Page 73 of For The Record

I take the flowers and shut the door, shoving them into a dusty crystal vase. Lalique. I think Alina chose it for me, and I never bothered to throw it away. My life is a collection of things I can’t seem to move past or let go of.

The shower stops running and Raina dashes down the stairs in a bathrobe, nearly slipping. She catches herself on the railing before I can make a move to catch her or scold her. For a moment, I think that she heard my conversation with Antonio. But then again, that’s impossible.

“Where are the towels and why aren’t they in the bathroom?” she demands, folding her arms across her chest. Her hair drips water onto the hardwood.

“I’ll get you one.” We go back up the stairs, but my mind is elsewhere as I find her a towel from the linen closet. My thoughts are caught up in the key in my pocket, sitting there as though it weighs a thousand pounds.

“You okay?” she asks me, taking the towel and about to go back into the bathroom. At that moment, her brown eyes look big and lost, innocent. Grieving our parents. She’s just sixteen. She shouldn’t have to go through any of this, and she certainly doesn’t need to know about what my father said to me.

I nod. “Fine.”

When Raina is gone and I’m alone again, I read the card, written in a feminine, looping script. He probably had his secretary, or worse yet, his new fiancee, write it for him. Yet I trace my eyes over this piece of him anyways.

Leo, Reina,

Sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral. Your mother was a beautiful woman and the strongest I’ve ever known. (As well as the most stubborn.) Kudos to Ricardo for doing what I never could: raising great children.

Antonio Perez

Crumpling the cardstock, I let it hit the trash can with a hollow clang. He couldn’t even be bothered to spell her name right.

Chapter 35: Skye Holland

TMZ Breaking News!

Our inside sources at Volume Records tell us that Ryder Black’s song, Missing You, was actually sold to Naoya Sugawa by an employee at Volume named Mark Leong. Mr. Leong worked in the publicity and marketing department of Volume and has been fired. No other information has been given.

Trying and failing to fight off my curiosity, I click on the comments section.

Who’s their inside source??

I bet it was Alina

It took them three months to find the person who leaked one song??

I can’t deny that I have the same questions as the commenters. But I’d put my money on Alina, too. I put my phone down and get back to work.

I type out an email.

Hi Ms. Bauer:

No, Mr. Black refuses to participate in your “reading mean tweets while playing with puppies” video because he is allergic to dogs. Maybe you could try kittens?

Regards, Skye Holland

I spend the workday booking interviews for Ryder, scheduling charity appearances, checking Twitter for any firestorms of #RyderBlackIsOverPartyor #CancelRyder—both of which were trending last week for some stupid reason or another. In addition, I do the menial tasks of a social media intern, because Ryder doesn’t have one. That includes scheduling Instagram and Twitter posts: videos of him in the studio, snippets of his new songs, and the tracklist of For The Record. Finally, when I’ve done all the typing, clicking, dragging, and scrolling that a girl can do in six hours without developing carpal tunnel, I decide to go get a latte.

Just as I reach the coffee shop in the lobby of Volume’s headquarters, I spot someone standing in front of it. A tall figure, lean, dark hair that’s greying at the temples. Vaguely familiar. He reminds me of someone I know, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

When he spins around, I stumble to a stop. It’s Antonio Perez. He looks different now that I’m seeing him fully clothed and outside my sister’s hotel room, which is a sentence I hope never to think again. Oddly, he seems shorter in his charcoal suit. Less intimidating, certainly. Out of control, more… desperate. More defeated. Perhaps because there are no cameras here for him to show off to, or paparazzi for him to keep a facade up.

“Can I help you?”

His green eyes skim over me with surgical precision, and he looks disappointed by what he sees. Good. This man may be somewhat conventionally attractive in his middle age, but his personality is so repulsive that I can’t even stand the idea of associating him with Leo. They might as well be from two different worlds. “You’re Skye Holland?”

“What is it to you?” I fold my arms over my chest, my bracelets jangling around my wrist. We’ve met, but I honestly doubt he remembers me.

“You’re my son’s girlfriend, aren’t you?”

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