s a very high chance he will just reject my apology, and I’ll feel even worse.

Before coming here, I never would’ve cared about hurting a celebrity’s feelings, much less Ryder Black’s, but now… now I’m not so sure. He accused me of not seeing him as human because he was a celebrity. After his words hit me in the face, I wanted to fling them back at him. But then I realized, after spending the past few years of my life writing celebrity coverage and living with a friend who churned out the paparazzi photos attached to them at breakneck speed, that I had stopped seeing celebrities as people. I had begun seeing them as a commodity to be sold and packaged and consumed in a brightly coloured Snapchat story or tabloid article.

Even if he doesn’t accept my apology, I want to tell him that he was right. Maybe we can put all of this behind us.

I lift my hand to rap on the door. Curiosity burns in me, simmering on low as I wonder who he is talking to. Maybe his brother, River, who’s been arrested a few weeks ago?

A moment after I knock, the door opens, revealing a shirtless Ryder Black holding a cell phone to his ear. He doesn’t hang up. Instead, he says to the caller, “Hang on a moment, someone’s here.”

I avert my eyes from his torso, having seen quite enough of him fromTiger Beatmagazine to last me a lifetime. “I wanted to apologize. Can I come in?”

“Come in,” Ryder says. He says goodbye to whoever he was talking to before hanging up and tossing his phone on the bed. He picks out a t-shirt from the closet and tugs it over his head. Despite his own unkempt appearance, the room is surprisingly neat, without a speck of dust on the hardwood floor and his bed neatly made.

He sits on that bed now, making a dent in the mattress.

I shove my hands into the pocket of my jean shorts, unsure of how to begin. “Are you just going to sit there and stare?”

“You said you were going to apologize. I want to be comfortable when I hear it.” He scoots further back onto the bed, putting up his feet and relaxing onto the pillows for good measure.

I perch on the edge of an uncomfortable desk chair, crossing my legs. “Ryder, I’m sorry I accused you of only helping with the concert because you wanted to look good on camera.”

He waves a hand, as though wanting me to continue. My eyes narrow.

“What else is there for me to say?”

“Apologize for eavesdropping,” he says, toying with one of the tasselled pillows on the cream-coloured bed. He fixes his eyes on the pillow, as if our conversation is about the weather or taxes or the stock market.

---