Chapter 20 These Are the Places You Will Find Me Hidin’
These Are the Places You Will Find Me Hidin'
RIFF
I lie awake for hours thinking about Harmony—about everything that happened at the beach, about what she’s been through.
I wish I could have held her longer. I wish I had the courage to tell her how many times I wasn’t acting (spoiler: it was the whole time).
But I could see she was barely tolerating me physically as it was, and only because she seems to feel bad for having misjudged me.
“I know I’ve been … less than cooperative.”
It would be stupid of me to mistake that for real—even shy—affection.
Regardless, in the morning I go for a hike and listen to some of Harmony’s music again, especially the songs that are rumored to be about Luke Onstenk.
“The Ghost of You,” which I’ve heard a few times before, comes on, a piano ballad with breathy vocals that reek of hurt.
Knowing details now about how Luke treated Harmony, it’s hard to hear, but … I want to know what she has to say.
People say “out of sight, out of mind,”
But I disagree,
You’re invisible, baby,
Still, you’re all I can see
Can’t miss what wasn’t there,
But I’m empty now,
You were part of me, baby,
Lost before you were found
I close my eyes, but I’m haunted
By losing what I never wanted,
When I sense the ghost of you,
What am I supposed to do?
When she repeats the chorus, I stop dead in the middle of the trail.
“No …” I whisper, thinking it can’t be right.
I start the song over again so I can listen to it with a different context in mind.
She keeps thinking about someone who isn’t there. Could be a man who left her, but … maybe not.
This person was a part of her—metaphorically, of course. Unless …
I listen all the way through and start it over one more time.
“Losing what I never wanted.”
“Empty now.”
When she says, “You’re invisible, baby,” sure, it might just be the way modern music talks about lovers, ex-lovers, potential lovers, sometimes even close friends.
It’s never literal. But my gut tells me this may be the one exception, and I see how, once again, Harmony Sonora has woven her truth into her music in layered, sophisticated ways.
In “The Ghost of You,” she’s telling the world about her loss, and yet she still manages to keep the full truth of it to herself, knowing no one will know what it really means. Artistic expression at its finest.
An ache builds in my chest, but I press on until I finish the hike. I remove my headphones, though, and walk the rest of the trail in silence.
After I get back to the house, I’m halfway through making a protein shake when a text comes through.
HARMONY: Do you have any plans tonight?
I blink emphatically as I stare at my phone. Harmony Sonora is asking me if I have plans?
GRIFFIN: If playing the Switch in my boxers counts as “plans” …
HARMONY: Great, so you’re free. There’s something I want to show you and I think it would be really fun.
GRIFFIN: k
HARMONY: I’ll pick you up at 6. What’s your address?
I reply with the address and gate instructions, then proceed to freak out about what the hell is happening, because this woman is giving me whiplash.
One minute after 6:00, a car pulls into my driveway. I’m expecting the Mercedes that Harmony mentioned on social media after I teased “My, My, That Horse is High,” or maybe an Audi or a Tesla, but instead it’s a … Kia Soul?
The driver has shoulder-length straight blonde hair with bangs. She’s wearing glasses, a nose ring, and a pink-and-blue flannel shirt tied at the waist over a gray tee.
Except her face is Harmony’s.
“Um …” I say when she steps out, as I take note of her skinny jeans and lace-up boots.
This version of her is weird, but I can’t deny she looks cute. Am I smiling? Shit, I think I’m smiling.
If she’s going for unrecognizable, she’s done excellent work. The wig looks real. Whatever makeup she’s wearing changes the contours of her face a little. And no one would expect a celebrity to be driving this car.
“We’re going downtown,” Harmony informs me. “You’ll need a disguise too. Here.” She hands me a slouchy beanie and a distressed t-shirt that reads Folk Yeah! in a vintage font. “Do you have any slip-on shoes? Like, sneakers without laces?”
I have to admit that I do.
“Good,” she says. “And bring your least conspicuous guitar.”
Skeptically, I obey, even changing into some more fitted pants and rolling up the cuffs for good measure. She declines a tour of the house since there appears to be some kind of time constraint on this activity, opting to wait in the foyer until I present her with my made-over self.
Her lips quirk up when she sees me. “Perfect.”
I grab my secondhand Martin D-15M acoustic dreadnought guitar and stash it in her trunk, then get in the passenger seat and let her take me away.
“It’s really pretty out here,” she says as she drives through the canyon. “You like your place?”
