Page 73 of On the Beat

Naoya Sugawa just put out a new album this year that will definitely be in the running.

Everything he’s saying is right, but none of it feels anything but wrong.

And Isla isn’t just some girl I hooked up with.

I chuck my phone at the wall.

It falls without denting anything or cracking its screen. Apparently, the Otterbox case I invested in actually is worth something. Still, the heavy-duty case makes a dull thud as it hits the wall.

A thud that apparently alerts Isla to my whereabouts. She knocks on my door, which is already ajar, allowing me to glimpse her through the crack.

I let my feet drop from the desk onto the floor. “Hey.”

“Did you drop something?” Her eyes scan the room, until they alight on my phone. “You threw your phone at the wall?”

“My manager has that effect on me,” I say. “He’s a nice enough guy, but he can be a bit of a…”

“Control freak,” she guesses.

“How did you know?” My eyebrows rise.

“His name isGeorge Hugh,” she says, picking it up and reading the name off the screen. “That’s two first names. Anyone with two first names has to have some sort of problem.”

“Explain that theory.” I smile in spite of the foul mood that George Hugh’s messages have left me in. “What’s the reasoning behind that?”

“People with twice the names have twice the identities, thus twice the identity crises,” she says, sitting next to me on the bed and placing my phone between us. An apt metaphor for all that separates us. Fame. Success. Money.

“I’ll take that under advisement the next time I’m looking for a manager,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “What have you been up to?”

She glances down at her fingers, which are stained with blue. “Writing, actually.”

“A song?” I tease.

“A…” She twiddles her fingers. “A music critique.”

“You have a good ear for music,” I say, and it’s the truth. What she said in the studio, what we did wasn’t just joking around. I could tell that she really does care about hearing a song and hearing all the things it could be–how the notes could be a bit more interesting, how the lyrics can be that much more evocative or thought-provoking. “Whose music is it?”

When she doesn’t respond, I nudge her side with my elbow. “C’mon, you can say mine. I know you’re obsessed with me.”

At that, she rolls her eyes. “I’m notobsessedwith you.”

I produce the magazine from my desk, having not thrown it away for some reason. “Is that why you have this magazine article that says,ten fun facts about Ryder Black?”

“I never found out what number ten was.” Her smile is teasing, gentle.

“And I’ll never tell you.” It wasRyder Black watches rom-coms for fun. They’re his favourite movie genre.The smile drops from my face as I think of the text from George Hugh. “My manager told me I should go back to L.A.”

“Okay,” Isla says, stretching out the syllables like the saltwater taffy Poppy and I used to eat on the pier in Santa Monica. “Do youwantto go back?”

“I don’t know. I know I should. I mean, the Grammy’s are coming up, and I have a lot of songs written down that I want to record and co-write with people who are only in L.A.” I rake my fingers through my hair. “Do you think I should?”

Isla shakes her head. “I can’t tell you what to do. You have to figure that out yourself.”

“Doyouwant to go back?” Maybe if I know that she’s already thinking of leaving, I’ll be able to convince myself to go. To return to the lifeless, soulless, ruthless land of fake smiles augmented by plastic surgery. “You have your… writing career. Right?”

“Don’t hesitate like it’s not a real thing. Some of us actually have to work for a living.” Isla gives a sharp laugh, but I can tell from the mirth in her eyes that she’s joking. “Naoya Sugawa.”

“What?” My brows knit together at the mention of the last words I expected to fall from her mouth. “What about him?”

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