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. Awannabecowboy, on the other hand, is obnoxious.
It’s what peoplepretendto 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, Iamgrateful.” 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 wantyouputting any onme,” 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.”
