“No …” I whisper, thinking it can’t be right.
I start the song over again so I can listen to it with a different context in mind.
She keeps thinking about someone who isn’t there. Could be a man who left her, but … maybe not.
This person was a part of her—metaphorically, of course. Unless …
I listen all the way through and start it over one more time.
“Losing what I never wanted.”
“Empty now.”
When she says, “You’re invisible, baby,” sure, it might just be the way modern music talks about lovers, ex-lovers, potential lovers, sometimes even close friends. It’s never literal. But my gut tells me this may be the one exception, and I see how, once again, Harmony Sonora has woven her truth into her music in layered, sophisticated ways. In “The Ghost of You,” she’s telling the world about her loss, and yet she still manages to keep thefull truth of it to herself, knowing no one will know what it really means. Artistic expression at its finest.
An ache builds in my chest, but I press on until I finish the hike. I remove my headphones, though, and walk the rest of the trail in silence.
After I get back to the house, I’m halfway through making a protein shake when a text comes through.
HARMONY:Do you have any plans tonight?
I blink emphatically as I stare at my phone. Harmony Sonora is asking me if I have plans?
GRIFFIN:If playing the Switch in my boxers counts as “plans” …
HARMONY:Great, so you’re free. There’s something I want to show you and I think it would be really fun.
GRIFFIN:k
HARMONY:I’ll pick you up at 6. What’s your address?
I reply with the address and gate instructions, then proceed to freak out about what the hell is happening, because this woman is giving me whiplash.
One minute after 6:00, a car pulls into my driveway. I’m expecting the Mercedes that Harmony mentioned on social media after I teased “My, My, That Horse is High,” or maybe an Audi or a Tesla, but instead it’s a … Kia Soul?
The driver has shoulder-length straight blonde hair with bangs. She’s wearing glasses, a nose ring, and a pink-and-blue flannel shirt tied at the waist over a gray tee.
Except her face is Harmony’s.
“Um …” I say when she steps out, as I take note of her skinny jeans and lace-up boots.
This version of her is weird, but I can’t deny she looks cute. Am I smiling? Shit, I think I’m smiling.
If she’s going for unrecognizable, she’s done excellent work. The wig looks real. Whatever makeup she’s wearing changes the contours of her face a little. And no one would expect a celebrity to be driving this car.
“We’re going downtown,” Harmony informs me. “You’ll need a disguise too. Here.” She hands me a slouchy beanie and a distressed t-shirt that reads Folk Yeah! in a vintage font. “Do you have any slip-on shoes? Like, sneakers without laces?”
I have to admit that I do.
“Good,” she says. “And bring your least conspicuous guitar.”
Skeptically, I obey, even changing into some more fitted pants and rolling up the cuffs for good measure. She declines a tour of the house since there appears to be some kind of time constraint on this activity, opting to wait in the foyer until I present her with my made-over self.
Her lips quirk up when she sees me. “Perfect.”
I grab my secondhand Martin D-15M acoustic dreadnought guitar and stash it in her trunk, then get in the passenger seat and let her take me away.
“It’s really pretty out here,” she says as she drives through the canyon. “You like your place?”
