Chapter 19 Take Me to the Beach #2
“I was doing a show few years ago at a small venue in Santa Monica,” Riff explains.
“Kind of an indie/folk scene there, really chill, good energy. It was ‘classics night’ and they let me perform a few songs, so I picked James Taylor’s ‘Fire and Rain,’ Jim Croce’s ‘I Got a Name,’ and finally—either my biggest mistake or the most brilliant choice I’ve ever made—John Denver’s ‘Country Roads.’”
Despite not being well versed in folk music, I can already tell where this is going.
“A label rep was there,” he continues. “Happened to be out for drinks with some friends who liked to go there sometimes. Said she loved my voice and my stage presence and wanted me to go in to meet with A I appreciate a lot of my predecessors and my peers, and I’m always glad to be singing, no matter what it is.
That’s the only way I’ve been able to do what I’ve done.
At the time, though, I was cautious about what I’d be getting into.
In the end, my brother convinced me that it would be a good idea regardless, because all I really needed was a foot in the door, and eventually I might be able to do the kind of music I wanted to. ”
“Except one thing led to another …”
He nods. “It was, ‘Record a few country songs,’ to see if anyone liked them. Then it was, ‘Just do this one album.’ I was lucky enough that everything I made sort of … took off, only …”
“Only … your heart wasn’t in it.”
“Yeah.” Riff sighs. “Next thing I knew, I was two albums deep, with a handful of number-one hits and an offer from Glambam.”
“Wow.”
I don’t really know what else to say. It all makes so much sense now. Reflecting on my reaction when I learned of his celebrity status as Riff Hurley, Country Bro, a pang of guilt stabs me right in the chest. He was trying to tell me this.
“I don’t drive a pickup truck or wrangle cows on a farm. I studied journalism. This is who I am. Most people have to do jobs they don’t like.”
It sounded like excuses before, a way to soften the blow. To me, it didn’t really matter who he was in real life, though. So he wasn’t a cowboy—who cares? There’s nothing wrong with a cowboy. A wannabe cowboy, on the other hand, is obnoxious.
It’s what people pretend to be that says the most about them.
But here I am listening to him tell me, in no uncertain terms, that he never wanted to be anything other than the guy singing Paper Kites songs. The pretense was forced, not a means for wish fulfillment.
“It’s more than most people could dream of,” Riff says, “and I know I should be grateful. I mean, I am grateful.” He stares at the waves.
Now I get bold and squeeze his hand. “Hey. You’re allowed to want something different, even if you already have something great.”
“Am I?” He scoffs.
“Yes.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence, until we arrive at the chairs that have been set out for us—wooden contraptions with canvas stretched across their frames, and a huge umbrella standing between the two and shading both evenly.
Riff reaches for the YETI.
“Not yet,” I say. “Sunscreen is next.” I pull out my phone to go over the list again.
Harmony puts sunscreen on Riff’s shoulders
“I thought ‘have a drink together’ was on the list too.”
“I think we’re supposed to do them in order.”
He sits down, abandoning the drinks, and mutters, “I already have sunscreen on.”
“So do I.”
My dermatologist told me sun is what ages you the fastest, and since my career—and society—dictates that I age as slowly as possible, I wear sunscreen all the time.
It’s part of my daily facial care routine, and I also lather it on the rest of me on outdoor days like this (but it’s good quality and blends in).
Riff may not face the same pressure, but his team will have encouraged him to take care of his skin too.
But of course we both know this list item has nothing to do with actually needing sunscreen.
“I’m glad they don’t want you putting any on me,” I add, surprised that they didn’t mention it.
“They probably thought you’d find it objectifying and get mad.”
“That was smart of them.”
I find the sunscreen, which smells like coconut with a chemical zing to it. Riff sighs and pulls his shirt off, baring his skin.
Subtly, I hold my breath.
His abs are not a perfect washboard, which I appreciate, just a hint of muscles down their length. His arms are likewise not that of a body builder, but still nicely toned and robust.
He turns to the side, allowing the photographer a good angle on us, and I reposition myself so that I’m at his back, staring at his broad shoulders.
