Page 47 of For The Record

“Skye, I’m sorry.”

He stops walking a moment after I do, almost running into my back. I take a deliberate step forwards, away from the heat of his body and the scent of his cologne, before I spin around in my flip-flops and pink dress, having discarded the cheap heels that Poppy forced me into, in favour of a pair of Havaianas. For a fashion magazine, I thoughtLa Modewould be able to afford better shoes. “For what?”

“That’s ‘what for’—actually, never mind.” He really should’ve been an English major, I think, recalling our conversation in his father’s garage. I shove down the memory as his gaze softens, showing a boyish side of him that usually comes out as youthful exuberance. Or tearing through parking garages after stealing a kiss against someone else’s car. The memory makes me want to smile or cry now. “Skye, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I made you feel like you were less important than anyone else, least of all Ryder Black, because you’re not. I’m sorry I believed my own jealous rage over you when you were telling me the truth. You were innocent in all of this, and you didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you.”

I hug my arms around my torso, partly from a chill breeze, partly to protect myself from his too-intense stare. “Then why did you say those things?”

We both stop, kicking sand along the beach. I turn over a seashell and bend down to pick it up, conscious of his gaze hugging my body as closely as the bandage dress I’m wearing.

A sigh. I don’t meet his gaze, pretending to find the seashell more interesting than anything he could say to me. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough, Leo.”

I drop the shell.

“I want s—” I stop myself. Didn’t I tell him I didn’t want a relationship? Why would I want all of the drama and none of the commitment? To tell him what I want him to do is just a waste of time. “I don’t want to be with someone who belittles me for no reason.”

“I get that,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Do you?” My voice thickens with tears.

“Skye, I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, and something inside of me crumples just a little bit.

“You wasted ten grand tonight,” I say, turning on my heel. “I’m going to get a cab home.”

“No, please, wait,” he says, his hand clamping around my wrist. “Skye, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I said those things because… If I tell you this, it’s got to remain secret. Okay?”

I stop in my tracks, letting my hand stay in his. Curiosity jolts through me, rooting me to the spot. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“As you know, I didn’t grow up rich. I told you I was a birthday party clown and that was true. I worked odd jobs for money, but my dream was always to end up where I am. I didn’t get by with a cent from anyone, even though my father…” He shakes his head. “My biological father is Antonio Perez.”

Something clenches in my stomach at the name. His expression on our first date. The director of Isabelle’s movie. The questions I had on Thanksgiving come flooding back. I nod. “Okay.”

“He wasn’t the greatest dad, mostly because he was leading a double life…” The scoff that leaves his lips is tinged with bitterness, laced with years of resentment and pain that I can sadly relate to. “He had another family. My mom was just his girlfriend, but she wasn’t suitable enough for the public eye. She raised me on my own until I was twelve and she met my stepfather, Ricardo. The last time I saw my father, I was twelve years old, and it was the day after my mother’s wedding. He gave me this.”

He flashes the expensive watch on his wrist at me. “All my life, I hated him, yet I wanted to be just like him. This whole Ryder thing… the higher-ups at Volume have been ragging on me about it, and it felt like this whole thing was falling apart. I took that out on you because it felt like my dream was falling to pieces. Can you forgive me, Skye?”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say and step closer to him with a shiver. “I… I understand the feeling all too well, I guess. And, I forgive you.”

He shucks off his jacket, setting it around my shoulders. Leo kisses my forehead, barely a brush of his lips against my skin. “Thank you for listening.”

Instead of responding, I reach onto my tiptoes and kiss him, just as the surf crashes over our ankles. He lets out a yelp against my mouth, his grip tightening against my waist, and I laugh, grateful for the sandals I threw on.

We separate, and he gallantly swings me into his arms, tucking one arm against my shoulder blades and the other against the backs of my knees as I cling onto his neck for dear life. I glance down at his sodden loafers, likely ruined by saltwater now.

“I’m sorry about your shoes,” I say.

He shrugs, the movement letting me shift closer to rest my head against his chest. Another stiff breeze reminds me that the dress Poppy forced me into is far too short and may cause me to flash passerby at any moment. “They’re just shoes.”

Poppy would die to hear that. The thought makes me want to laugh. “Sure. Do you want to get out of here?”

#

We end up at some cheap twenty-four-seven diner by the beach, where the waitress turns the other way when Leo kicks off his shoes. Milkshakes in hand, I study him. Slightly wavy dark hair, green eyes peering intently into his chocolate milkshake, a faint furrow between his brows. A smear of my red lipstick is on his cheek and I wipe it off with a laugh.

“I did accept your apology, you know,” I say. “You don’t have to look so glum.”

He shrugs. “I don’t tell a lot of people about my family.”

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