Page 56 of Fa-La La-La Land
“I think Auntie Stella wants you to sing a new song, Charly,” Seb encourages.
Charly turns to look at me and stops singing long enough to ask, “Can I call you La-La too?”
“Of course you can.” Apparently, she’s heard Rhys call me that, and it’s stuck. I’m not mad about it.
I could make it conditional on her not singing “Fa-La La-La Land” anymore. But to be honest, I’m trying hard not to break into laughter. And Rhys is equal parts uncomfortable and totally smitten with her.
“Man, I hate that song,” Adam mumbles—but not so quietly that both Rhys and I don’t hear it.
And now it’s my turn to be uncomfortable. I glance at Rhys, waiting for his reaction, then lean forward to tell Adam he’s insulted my guest.
Before I can, Rhys bursts out laughing. “You and me both,mate. I hate that blasted song. Wish I never had to sing it again.”
Adam cracks a grin. “Wish I never had to hear it again.”
“Tell that to my label. They’re the ones who push it. I gave ’em one song; they handed me back this one. I was seventeen. Didn’t know I could say no. Never figured people’d lose their minds over it.”
“What was wrong with your version?” Adam asks.
“Nothing, far as I’m concerned. But VibeHouse wanted ‘more sparkle, less sad.’ All tinsel, no truth.”
“Did someone die in your version?”
Rhys laughs. “Nah, mate. Just painted Christmas how it really feels sometimes—after the wrapping’s ripped off and the quiet sets in. Bit like LA: looks like magic ’til you see the cracks.”
I listen with rapt attention. This is the most I’ve ever heard Rhys say about the original “Fa-La La-La Land.” His version sounds like everything I’d hate, but I want to hear it more now than ever.
“Yours sounds better to me. Would love to hear you play it while you’re here.” Adam cuts through a piece of turkey so tender, he barely needs a knife. “I’ve got whatever instruments you need. I play guitar. We could play the song together. Get the VibeHouse version out of both our heads.”
I barely have time to brace myself for Rhys’s refusal before he says, “I’d like that, mate. How about tonight? I’m only here for a few days.”
If Rhys notices me picking my jaw up off the floor, he doesn’t act like it.
“Sure. After dinner, we can set up here. If you want more backup, Seb plays bass. Bear plays drums.” Adam stuffs turkey in his mouth as if what just happened isnota huge deal.
Rhys sets down his fork, looks past Adam with a light in hiseyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a piano lying around somewhere?”
“I can get you a piano,” Adam nods, agreeing as easily as if Rhys had asked him to grab a bag of chips at the grocery store.
But this is Adam, and plucking a piano out of thin airisas easy as picking up chips. Which is how, not too many hours later, after dinner’s been cleared, dishes cleaned, and tables put away, I sit with Charly in my lap, Hope and Britta next to me, Mamma behind, waiting to finally hear the song I’ve been begging Rhys to play for me for a month.
He taps out a bit of the melody on the piano, then tells Seb and Adam the chord progressions before starting again, both hands running across the keys to create a beautiful harmony. Seb and Adam join in, then Bear picks up the beat in the back, softly tapping on his drums.
The arrangement is similar to the VibeHouse version, but slower. The lyrics are the biggest difference.
Rhys’s version does exactly what he told Adam. It captures that bittersweet feeling of Christmas—the one I always try to ignore. But Rhys is right. Reality never quite lives up to the fantasy. And even when it does, the fantasy ends. Empty boxes. Torn wrapping paper. The dying tree weighed down by the ornaments on its branches.
The song wrecks me in a way that the version I know never has, forcing me to feel things I don’t want to let myself feel. Charly wiggles and yawns, curling into my chest before closing her eyes. I hold her a little tighter. She hums off-key, searching over Rhys’s song for the VibeHouse version of “Fa-La La-La Land” as she falls asleep.
The song ends. There’s a burst of applause.
Which isn’t surprising, because my family is always going to clap for my brother and cousins. But this applause is different. Everyonefeltthe song.
Rhys pushes away from the piano and waves to the room full of family and friends, smiling with a relief and peace I haven’t seen before. “Thanks. Good to play for a receptive audience.”
“It’s a good song, bro,” Seb says.
Bear taps his drumsticks softly in agreement.