Tentatively, I rub a thin layer of sunscreen on his deltoids. The muscles flex under my hands. With careful touches, I move up to the trapezius area.
He stretches his neck a little.
I clear my throat and venture to say, “No farmer’s tan?”
Riff snorts. “We can’t all be Kenny Chesney.”
That lyrical reference—“she’s even kinda crazy ‘bout my farmer’s tan” from “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—is burned into my brain thanks to my middle school best friend. She was all about country music—and probably a big part of the reason it’s a genre I’ve mostly avoided.
“If I recall correctly,” I say, “Kenny doesn’t have a farmer’s tan either.”
The music video has him singing in his barn, wearing a black tank top, bronzed from head to toe.
“That’s the thing about a lot of modern country music,” Riff says. “People like the vibes, but they don’t actually want that life. Real women complain about tan lines—and no one likes the smell of cow shit.”
I can’t help laughing at that.
Riff smiles and shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Well, I think our whole industry is guilty of romanticizing ridiculous things. Instantly falling in love with random strangers, dancing all night long, smashing your ex’s headlights and not getting into legal trouble.”
Maybe not just romanticizing, I think. Hyperbolizing.
Everything in music is more dramatic, more intense.
Every song, for me, is a deep dive into my emotions, often to the point that I’m drowning in them and I can’t see straight.
Which hasn’t been good for me—I know that.
I let that intensity get the better of me with Riff; I made a much bigger deal out of our situation than it needed to be.
Wind stirs across the beach. The sunscreen scent blows back at me, along with something else—the essence of Riff, whatever he emits naturally. My blouse billows against my ribs.
“That should be good,” Riff says. “Plenty of photo ops for that guy.” He nods in the direction of the photographer, then stands up and turns to face me.
For once, I really examine his face—the coarse hairs along his jaw, faint dimples that only show when he’s being kind of smug, thick expressive brows, eyes that are so much kinder than I ever dared to notice.
He looks back at me with intensity as wisps of my hair blow against my cheeks.
I flinch when he steps forward and reaches out.
But then he just brushes his fingertips across my forehead, capturing the stray hairs and dragging them down to tuck them behind my ear.
My heart races at the proximity, at the intimacy of his touch, at the idea that his lips are mere inches from mine.
And he doesn’t let up or back off when I expect him to.
He keeps his fingers curled around the shell of my ear, holding my hair in place, lifting them only to stroke once more before he pauses again.
He holds this pose long enough that it sets off an alarm in my brain.
A pose. That’s all it is.
Number 3 on the list.
Riff tucks Harmony’s breeze-blown hair behind her ear
Gently I extract myself from him.
“That was perfect,” I say, trying not to choke on my own words. “Really … natural. You’re good at this.”
“I …” He flexes his hand, then half turns like he’s going to glance at the camera but stops like he’s thought better of it. When I fold my arms and force a smile to let him know it’s fine, he finally says, “Thanks.”
Warily, I eye the surfboards and the wetsuits laid out for us.
Riff seems to guess what I’m thinking. “It’s not that bad. It’s … fun, actually. You might even like it.”
Maybe under different circumstances. Maybe if someone wasn’t documenting this. Maybe if my instructor wasn’t so distracting.
“I guess we’ll see.”
Now in a full wetsuit, which was a pain to get on (never mind the part where I had to strip down to my swimsuit first) I stand on top of my board, which is lodged safely in the sand.
Riff has warned me that he’s pretty rusty, and I am reassured only by the idea that he spent many summer days of his youth doing this activity (he says it’s “like riding a bike,” as so many things are).
“Okay, so,” Riff starts, “you’re just going to learn how to stand correctly first. Body angled while your head faces forward, knees bent, feet just wider than shoulder-width apart.”
I imitate him, feeling like I’m poised for a karate tournament.
“Great,” he says. “So that’s what you’re aiming for after a popup. Now we have to practice getting into the position from lying down.”
He has me lie on the board, flat on my stomach with my feet hanging off the tail, toes down.
“Your chest should be near the board but your back should be slightly arched. Yep, just like that. Now pretend to dip your hands into the water and paddle forward.” He’s flat on his own board next to me, miming this.