Page 87 of On the Beat

Taking a deep breath, I make the final edits.

Then, I hitpost.

It’s done. I’m out there, for the world to see. It’s official.

There’s no going back.

Within hours, a flurry of Tweets, comments, and Instagram posts pops up. Texts start blowing up my phone. That response seems abnormal when it’s just a YouTube channel with a hundred thousand followers.

Then, I see my name trending on Twitter, even if indirectly: #OnTheBeatMusicReviews battles with #WhoIsIslaRomero.

My stomach drops. The video of me and Ryder kissing in the hotel pool has surfaced. And I’ve been identified as the mystery brunette.TMZ, Daily Mail,andPage Sixhave all run articles about us.

Fans are mad at me about writing the article on River, and some of them are even accusing me of using Ryder to leverage my career. Great. Just what I need: twelve-year-old fangirls blowing up my mentions. Not that there’s anything wrong with teenage fangirls per se—I was one growing up—but these days, they can do a lot more damage.

Another Tweet catches my eye.Ryder Black performing at The Hollywood Bowl tonight. Can’t wait for the show!

Not letting myself question my actions, I slam my laptop shut. Then I grab my phone, purse, and keys, and run out the door.

Chapter 37: Ryder Black

“Thank you guys for coming out tonight,” I say. “Who’s ready to have a good time?”

The audience roars with applause. Somehow, it doesn’t fill the empty space in me. It never did. It never will. But God, I want it to.

“I’m going to play some new songs for you tonight. You guys are the first to hear them, okay?”

More applause and cheering. I spy a sign that says,#WhoIsIslaRomeroand something in me breaks open. She didn’t really write about me. She wrote about River. And it felt close enough, but maybe… maybe it was just a knee-jerk reaction. Maybe El Nido was all we’ll ever have, but we had something real.

So, my next song isn’t on the setlist. Instead, it’s something new. I give my band the silent signal, and they go quiet.

“This one’s for… this one’s for a girl I met recently. It’s calledWash Me Away.”

Then I start to sing.

“The ocean roars over the sand, and you still hold my heart in your hand. Waves come and go on the beach, but now you’re so far out of reach.”

These words hurt to sing. That’s how I know they’re the right ones.

I keep going, ignoring the lump in my chest. “I wrote our names on the shore, and I hope you know they’ll never wash us away.”

Then, strumming harder, I go into the chorus. My drummer must read my mind, because he starts playing, too. “And I hope my name’s tattooed in the back of your skull, I hope all your next boyfriends are so damn dull. ’Cause no matter what you might think, girl, we’re written in indelible ink. You can’t wash me away.”

My voice breaks. I keep breathing somehow, keep singing. It’s all I know to do as I reach the second verse. “I know what you think of me, or maybe I don’t even know you at all. All I see is your smile, all I hear is that laugh. You held my hand when I had no one left, but now you’re walking away and I’ve got nothing left.”

Tears sting my eyes. I shut them for a minute, not wanting to see anyone. Not wanting to see anyone but her. The pain of our fight is still fresh in my mind, and it hurts less than reading the article she wrote about my brother. She didn’t tell me. I didn’t tell her half a dozen things either, but I never lied to her about anything like this.

She was someone I thought I could rely on.

But she told me herself that she was sorry she couldn’t keep her promises.

I take a deep breath and keep going. “So I hope my name’s tattooed in the back of your skull, and I hope all your next boyfriends are so damn dull.’Cause no matter what you might think, girl, we’re written in indelible ink. You can’t wash me away. No, you can’t wash me away.

I take a deep breath as I reach the end, the drumming fading into gentle acoustic guitar. “No, you’ll never wash us away. But sometimes I wish I could wash you away.”

By the end of the song, fans have their cell phone flashlights in the air, and they’re waving them back and forth, some standing up and swaying with the music.

This. This is what I still have to live for.

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