Chapter 21 I Wanna Hold You When I’m Not Supposed To
I Wanna Hold You When I'm Not Supposed To
HARMONY
Riff pulls up to my house in his shelter-green Bronco Raptor.
It’s been four days since I ambushed him with the indie performance and we’ve been too busy to interact much, but after the success of our beach photo shoot, the label has insisted we get together and get back to working on “Hate to Love.”
Somehow I’ve made this even more difficult for myself.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken him out to reconnect with that whole scene, but …
he was so kind to me at the beach, such a patient surf coach, so gentle when I told him about what happened to me.
In contrast, I’ve been mean, difficult. I guess I wanted to make it up to him, if only a little.
Spending more time with him didn’t do my feelings any favors though. I had no idea how it would affect me to see him in his element and get a sense of his true sound. The timing is painfully ironic.
“Ready?” he asks as he opens the passenger-side door for me.
I didn’t think he was serious about taking me for a ride in this thing, but I know most guys will use any excuse to use and show off their prized vehicles, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
I climb in.
Stefanie and Braden apparently got together with the producer and the PR team and cooked up a plan to help us finish the song while also seeking more public attention, so Riff is supposed to take me out on a “date” and in the meantime we’ll share what we’ve individually come up with for the song’s second verse in a no-pressure environment.
Because having strangers gawk and photographers follow us like stalkers is relaxing.
“We just mean away from the studio,” Stefanie clarified. “Somewhere fun.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t starting to have fun with Riff, but the nature of our careers makes it so that most of our interactions involve work.
Music doesn’t always feel like work to me, but it does when I have to be careful about what I write; currently I am struggling with my contribution to the song because every lyric I come up with is actually sincere when it’s only supposed to sound sincere.
Meanwhile, I’m dreading the moment that Riff presents me with his ideas because he probably did the assignment correctly—drawing on the positive parts of past relationships for inspiration, like we talked about. Unfortunately that didn’t work for me.
Before we get through my security gate, I ask, “Are you taking me to get ravioli?”
Riff scoffs. “I’d say ‘no,’ but I’m sure you’d find a way to classify any food as ravioli.”
Twenty minutes later, he enters the parking lot of a nice shopping center and parks in front of a place called Dough Re Mi.
Based on the logo, storefront design, and promo posters, it seems Riff has taken me out for …
“‘Edible cookie dough’?” I say. “That’s quite the gimmick, considering all cookie dough is edible.”
He unclicks his seatbelt emphatically. “Sure, but this kind doesn’t have a one in 200,000 chance of making you sick.”
I pretend to be annoyed until we get inside, but once I see all the flavors, I can’t hide my enthusiasm. “Snickerdoodle? Brown butter toffee??”
It takes a minute before we’ve caused a stir by being here, thanks to our sunglasses and casual clothes buying us time.
Riff and I sign some autographs and take selfies with fans, we most definitely end up in videos on people’s phones, and then Riff tells the workers we’ll take two of everything to go, leaving them a massive tip before we leave.
He takes us up Mulholland Drive and finds an overlook that no one is using at the moment. We pull over and sample all the cookie dough at a picnic table and admire the view of the whole city.
“So we should probably finish the song,” Riff says after swallowing a mouthful of the birthday-cake flavor. “Were you able to come up with anything for the second verse?”
“I played around with a few ideas,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
To stall, I suggest we lay out what we already have so far to make sure any additions flow well with it. He reads our lyrics from the shared Google doc.
Didn’t mean it, didn’t want it, but here we are,
Like we’ve pinned all our hopes on a dying star,
Don’t think we’ll ever see eye to eye,
You act like the rules simply don’t apply,
We’d rather be going toe to toe,
Game on for the tenth time in a row,
No holding back, let’s see what you’ve got,
Come on, hit me with your best shot
Oh I …
Hate you to the moon and back,
Fate can’t make these opposites attract,
Fame don’t mean that I’m your fan,
Game face ‘cause you’re so on brand,
Gave it all but my fight is fading,
Give it up? No, I’m not done hating,
Live wires, both of us, but there’s a spark,
Love might just be lurking in the dark
“After that,” Riff says, “I was thinking something like, ‘Can’t explain it, can deny it, I’ve lost my might, suddenly this doesn’t feel like spite. Now your voice is music to my ears, you’re the only one who doesn’t grind my gears.’”
“Nice tie-in to ‘Grind My Gears.’”
Maybe I should have done something like that—pulled something from one of my songs, better yet one that is explicitly about a different guy.
Instead I came up with rough snippets like this:
I keep replaying every word you spoke
When you smile it’s like an inside joke
I play it cool but my mind’s on you
Now when you’re gone, I see shades of blue
Those dying stars managed to align
‘Cause you’re living rent-free in my mind
But I don’t share any of those. I provide a neutral couplet: “Didn’t know, didn’t care, didn’t stand a chance, didn’t think we’d get lost in the circumstance.”
Riff has his guitar in the Bronco so he gets it out so we can put the words to music. He also presents, “Spent every day tryin’ to build my walls, but you keep knocking ’til the whole thing falls.”
“‘Build my wall’ instead of ‘build my walls,’ maybe,” I suggest. “Since ‘the whole thing’ sounds singular. Like spaghetto.”
He half smiles and shakes his head. “Okay. Fair point.”
I offer, “Tried to fight it, tried to hide it, but truth be told, you give me feelings I can’t withhold.” That’s pretty generic, I figure. Not too revealing.
He gives me a skeptical look.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Those are fine. It’s just …” He sucks his teeth. “I don’t know. Usually what you come up with is more … more.”
“‘More more’?”
“Yeah. More heartfelt. More specific.”
“Except usually what I come up with is real. This is pretend. Remember?”
Riff is quiet for a moment, staring sort of absently before he replies, “Of course. Yes. Which … is why we said we’d take from real life. From real experiences. With … other people.”
It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to me to present my brainstormed lyrics to him like they were once meant for someone else. That’s obviously the easiest thing to do. It’s just that, as much as I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth (however indirectly) I also don’t want to outright lie to him.
On the other hand, if he’s singing about Mikayla (or some other woman) bringing his emotional walls down, it’s probably best to let him think “your smile is like an inside joke” is about Kelton or Dylan or Josh.
Sighing, I scroll through the applicable Notes note and give him the goods. All of them.
“That’s more like it,” he says. “You were holding out on me.”
“Sorry. It’s just … this is still weird. Ironically, even weirder now that we’re getting along better.”
“I know. But we’re both adults. We can handle it. I’m not judging you, I hope you’re not judging me. We’re doing our job, and neither of us is the type of person to do things half-assed.”
“‘Neither of us are,’” I say.
“No, it’s—”
“I’m just messing with you.”
He glares at me.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “We’re whole-assers.”
“Right. So put your whole ass in, I’ll put my whole ass in. And let’s finish this song for the fans.”
I nod, hoping my growing heartache isn’t written all over my face.