Having heard it a few times myself, and because of the repetition, I’m able to whisper-sing with him, and I harmonize a little too.
During the instrumental interlude (and folksy whistling) that goes on for a bit near the end, he says, “You saw my video.”
“I might have,” I admit.
“On HypeSource?”
“No, just … Facebook.” I realize as I say this that he’ll probably understand I had to go looking for it, which means I made an actual effort to find things about him.
He doesn’t acknowledge that at all, though. “ACKER told me there was an article, and that some other old videos were going around too.”
Which makes sense, since I was the one who shared them. “I thought people should know how versatile you are.”
His brows furrow. “You … you made that happen?”
I nod. “Everyone thinks you’re amazing. I figured it might help if Charles can see how much of a fanbase there is for you outside of country.”
“I … don’t know what to say.”
The chorus plays again, repeating “Can I be close to you?” over and over.
As “Bloom” ends, I press pause before Spotify autoplays anything else.
“Are you mad?” I bite the inside of my cheek.
Riff shakes his head. “No, I just … I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect anyone to ever see those, beyond the people that watched them years ago and have long forgotten about them. I didn’t expect the reactions either, but I read a lot of the comments the other day and people were so … positive.”
“That’s because they recognize your passion. Because the real you resonates.”
He takes a deep breath and looks out at the waves for a moment, then turns back to me. “Thank you for saying that.”
I shrug. “It’s the truth. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.”
“Well, I’m good at hiding it most of the time. Although, I didn’t want to hide it fromyou. I think that was the source of the confusion when we met. Normally I can get into character likethat”—he snaps his fingers—“but for some reason, I missed my cue, and then I was just a walking contradiction. So for that, I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“Well, I do not accept your apology—because no apology is necessary. I was wrong; you’re not fake. In fact, you might be one of the realest people I know.”
“I don’t know about that …”
“You are. What you say in your songs is real, it’s just a matter of people actually listening to you. Anyone who pays close enough attention can hear your true feelings about country music.” I laugh.
He laughs too. “Finally, someone gets it.”
“As soon as I looked at you logically, it was easy to see. No guy is that much of a country bro unless he’s making fun of the whole idea.”
Riff laughs again before pausing to look at me seriously. He waits a few beats, then says, “And no woman comes off as that much of a man hater as you, unless a lot of men have given her a good reason for it.”
I draw back and avert my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not the only one who’s been second-guessing their opinions lately—or listening more closely to what someone else has been trying to say in music.”
“So you …” I can’t quite come up with the words.
He’s been … looking into me? Researching me? Gathering better intel? The same way I did to him?
“I’ve been trying to pay better attention. It’s not fair, the shit people give you. Body shaming, critiquing your relationships, the ridiculous pregnancy rumor …”
My breath goes shallow on the last one. I don’t know why; I’ve heard it a million times. But it’s different coming out of Riff’s mouth, even though he’s only repeating it to say it’s unfair. Maybe because of what he doesn’t know—what almost no one knows.
