Page 41 of Fa-La La-La Land
“It’s not what the label wants. They’d drop me.”
“You couldn’t find a new label?”
Her naivete is equal parts refreshing and maddening. In theory, sure. In practice? “I don’t know. I’ve only ever been with VibeHouse, and they found me. Not sure who else would want me. Maybe the music I hear is only for me.”
“I think what makes you happy, Rhys, should be for everyone. Especially when it’s music. You should be the one who decides what you want to create.”
I dip my chin—message received. Nice thought…but not exactly practical.
A wave lines up. I move to the tail and give her board a smooth shove. She pops up clean, and I cheer as the wave carries her in. She hops off, spins, and paddles back with a grin that hits me square in the chest.
“I’m going to do it on my own this time,” she says, resetting. “Just tell me when to go and when to pop up.”
She paddles when I call it but pops a beat late. The wave eats her. I start toward her, but she surfaces fast, grabs the board, and returns with purpose.
No smile now—just that locked-in look I’ve seen on Dex before a final. She’s not gunning for comps, but she’s gunning forsomething.Nothing’s getting in her way. At this rate, her thirty will be finished long before she’s thirty.
A few more goes and she’s up, again and again. I fetch my board, and we surf together.
We spend hours there—surfing, lazing, actually relaxing. Brisbane was good, but it wasn’t this. Maybe the difference is simple: Stella wasn’t there. With her, even sitting on the sand is fun.
While we sit there, she flips her phone toward me. Yesterday’s post with Chad and Brianna fills her screen. Nearly 10k likes.
“This is a good thing,” she says.
I don’t track numbers much, but pre-meltdown that would’ve been a slow day. I scroll to the comments. A few nice ones, then:Should have paid that tool to be in your pic, not the other way around.
I hand the phone back. “See? People still don’t like me.”
Stella scoffs. “Welcome to the club. Not everybody’s going to love you all the time, Rhys. It doesn’t matter as long as you love yourself.”
I laugh. “Love myself? That’s therapist rubbish.”
“Maybe. But it’s true. And I think that might be the problem. You want people to love you for who you are on stage—but that’s not who you are. And I don’t think that’s who you want to be.”
I lie back and fold an arm behind my head. “Who do you think I want to be?”
“That’s for you to figure out. But I think it starts with finding out what makes you happy.”
“We’re supposed to be having fun, La-La,” I grumble.
She ignores that, rolls onto her belly, props up on her elbows. “Does being on stage make you happy? Answer me honestly this time.”
No dodging it—her tone matches the focus I saw when she stayed up on the board. We’re inches apart; I’d rather be kissing her than peeling back my own layers.
“Writing my own songs makes me happy. Performing makes me happy. But being the goofy teenager the label created? Not anymore. I feel hemmed in by expectations that I’ll never grow up, that I’ll keep making the same music. That’stheirmusic. Not mine.”
“So what do you want to do about that?”
I shut my eyes against the sun. “Figure out how to be happy as that person again.”
“I think you’re pointed down the wrong path there.”
“It’s the only path I’ve got, Stella.” The grump slips out. I hate it as soon as I hear it, but there it is.
“I disagree, Rhys. But I won’t argue with you about it. So tell me some other things that make you happy.”
That one’s easy. “Helping you cross things off your list makes me happy.”
