Page 39 of Reality With You (Arden Beach #1)

Oscar took out two more cigars from the box. He offered them to Dylan and Lennon, who politely declined. He shut the lid on the cigar box before standing. “Alright. Vamos . Let’s eat.”

Raquel was every bit the goddess Lennon had dreamt one of her childhood idols would be.

She had glowing skin, humidity-defying hair, an intoxicating scent like someone had just been feeding her fruit in a tropical paradise, and apparently, the grace of an angel, not showing how unnerved she probably was when Lennon nearly broke into tears at the sight of her.

Lennon’s humiliation was overshadowed by her unbridled joy. And shock.

“Good thing I brought tons of food. Let’s go eat our feelings, babe,” Raquel told Lennon as she wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her outside.

They dined on the large rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean while Oscar told the story of how he got his start in the music industry before he and Agueda immigrated from Cuba in the seventies.

After they both lost their spouses—Agueda widowed, Oscar to multiple divorces—they moved in together, and Agueda took over managing the household.

Lennon could have spent all night listening to their wild stories from decades in the entertainment industry. Some of them felt illegal to hear. The famous names Agueda and Raquel casually dropped, much to Oscar’s dismay, had Lennon’s jaw hanging open.

After that night, she’d have enough material to blackmail half the music industry if she wanted to.

A particular club in Arden Beach, called The Starbird Lounge, came up a few times, as it had been one of their favorite haunts for decades. Raquel credited their weekly karaoke nights with helping her overcome her stage fright early in her career.

“I’ve never had stage fright, thankfully, but I have been feeling creatively …

empty lately,” Lennon shared as she reached for another piece of plátanos maduros .

The savory, crisp texture of the fried crust mixed with the sweet, creamy interior was addictive.

Her stomach was packed with Cuban bread, salad, and paella , but she couldn’t stop herself from stuffing it with more .

The flavors were an edible equivalent of a song you want to listen to over and over again.

“You can’t force the muse. You must seduce her like a beautiful woman,” Oscar said affectionately from the head of the table, his sister flanking the opposite end. He glanced at Dylan to his left, who offered a firm nod of agreement.

“He means feed her,” Raquel interjected from beside Lennon, and laughter rippled across the table.

“You need to fill up your creative well. Give it some nourishment. Have you been under any stress lately? Pressure?” Lennon snorted, and Raquel made a “there you go” motion with her fork.

“That shit will suck the creativity right out of you. You’re running on empty, babe. ”

Lennon picked at the remaining pieces on her plate . “I don’t know what to do about it. Music usually helps me de -stress, and it’s not doing its job lately.”

“That’s because you’re treating it like one.” Raquel leveled a sobering gaze on her.

The revelation hit Lennon like a ton of bricks. “Shit. You’re right.”

“You’ve put too much pressure on it to do something for you, to be something for you,” Raquel continued, her soft Texan drawl coming through. It made a charming, melodic sound with her Mexican lilt. “When’s the last time you played with music for the fun of it?”

The answer made Lennon’s heart pinch. “Honestly? I don’t know.

And here I am calling myself an artist.” That familiar shrinking feeling of not belonging slipped in.

Her attention flicked to Dylan across the table.

He seemed to have retreated within himself, too, his thumb gliding over the condensation on the rim of his glass as his thoughts wandered somewhere else.

To his relationship with baseball, she imagined.

“That’s the most artist thing you could say,” Oscar told her, drawing her attention to him. “Half my job was convincing them that they knew what they were doing.”

Raquel’s curls bounced with a reluctant nod. “It’s true.”

Lennon smiled. “You’re like a musical godfather.”

Oscar snapped his fingers, pointing at Lennon. “Hey, I like that. I need to call my lawyer and have that trademarked.”

“You’re retired,” Agueda reminded him.

“Still in the business of being a legend,” Lennon noted, and Oscar’s eyes twinkled at her.

Raquel rolled hers. “No wonder he likes you. Words of affirmation are his love language.”

