Page 39 of Fa-La La-La Land
If they think I don’t know I’m falling, they’re wrong. I’m not that thick. I know exactly what this is. With Stella, I’m not just gone—I’m properly, hopelessly, happily gone.
After clearing the table, I text her:
9:00 a.m. tomorrow? Waves’ll be better early.
Then I sit at the piano and let my fingers find the tune that’s been chasing me all day. Each time I looked at her, the notes grew clearer. I add them to the lyrics I already have and start another verse. By the time I finish, half of the new Christmas song is done.
The city hums with silver bells,
But I only hear your name.
Every corner dressed in glitter
Feels empty all the same.
But you cut through the noise like sunrise,
Breaking through cold with something true.
I never dreamed of Christmas,
’Til the day I dreamed with you.
In two days’ time, I’ve written the song I’ve been under the pump trying to write for months. All because of Stella.
Chapter Thirteen
Rhys
Next morning, I knock on Stella’s door with a takeaway coffee Rita prepped. She answers in the same denim cut-offs she wore at Archie’s—the first time I’d seen her in a year. Orange bikini straps peek from under her Freddy Ridgefield tee—baiting me, for sure—circling her neck. Hair piled on top her head, a few loose strands down her nape.
She’s gorge. I want to tell her, but I’ve got to tread carefully, especially after how she handled Chad and Brianna yesterday. I knew she’d be good when I pushed Danny to hire her; I didn’t knowhowgood ’til then. As much as I want Stella, I need her if I’m going to get my career back. She managed me as well as the moment—kept me from blowing it.
I can’t spook her with lopsided feelings. And if she’s thinking about me half as much as I think about her, that’s even more reason to move slow. Her number one goal isnotto fall in love. Stella’s determined—she’ll bulldoze that list.
My great-grandad spent twenty years droving sheep in theOutback. I reckon I could spend seven waiting for Stella to hit thirty.
Yeah, nah. Who am I kidding? I’m too soft for that kind of torture. If we get to a point where something’s gotta give, hopefully it’s the list and not me. Until then, I’ll bide my time and take whatever opportunity I can to prove I’m worth crossing off number thirty for: make exceptions.
We bike the same trail as yesterday, stopping for brekkie burritos at a little stand I’ve hit for years. The Gonzalezes are always cool—never a scene, never a sneaky pic.
When Pedro hands me the burritos, I remember Stella offering to tag total strangers yesterday, and I’m embarrassed I’ve never thought to do the same for Burrito Break—or even Frothed, which my mates own.
“La-La,” I say. When I use the nickname, Stella’s mouth flickers with a grin that makes me want to say it a thousand more times. “Let’s do a post here so we can tag Burrito Break.” I look over my shoulder. “That okay with you, Pedro and Veronica, if we get a picture together?”
They look at me, confused before Veronica says, “Sí, but why?”
“I’ll put it on my Instagram.”
Their eyes narrow with deeper confusion. “Do you have a lot of followers?”
Now I’m confused. “Millions…”
Their eyes go wide. Behind me, Stella laughs. “Did you know this is Rhys James…” No recognition. “The rock star?”
“Ah, sí,sí!” Veronica brightens. Pedro nods politely. “We prefer Spanish music.”
Defensiveness rises. I almost tell them I’ve toured Mexico before remembering that just because they speak Spanish doesn’t mean they’re Mexican. They could be from anywherein Central or South America—except Brazil, obviously. In all the years I’ve been coming to this stand, I’ve never asked.
