Page 51 of On the Beat

“He tried to propose on the first date and my roommate had to come save me.”

“You didn’t say yes?” I say, laughing at the picture of some desperate suitor on one knee after two hours of acquaintance.

“I need a better job, not a wedding ring.”

I lift an imaginary wine glass in response. “Cheers to that.”

“Don’t you havethedream job?” Isla asks, playing a simple chord on the piano.

It would be far better if it didn’t mean my siblings were treating me like crap, but I don’t tell her that. “Perfect fifth.”

“What?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which I very well may have.

“Let’s play theguess the chordgame. You did one. I’ll play the next one.”

“That’s not fair, you had your eyes open!”

Our serious talk of relationships descends into a playful, bickering competition.

I let myself believe the kiss never happened, that it was nothing more than a fever-dream figment of my imagination, a mistake hastily made and just as quickly forgotten. It’s better to not get attached to anyone–let alone a journalist.

Of course, it would be easier if every memory of her mouth wasn’t seared into my brain.

Chapter 25: Isla Romero

I don’t want to seem like a coward.

But I’m pretty sure Ryder Black is trying to murder me and then make it look like an accident.

I cannot swim. It is a well-knownfactthat I do not evenwantto swim. If he bothered to ask my parents or either of my brothers, he would be well aware of the fact that Isla Jane Magnayon Romero and swimming do not mix.

Nevertheless, I’m here.

Swimming.

Well, not really. More like, clad in my most modest one-piece swimsuit to avoid the ire of my mother when she sees me dressed like this, even if it’s doubtful that she’ll come to the hotel pool. She and my father are staying at El Nido Resorts, enjoying a luxurious hotel stay secretly funded by Ryder Black. However, my mother doesn’t want to get tan, so she’ll probably spend her vacation in the spa, getting a beach massage in a cabana, and haranguing me about my career (or, as she likes to call it, a complete waste of time guaranteed to never bring stability, financial security, or a corner office). Those are her three favourite relaxation activities. While I would enjoy the first two, the last one is the reason I escaped to the one place she’d never go: the pool.

Clad in a one-piece swimsuit, I dangle my feet at the edge of the pool. A faint breeze ruffles the surface of the water. Split beams of sunshine dart off the chlorinated blue water, which is empty of all guests except a rubber duck and a pool float shaped like a frog. Ryder treads water in the deep end and calls me to come in. “The water’s fine.”

“It’s not the temperature I’m worried about.” In all honesty, I can’t tell him what exactly it is about water that scares me. It’s not like I have an irrational fear of taking baths, ice-skating on frozen ponds, or even wading in a shallow creek, which I did with my parents yesterday. It’s more that I am worried about any activity that would submerge my head below water.

I watched Francisco do it once, and I saw his terrible ensuing injury, which didn’t even deter him in the slightest from swimming. Still, though I knew he would be okay, I could barely watch him at the Olympics years ago.

“Then what’s scaring you?” He swims toward the edge, resting his forearms on the concrete of the pool deck and looking up at me through his lashes, which are sprinkled with droplets of water. Men have unreasonably long eyelashes, which simply isn’t fair. It’s not like they even care about lashes. They justhavethem, and Ryder’s are…

I’m startled out of my reverie about eyelashes when a wave of warm pool water splashes over my legs. I stumble back, steadying myself against a lounge chair. “What the heck?”

“Get in the pool, Romero. I’m going to teach you how to swim.”

“I don’t need you to teach me how to swim because I don’t need toknowhow to swim,” I say, wrapping a towel around my shoulders for no apparent reason other than to shield myself from his far too knowing gaze.

“It’s a life skill. What if you were on theTitanic?” he says.

“Then I’d either be dead by now or a hundred and ten or, so I don’t really see your point.”

“You know what I mean.”

“My issue is that I never know what you mean. I’m not sure you even make sense half the time.” The words spill out of my mouth without thinking. I’m about to clarify to see if I can make sense to myself—to see if it’s my head or my heart talking when a sudden threat advances on me.

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