“I helped you come out of your shell, didn’t I?” Oscar retorted.

One of the staff members brought out a platter of homemade churros Raquel had made, along with a selection of chocolate, caramel, and dulce de leche for dipping . As everyone filled their plates, Dylan asked Oscar, “Hey, how’s Miles doing?”

“Can’t stop talking about winning the championship,” Oscar said, pride gleaming in his smile. “Tells everyone with an ear. He’s already excited about next season.”

Dylan continued asking Oscar questions about this boy named Miles, who Lennon gathered was one of Oscar’s grandsons. She dunked a small churro in dulce de leche and nearly melted through her chair at the first bite—the perfect crunch of fried dough, sugar, and cinnamon with a warm, soft center.

Raquel smacked the table, startling everyone. “Hold on! I know what you need, Lennon.”

After dinner, they gathered in Oscar’s living room, where he’d set up a makeshift karaoke situation that would rival most karaoke bars.

“Alright!” Oscar clapped his hands together. “Who’s first?”

“Lennon. Time to feed the muse, gorgeous,” Raquel said, kicking off her sandals. She wiggled her eyebrows as she sank into the deep, plush sofa. “Let’s have some fun.”

Dylan guided Agueda to the sofa, her arm linked through his and sat down next to her. “I can’t wait to see what you sing, guapo ,” Agueda told him.

“Oh, no,” Dylan said with a shake of his head. “I won’t be doing any singing.”

“Sure you won’t.” Agueda winked at Lennon.

Lennon stifled a laugh at the dread that passed through Dylan’s eyes.

Nerves crawled up her insides, but she also felt something else she hadn’t in a while—excitement. Exhilaration.

Lennon flipped through Oscar’s catalog and chose the first song that sprang to mind. She used to jam out in her bedroom to it when her mother wasn’t home. She needed to channel some of that rebellious, free-spirited energy now.

Air guitar and all, Lennon took to the center of the living room and sang her heart out to Joan Jett’s Bad Reputation .

After generous fanfare for her performance, and Oscar sharing a story about meeting the band back in the eighties at a club in New York, the others took turns singing classic songs and offering critiques.

Raquel told Oscar he needed more “hip action” during his performance of La Bamba and Oscar told Raquel she “may have a promising future in music” if she stuck to it.

Agueda did a moving, passionate rendition of La Vida Es Un Carnaval that proved musical talent ran in the family.

The highlight of Lennon’s night would have been when she and Raquel did a duet of one of Raquel’s classic hits—an experience Lennon would never forget so long as she lived—if it hadn’t been followed by them all convincing notoriously stage-shy Dylan to get up there.

He agreed on one condition—that Lennon perform with him.

And she agreed on one condition—that she get to choose the song.

They sang and danced their way through Summer Nights from Grease , Dylan surprising everyone when he hit John Travolta’s famous high note at the end.

As they finished to applause, Lennon and Dylan looked at each other. Cheeks warm with color, breath short. His brown hair was tousled, the skin crinkling around his eyes. Remnants of a boy less burdened by life’s heartaches surfaced.

For a moment, they were both teenagers again. Carefree. Optimistic.

Laughter bubbled up from her throat, which triggered his laughter, which made hers plunge even deeper. They clasped hands and bowed.

For the rest of the night, Lennon couldn’t stop smiling.

As the sky slipped into purple and pink hues, casting a dreamy, romantic haze over Arden Beach, Dylan drove Lennon home.

The streetlamps and skyscrapers twinkled like the evening’s first stars.

The crisp night air swept through the open windows of the vehicle, cooling their flushed skin just enough to let her coast on the adrenaline rushing through her system without snuffing it out.

Lennon held an arm out the window, surfing her hand on the wind and enjoying the feeling of the fresh air whipping across her face.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” Lennon said over the roar of the wind, resisting the urge to pinch herself and check to see if she was dreaming. If she was, she didn’t want to know. She wanted to enjoy the dream for as long as she could. “How did that even happen?”

