It was so weird seeing her up close. It always is, with people I’ve only ever seen on TV or on magazine covers. Prior to that, it feels like they’re just figments of the imagination.
I gave her a sympathetic look. “Sorry you’re not having a very good time.”
“Kind of seems like you’re not either.” She gestured at me, then around us at the unoccupied garden.
I shrugged. “I’m … getting some air.” I figured telling her that I’m having a bit of a mental crisis would be too much. “This is a nice surprise though, running into you. Or, I guess I should say, ‘Nice to meet you, Harmony Sonora.’” Like an idiot, I extended my hand—but pulling it back would have been weirder, so I committed.
She hesitated as she shook it. “Just ‘Harmony’ is fine. It’s nice to meet you too—”
“Griffin,” I said, before she called me by my stage name.
The name “Riff” is something they came up with at my first label because it sounded more “country”—one strong syllable, like Buck or Beau or Jed, but with a musical tie-in—although no one in my life has ever referred to me that way otherwise. Unless I’m doing a public interview, I always introduce myself by my real name. Nothinggrinds my gearslike being called Riff when I don’t absolutely have to be.
Despite what the public thinks, I am not Southern in the least. Unless you count Southern California.
I was born in Ventura County and that’s where I grew up. I graduated from UCLA. And this morning, I put an offer on a three-million-dollar home in Topanga Canyon.
On one hand, after renting in Studio City for the past couple of years and living in a loft that was somehow both expensive and rundown, I’m looking forward to something nicer. On the other hand, it still doesn’t feel like my life, to be dropping a few million—to even have a few million to drop—on some fancy rural mansion.
I got my big break at 26. After graduating from college with a degree in journalism and working at newspapers (mostly for entertainment beats, focusing on music) for a couple of years—while performing at small indie music venues whenever I had the chance, sometimes in bands that inevitably dissolved, but mostly solo—a recruiter for a label called SiNKroNyze approached me. The only catch was, they wanted me to sing country (because that’s what they needed to keep their label well rounded).
I’m more of a Joshua Radin or Mat Kearney type of guy (mainly folkish indie-pop or indie-rock) but the recruiter caught me during my oldies phase when I was performing a lot of James Taylor and John Denver, and I guess the more country-leaning folk music showed my “potential.”
Being younger, and desperate to “make it,” I put out two country albums with them that included three major hits, and that was enough to get the attention of Glambam Records, who asked me to continue as a country artist (since that’s where I’ve succeeded thus far). So here I am.
Harmony tucked a stray section of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry that I haven’t actually talked to you before, working in the same building and everything.”
That was nice of her to say, considering we have different managers, A&R (artists and repertoire) people, and assistants, not to mention wildly different schedules.
“It’s fine. I’ve only been with Glambam since February, and I doubt we’re there at the same time very often.”
“Well, that only makes me feel about five percent better, but … I’ll take it.”
Suppressing a grin, I told her, “I’m flattered that you feel so bad.”
Which brings us to the current moment.
Now she’s looking at me again, like she doesn’t know what to think.
A flush spread across her cheeks.
Wow. She’s actually really sweet. A lot of people talk about her like she’s egotistical—but an egotist wouldn’t be ashamed to not know the people beneath her, would she?
She rolls her eyes, but smiles.
“Where are all your friends?” I ask. “From ‘No Boys Allowed’?”
She wrote a whole song about going to entertainment industry events and afterparties with her friends. I can’t remember for the life of me who they were, but I know one of them had a number in her name.
“Do you not follow the drama of young starlets?” she teases. “Ashleigh Wentz hasn’t spoken to me since her brother and I broke up. Then R3ina moved to Europe after she married that Swedish producer, remember? It was in the news.” I shake my head, but she continues. “And Genevieve … I guess we just … grew apart. We both got busy, stopped texting. She’s been onWildwood Enigmafor three seasons now, and they film everything in Canada. I don’t make new friends easily, believe it or not—not real ones, at least.”
“That’s too bad,” I say, with all sincerity. I know it can definitely be hard to figure out who’s in your life because you’re you, and who’s only there because of what your fame can do for them. I imagine for someone at her level, it’s much worse.
“Anyway …” She looks me up and down, like she’s analyzing me. “You’re more … talkative than I would have thought.”
I frown, unsure why she would say that. Do I come off as the strong-and-silent type?
“I could sing instead, if you like.”
