Page 27 of Fa-La La-La Land
But a Christmas with snow? I’ve dreamed about that since I was a kid. And as mad as it sounds, I’m already working out how I might get Stella to invite me to Christmas in Paradise. Mum and Dad too, of course.
That night, I climb into bed completely wiped out from traveling all day, but with a spark of happiness I haven’t felt in a long time.
When I wake the next morning—late, groggy, still fogged by jet lag—there are words in my head. Phrases and fragments that sound like a song. I grab the notepad from my bedside table. Some musicians use their phones, but I’ve always preferred pen and paper.
I write every word spinning in my head, then shape them until they find their rhythm. Until they sound like Stella, beginning with her eyes.
They’re cinnamon wrapped in silence,
Eyes dark as midnight above snow,
You looked at me and somehow,
Made December feel like home.
No blinking lights, no perfect script,
Just your laughter in the glow,
I never saw December,
Until you let it show.
When I finally set down my pen and glance at the clock, it’s almost midday. I check on Mum and Dad—both still taking their sweet time waking up—then ask Rita, our cook, to make us some brekkie. I pour myself a coffee, trying not to text Stella.
But I want more lyrics for my song. And I reckon Stella’s my muse.
I take a sip, then cave and type:
You hungry? Want some brekkie?
Her reply comes fast:
It’s almost noon.
I glance at the time, even though I know she’s right. I’m about to suggest lunch instead when the dots appear again:
We need to plan this party though, so I’ll come over.
I’m grinning at my phone when Mum opens the cupboard beside me for a mug.
“What’s got you smiling this morning?” She asks, voice light with curiosity.
“Didn’t realize I was,” I say, turning away to hide it. But the grin doesn’t budge. Lyrics aren’t the only thing Stella’s inspiring today.
Suddenly, another idea hits, possibly thanks to Stella’s list. I text her back:
Meet me by the pool. Let’s plan the party there.
I ask Rita to put together some fresh fruit and green smoothies, then jog upstairs to throw on my boardies. Ten minutes later, I’m on the covered patio with a platter of fruit and two smoothies waiting on the table.
On the other side of the pool, Stella steps out of the pool house in shorts and a tank. No swimsuit.
“Yeah, nah. You can’t swim in that. Go grab your togs,” I call out, waving her back toward the door.
She blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Turn around and chuck your swimmers on. If we’re throwing a pool party, you need to know what the pool’s like. Plus, it’s hot. And I want a swim.”