“Yeah, it’s been great. Peaceful. So … where are we going?”
“That is a surprise.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“Because I want to say thank you for the surfing lesson last week, and also for … how nice you were to me, later on.”
Thinking about my hike this morning and what I realized about “Ghost of You,” I’m speechless. How can I convey my sorrow to her in a way that doesn’t sound lame? Finally I decide to just say, “It was nothing.”
She looks at the road as she quietly replies, “Not to me.”
Once we’ve been driving for a bit and the weight of the conversation fades, I tease her about the Kia Soul.
“What? It’s a good car,” she argues. “I used to want one of these in high school.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror, thinking how meta this is: I’m Griffin Hurley, masquerading as country bro Riff Hurley, masquerading as something resembling the old Griffin Hurley. I’m like my own Russian nesting doll.
“I just never imagined you driving anything that didn’t strictly require premium unleaded fuel.”
She scoffs. “This is for going incognito. Anyway, what do you drive?”
“A Bronco Raptor.”
“Okay, nice.”
“Maybe I’ll take you for a ride in it sometime. Ever been off-roading?”
She shakes her head.
“That’s one place I don’t have to worry about being recognized,” I say.
“Is it because all those dust clouds obscure the view?”
“Probably. That, and most celebrities tend to favor the more gentle outdoor activities, like golfing.”
“Or, at best, hanging out on a big ranch,” she suggests.
By the time we hit actual traffic, Harmony has turned on the radio and we’ve critiqued a few of the latest releases.
We skirt the edge of the city with its mid-rise apartment building, offices, coffee shops, and restaurants.
The sight of a specific Italian restaurant somehow spurs a heated discussion about whether Pop-Tarts are actually a type of ravioli.
“It’s two layers of dough with filling inside,” Harmony says.
“By that definition,” I say, “any pie with a double crust is also a raviolo.”
She laughs. “‘Raviolio’?”
“That’s the correct singular. ‘Ravioli’ is plural.”
“I know but it sounds weird and most people just say ravioli for both. That’s like referring to one spaghetti noodle as a ‘spaghetto.’”
“Yes, that’s how you should say it.”
Now she snort-laughs.
“I fail to see what’s funny,” I tell her, even though I’m on the brink of laughter myself.
“Okay, Mr. Journalism. I bet you also correct people to say ‘whom’ and ‘whomever,’ and ‘none of us is’ instead of ‘none of us are.’”
“Correct language is not a toxic trait.”
“But it’s awkward to say things like, ‘Whom would you like to speak to?’”
“Actually the best way to say it is, ‘To whom would you like to speak?’”
“Sure, in the eighteenth century.”
I give her a deadpan look. She’s got a point, but my former profession won’t allow me to admit it. “Anyway, Pop-Tarts aren’t ravioli.”
“They are, and so are some pies, like you said. Although if you think about it”—she gestures with one hand off the wheel—“a Pop-Tart is just a very flat pie—”
“Don’t even start …” I grab her hand to restrain her gesture, but we both look at the way we’re touching and I panic and let go. Like I didn’t hold her hand for a solid ten minutes at the beach.
The difference, though, is that no one is forcing us to be together this time. There’s nothing to hide behind. If I touch her, she knows it’s because I want to, not because PR said I should.
“Here we are,” Harmony says like nothing happened.
We pull up to the curb and find a perfect spot—city street parking that just happens to be vacant. I furrow my brows.
Harmony waves at a man on the sidewalk who is carrying a stack of traffic cones under one arm. He gives us a lazy salute and a wink before he heads off.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“He works for me. I paid him extra to save the spot.”
I’m about to scold her on the ethics of this when I gaze up at the front of the building we’re parked next to.
It’s old brick from top to bottom, some industrial warehouse from the 1920s, maybe as late as the 30s or 40s. The tinted windows have multiple panes with black frames, flanked by black shutters. White letters affixed to the bricks spell out “The Soundmill.”
“Wait …” I say, “I’ve heard of this place. It’s new. I mean … not literally new, of course, but …”
“It just opened,” Harmony supplies.
Sometimes I still keep tabs on indie music venues in the area.
I found out about this one last month—reading the same entertainment column I used to write—built into a repurposed warehouse.
It would have sparked my interest more if I’d thought I had the ability to check it out without drawing a crowd, but lately I sort of skim those updates and then forget about them, because that’s not my life anymore.