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—fortonight.
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 cheeksburn 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.
