Chapter 7
The Truth May Vary
HARMONY
The ocean gleams like silver from the Terrace, a seaside venue with—you guessed it—a huge terrace that extends out onto the beach.
Strings of lights hang between posts that line the railing, unlit for the moment as the evening sun has yet to set.
The stage takes up most of one side. The remaining space is filled with tables decorated with fine linens, crystal glasses, a few sprigs of greenery, and flickering tea candles.
Above all that, a banner sways gently in the breeze, bearing the Coastal Hearts Benefit logo.
Servers weave through with champagne bottles and hors d’oeuvres as guests trickle in. I spot some lesser-known actors and a few other musicians but none I’m familiar enough with to greet.
I run my hands over the black chiffon skirt of my dress and all its little gold flecks and take a deep breath of the salty air.
“You had to wear that one,” Stef mutters as she side-eyes my attire.
She made me promise to book a few events that would be good PR—a noble cause, nothing feud related, something pure and conflict free—but I agreed only on the condition that I still get to appear absolutely stellar.
Even though I will not be performing “Absolutely Stellar.”
It wouldn’t make sense for an event like this.
This is a time and place for something uplifting for the community as a whole.
So the benefit organizers have asked me to perform my last Lucky Stars number, “Brightly Burning,” one of those positive, empowerment type songs.
I don’t like performing anything that FM Sound can profit from, but it’s a good song.
It also happens to fit the star theme, so I can’t be too mad about it.
What I can be mad about, though, is how Stefanie found “Lip Sync” in my Notes app and brought it to the attention of the other songwriters, who then decided to adapt it to be a duet and use it as a demo to help me find a collaborative partner.
“We probably won’t end up using it on a record,” Stefanie insisted last week, “but it’s a great starting point.”
So I’ve been stuck rehearsing something that I should have deleted months ago, which means it’s my own damn fault.
If I’m going to think about Riff, I’d rather it be in a negative light.
And ideally, I’d rather not think about him at all.
Unfortunately I’ve made it very difficult to escape him.
Every interview, it’s “What’s your next Riff song going to be?
” or “What’s your response to him calling you ‘a thousand degrees Fahrenheit’ and not in a good way?
” Somehow he’s my whole personality now.
Frankly, I’m looking forward to a night off—and, as Stef said, some good press.
For once, I can sing something that has nothing to do with him
I look around and I’m surprised how many cameras are here, although I guess I shouldn’t be. Despite the fact that it’s a relatively intimate event, PR really wants me to protect my image lately. I’m sure Stef and the team made arrangements to get extra eyes on me tonight.
Most of the guests are local politicians, socialites, or older philanthropists with money to burn, but there are also tech moguls, models, influencers, and reality TV personalities.
I do the requisite photos in front of the step-and-repeat, then take some photos with a few people who wanted to meet me and a few more when I’m feeling like a bit of a fangirl myself—I adore Carly Brazzleton from Love Fest, and I’ve also been dying to meet the home organization gurus from Divide it’s another to have to face him when everyone’s watching.
” I analyze her expression and the line that forms between her brows. “Wait—you did know.”
“I did. But there was no way I would have been able to get you to come if I’d told you ahead of time.”
I frown. “That’s true. What’s the point of this, though? At best it’s going to be awkward; at worst …”
The emcee’s voice comes smooth and bright through the amplifiers.
“Thank you all for joining us here at the Terrace. It’s always so good to see our generous donors.
” He goes on to explain how the organization supports rural California communities after natural disasters (for anyone who is new here) and also summarizes a little bit of what we just saw on the slideshow, then thanks some specific people who have donated extra-large amounts of money, talks about a few goals Coastal Hearts has for the coming year, and eventually starts to wind down in favor of the entertainment.
“Now that we’ve covered everything related to the benefit, we want to convey our gratitude with a special musical performance.
For probably nine or ten months now most of you may have been aware of some conflict between two celebrity artists … ”
That earns a chuckle from the audience. People look around and get a visual lock on either me or Riff; a few look back and forth between us and whisper while I try to keep a straight face.
I’m not keen on the idea of performing in front of him. I mean, I know it’s not like he’s never seen me onstage before in videos or whatnot, but never in person—and certainly not within the context of our growing enmity.
“But as we all know,” the emcee continues, “when it comes to serving our community, we have to set our differences aside. Let bygones be bygones. Agree to disagree. Sometimes we even find, working side by side, that those we once misunderstood may turn out to be some of our closest friends. In rare cases, more than friends.”