“His grandson’s a big Tidebreakers fan,” Dylan answered, his arm stretched out to rest a hand atop the steering wheel, cords of muscle in his forearm flexing.

“I spent an afternoon giving Miles lessons for his birthday last year and have kept up with him. Mr. Alonso told me to let him know if I ever needed a favor in return. He’d been away on vacation, but he got back last week.

I called it in, and he offered to make good on it today.

” He said it as if it were all so simple, so unexceptional.

“I can’t believe I was in his house,” Lennon mused, slipping into a sort of daze. “ I was in Oscar Alonso’s house. I played his piano . I sang and danced with Raquel Rosas . We harmonized. I ate the homemade churros she brought. She made those in her kitchen with her hands .”

Dylan laughed, glancing away from the road to watch her like a parent watching a child excitedly open their gifts on Christmas morning.

“And he liked my music,” Lennon said, the memory reactivating gravity. She’d been flying and suddenly sunk into beautiful, grounded bliss. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can.”

“And you fucking nailed that Danny Zuko note.”

Dylan winced, but a reluctant smile also slipped through. “Yeah, that feels like a fever dream. I’m glad there were no cameras around, so it won’t wind up on the internet tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you have that entire song memorized. You weren’t even looking at the lyrics.”

“You kidding? You made me listen to it almost every day.”

“You secretly love it.”

“I do. It always makes me think of you.”

The words fell from his mouth so smoothly that it took a moment for her to process exactly what they meant. Dark eyes slid to her, then back to the road, hand tightening slightly on the wheel. His throat bobbed through a swallow.

Lennon rested her head back as she kept her gaze on him, feeling her heartbeat through every pulse point in her body. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Just arranged a meeting.”

“Just accept my gratitude like a normal person.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fine. You’re welcome.” A few moments went by, the occasional whoosh of a passing car drifting in and out before Dylan spoke again. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“This is the first night out I’ve had in a long time where I didn’t want to crawl out of my skin. I didn’t want to escape any of it or look for a way to numb myself. I actually felt …” He paused, a gentle lift at the corner of his mouth. “Alive.”

Beneath the golden glow of the streetlights and the sunset diffusing into nightfall, her heart melted. She studied his profile, finding traces of something she hadn’t seen there in years.

Peace.

The breeze drifted through the open window where his other forearm comfortably hung, softly blowing through the thick waves of his hair and the collar of his shirt, lifting it away from his smooth, tanned chest. Stray pieces of her onyx hair whipped around her face, the scent of the salty sea, city diesel fumes, and restaurant grills mixing in the air.

Lennon was experiencing something for the first time in years, too.

She was falling in love with life again.

Or maybe, she’d never truly fallen out of it.

Back home, Lennon changed into a pair of cotton shorts and a soft, oversized sweatshirt and lit a few vanilla candles around her apartment. She switched off all the lights except the under-cabinet ones in the kitchen, bathing the space in a soft, amber glow.

She dug out her notebook from the bedside drawer and placed it on the coffee table with a pen. Barefoot, she tucked her feet under her to sit cross-legged on the sofa and nestled her guitar in her lap.

Unlike other failed sessions lately, this time, it didn’t feel like a chore.

She was excited to pour the energy the afternoon had infused her with into something .

Her endorphins were still pumping, adrenaline a mere memory away from a fresh spike.

Being around all that creativity and experiencing something so special had gratitude—and hope—swirling within her that needed to go somewhere.

Taking a deep, centering breath, she didn’t force the words or melody to come.

She sat with the feelings of the day, letting them wash over her and settle in.

Soon, those feelings became sounds. Notes.

She hummed, tasting them on her tongue, allowing them to vibrate in her chest. Eventually, her fingers followed.

And finally, the words.

Lennon wrote and played until 3:00 a.m., and fell asleep on the sofa dreaming of music, dancing, and of a boy she couldn’t seem to let go.