That lyrical reference—“she’s even kinda crazy ‘bout my farmer’s tan” from “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—is burned into my brain thanks to my middle school best friend. She was all about country music—and probably a big part of the reason it’s a genre I’ve mostly avoided.
“If I recall correctly,” I say, “Kenny doesn’t have a farmer’s tan either.”
The music video has him singing in his barn, wearing a black tank top, bronzed from head to toe.
“That’s the thing about a lot of modern country music,” Riff says. “People like the vibes, but they don’t actually want that life. Real womencomplainabout tan lines—and no one likes the smell of cow shit.”
I can’t help laughing at that.
Riff smiles and shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Well, I think our whole industry is guilty of romanticizing ridiculous things. Instantly falling in love with randomstrangers, dancing all night long, smashing your ex’s headlights and not getting into legal trouble.”
Maybe not just romanticizing, I think.Hyperbolizing. Everything in music is more dramatic, more intense. Every song, for me, is a deep dive into my emotions, often to the point that I’m drowning in them and I can’t see straight. Which hasn’t been good for me—I know that. I let that intensity get the better of me with Riff; I made a much bigger deal out of our situation than it needed to be.
Wind stirs across the beach. The sunscreen scent blows back at me, along with something else—the essence of Riff, whatever he emits naturally. My blouse billows against my ribs.
“That should be good,” Riff says. “Plenty of photo ops for that guy.” He nods in the direction of the photographer, then stands up and turns to face me.
For once, I really examine his face—the coarse hairs along his jaw, faint dimples that only show when he’s being kind of smug, thick expressive brows, eyes that are so much kinder than I ever dared to notice.
He looks back at me with intensity as wisps of my hair blow against my cheeks.
I flinch when he steps forward and reaches out. But then he just brushes his fingertips across my forehead, capturing the stray hairs and dragging them down to tuck them behind my ear. My heart races at the proximity, at the intimacy of his touch, at the idea that his lips are mere inches from mine. And he doesn’t let up or back off when I expect him to. He keeps his fingers curled around the shell of my ear, holding my hair in place, lifting them only to stroke once more before he pauses again. He holds this pose long enough that it sets off an alarm in my brain.
A pose. That’s all it is.
Number 3 on the list.
Riff tucks Harmony’s breeze-blown hair behind her ear
Gently I extract myself from him.
“That was perfect,” I say, trying not to choke on my own words. “Really … natural. You’re good at this.”
“I …” He flexes his hand, then half turns like he’s going to glance at the camera but stops like he’s thought better of it. When I fold my arms and force a smile to let him know it’s fine, he finally says, “Thanks.”
Warily, I eye the surfboards and the wetsuits laid out for us.
Riff seems to guess what I’m thinking. “It’s not that bad. It’s … fun, actually. You might even like it.”
Maybe under different circumstances. Maybe if someone wasn’t documenting this. Maybe if my instructor wasn’t so distracting.
“I guess we’ll see.”
Now in a full wetsuit, which was a pain to get on (never mind the part where I had to strip down to my swimsuit first) I stand on top of my board, which is lodged safely in the sand. Riff has warned me that he’s pretty rusty, and I am reassured only by the idea that he spent many summer days of his youth doing this activity (he says it’s “like riding a bike,” as so many things are).
“Okay, so,” Riff starts, “you’re just going to learn how to stand correctly first. Body angled while your head faces forward, knees bent, feet just wider than shoulder-width apart.”
I imitate him, feeling like I’m poised for a karate tournament.
“Great,” he says. “So that’s what you’re aiming for after a popup. Now we have to practice getting into the position from lying down.”
He has me lie on the board, flat on my stomach with my feet hanging off the tail, toes down.
“Your chest should be near the board but your back should be slightly arched. Yep, just like that. Now pretend to dip your hands into the water and paddle forward.” He’s flat on his own board next to me, miming this.
“Okay.” I do the same.
