Page 46 of For The Record

Skye splutters. “I said nothing along those lines!”

“You were thinking about it,” I say. Her perfume wafts over to me, a mixture of vanilla and some kind of flower. Orchids, I think. “Don’t deny that.”

“Last time I checked, you weren’t a mind-reader.”

“You were staring at my lips.” I snag a glass of champagne, reminded of the party that we met at. This one is much different, but also similar. The stakes are higher. Not just for Ryder’s career, but also for the relationship between me and Skye, if there is one at all.

“I was wondering how you would look with a mustache.”

“What’s the verdict? Should I grow a soup strainer?” I tried it in my freshman year of college. Never again.

“You would look like a dictator,” she says, but there’s tension behind her bad joke.

“Perfect,” I say. “Just direct me to the nearest socialist country to take over.”

She sighs. “Leo, I can’t do this.”

“Ah, okay. Be honest, then. Would the mustache be more Hitlerian, or more… Che Guevara?”

“A mix, but that’s not what my problem is,” Skye says. “I said I didn’t want a relationship with you.”

“And I presume you meant it,” I say. “You said it was just dinner. And we’ve been doing just dinner. And axe-throwing. And… seeing other people, or whatever. Dates, not a relationship or going steady or what the kids want to call it these days.”

Though I barely have time to see my own family, I assume her schedule is somewhat less demanding. Is she seeing other people? Was she hoping someone else would pick her tonight? Gray suit guy, maybe? The thought twists something deep inside me that I thought had lain dormant for a very, very long time.

“Right.” She shrugs. “But… The way you talked to me, after the song leaked, about Ryder… that wasn’t casual. You sounded like you would be seriously hurt if I was the one who sold the song to Naoya. And I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“I wouldn’t be seriously hurt,” I blurt out. Too quickly.

She raises an eyebrow, taking her hand from mine and crossing her arms over her chest. “Really?”

“Well…” I sigh. “Listen, Skye, I really like you. I know I said I wanted something casual, too, but I’m not going to lie and say that it’s easy to work with your ex, or see Naoya flirt with you. That’s not something I’m just going to sit by and watch happen.”

“I’m not asking you to…” Her voice trails off and she shakes her head. “I’m not asking you to be okay with that.”

“I know, and that’s good because I can’t be,” I say, taking a cautious step closer. Is she going to stand her ground, or flee?

“What are you saying, then?” Skye frowns, scrunching up her nose. “Because I don’t see a way around that, Leo, unless I quit my job.”

“I’m saying, I don’t care about any of it. I know you’re not involved with either of them. I know you need time, and I want to give you that. But I also want to see where this could go, Skye. What do you say?”

#

@LaModeMag: Excited to raise money for LA’s homeless population tonight!

@LeoJPerez: Glad to help @LaModeMag fundraise for a good cause

@PoppyBlack1996: Auctioning off dates for @LaModeMag

@SkyeHolland1: Got roped into this shindig by @PoppyBlack1996 but at least the homeless will get something out of it

Chapter 22: Skye Holland

Venice Beach is almost empty at this time of night. Waves lap against the shore, and a handful of tourists walk around with ice cream cones as the sun sets, a few people walking their dogs. I spot a dachshund, a miniature schnauzer, and a pit bull strolling along the sandy boardwalk. I learned so many dog breeds as a child, thinking I might become a veterinarian before I realized I was allergic to dogs. After that, my dream career changed to architecture.

The evening is almost like a line from a dating profile: likes long, romantic walks on the beach at sunset. Leo tries to hold my hand, but I pull away. A dozen bitter regrets and lemon-juice-doused wounds sting and ache from our argument, refusing to allow him to kiss them away. Even if I did agree to go on this date with him - well, it’s for charity. Not because I forgive him for what he said. In the peachy glow of the setting sun, wearing a white button-down shirt, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, he looks like he belongs on the cover of a Harlequin romance. I bite my lip to avoid saying that, resentment overtaking any desire I could feel for him. Or so I tell myself.

True crime thrillers race through my mind, wondering if someone would bring a date to this place to kill them. Then again, an axe-throwing bar does seem like a better place to stage a murder. Though maybe too obvious of a choice?

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