The crowd is eerily silent for a moment as everyone tries to parse meaning from those words.
A sick feeling crests in my stomach.
Something isn’t right here.
Stefanie shares a look with Riff’s manager—Brandon? Brody? Braden?—from across the venue.
“No …” I whisper desperately. “Stef … What does he mean—”
She mouths “I’m sorry” as the emcee says, “So, for their first time ever performing together, please give it up for Harmony Sonora and Riff Hurley!”
For half a heartbeat, all I hear is the rapid pounding in my own ears.
Then: raucous applause.
A hand comes up against my lower back, pushing me toward the stage. Stefanie says “trust me” against my hair.
Cameras flash. Videographers change position to follow my stiff and reluctant movement—and Riff’s.
Riff is trying to say something to his manager, who pretends it’s too loud to hear and continues to usher him forward.
Music fades in amid the noise. When I make sense of the melody, I nearly trip.
The first chords of “Lip Sync” latch onto my brain.
Shit.
Somehow I’m onstage now. I don’t remember the individual steps that brought me here, as though I were carried on the waves of my own confusion.
There’s a pedal-steel guitar playing part of the music I wrote for this song, which adds a subtle but noticeable weepy tone that was clearly aimed at a country audience.
My heart’s pounding so hard and my hands shake as I reach for the microphone.
That’s why Stefanie pulled this song out of my notes. That’s why the label made me practice it with the studio’s demo guy. Except he wasn’t a placeholder for some undetermined artist; he was a placeholder for Riff—for tonight.
Before I can connect any more dots, my cue comes up.
I have no choice but to sing: “‘I know the music and the words, it’s nothing that I haven’t heard …
but I can’t seem to make a sound … I look at you and I guess I’m spellbound.
’” My cheeks burn at the thought that I’m forced to share this with Riff, private feelings that I—like an idiot—made known to others in writing.
Never did I intend for him to hear them, least of all in public and set to music.
Does he know I wrote this? Does he know it’s about him?
Since this was apparently planned, he would have had to rehearse it like I did. His team must have told him the same lie, that it was a demo to send out for potential collabs. But did they tell him where they got the song?
The second half of the verse comes out of my mouth as if in slow motion and I question whether the tempo is off or if I’m just hallucinating (everyone is watching like nothing’s wrong, so it must be the second one).
Then the full swell of the instruments backs the chorus and I try to keep my voice steady while Riff harmonizes “now we’re so close” with me, and “before I can blink.” His deep voice complements my alto, teasing my senses, sending little shocks of lightning down my spine.
Everything I felt that night at the Pinkfeather Resort now consumes me. The nerves, the elation, the desperate ache.
We sing to each other like the audience wants us to. That energy, that urge, it’s unavoidable, unmistakable. People cheer as our voices blend.
“‘It’s a whole different kind of lip sync. I just act—I don’t think.’”
I can’t resist moving closer to him, and I swear he’s moving closer to me too. We’re practically screaming in each other’s faces and the sound pleases me almost as much as—
God, no. I have to stop thinking like this.
“‘Your lips on mine like the missing link,’” we sing.
Tiny beads of sweat break out along my hairline. During the instrumental interlude, my chest rises and falls as I catch my breath.
Riff keeps eye contact for only an instant—I swear the hint of a smile plays on his lips—before he turns to the audience.
I do the same, bending slightly to touch a few hands that reach up at me (as though the people they belong to weren’t just in my immediate vicinity a few minutes before I took the stage).
Still a bit unsteady, I grip the microphone tight as Riff solos on the second verse, playing up his country drawl.
“‘I think the moonlight’s makin’ me bold. I borrow the voice on the track ‘cause I’ve told you all you need to know with motions alone, I feel your energy deep in my bones …’”
The fact that he’s singing my words back to me—and worse, country style—has me reeling.
I add some vocalizations and then we go into the chorus again. Just like the first time, the sound is striking and electric.
By the time we finish the bridge, I’ve forgotten why I’m angry. I’m so lost in the music, in our combined voices, in his dark eyes.
We hit the final note and hold it. Halfway through, the audience erupts.
Dozens of phones are videoing this. Press camera lights flash at us like strobes.
Riff and I cut off at the same time, panting, face to face, letting the response wash over us. I’m sure neither of us knows what to think at this point. Not unlike that first night together, I can’t deny that I feel something, only now it has so much more context—now it’s so much more complicated.
In some ways, what we’ve just done was more intimate than what we did in the Pinkfeather habitat.
And in a matter of minutes, the videos will go up … and our whole corner of the internet will have seen it.