Page 10 of Fa-La La-La Land
But I can pivot. Icancreate the life I want. That was the goal when I first crafted my 30 Before 30 List at the tender age of fourteen. I’ve made revisions, sure, but one thing that hasn’t changed is number seventeen:Live in an amazing apartment, by myself, in a big city.There’s no point in waiting to check that one off the list when I’ve already locked in the big city part.
“Okay. I can do that.” I raise my wine glass filled with water. “A toast to all of us getting what we want: a baller job, a place to live, and, best of all, a baby!”
With huge, happy smiles on their faces, Georgia and Zach raise their glasses. We clink them, but the moment Georgia setshers down, her face drains of color, and she makes a dash to the bathroom.
The next morning, I meet Rhys at Frothed right before six. The coffee shop won’t get busy until around seven, so we’ve got a little time to talk. Britta’s saved the back corner table for us, and Rhys sits with his back to the rest of the room. Between that, the bucket hat, and the raggedy, mismatched board shorts and T-shirt, hopefully no one will recognize him as Rhys James.
“How are you doing?” I ask as soon as I sit across from him. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk at Archie’s the other night.”
“Yeah, good. Cheers.” He keeps his eyes on the coffee Britta already had waiting for him. He doesn’t ask how I am.
Soooo…goodbye to the man I talked to on the phone yesterday; hello guarded, closed-off, grumpy Rhys. The hat hides his face, but even so, I can tell his smile hasn’t made an appearance this morning.
“What are you drinking?” I try again.
He glances up for half a second, then drops his gaze back to his cup. “Whatever Britta’s made me.” He takes a sip, like he’s hoping to figure it out by taste alone, then sets the cup down without a word.
“Well, then I guess we should get down to business. What’s your social media goal?” I take my laptop from my bag and open a new doc.
“Nah, yeah.” He clears his throat. “I need someone to fix my story.”
“Uh-huh.” I nod. “I got that part yesterday. But what story do you want to tell?”
For the first time in the five minutes we’ve been here, Rhys meets my eyes. “That I’m not washed up. That I’m not a jerk.”
“That’s doable, since you’re neither of those things.”
He smiles—just a flicker—but it’s the first real one I’ve seen since he walked in. For a moment, I see the Andy fromSurf City Highwho I fell for, and the larger-than-life pop star I fell even harder for.
Then I have to look away. He really is drop-dead gorgeous, even when he’s doing absolutely nothing to be. I can’t risk falling for the fantasy again, not if I’m going to work for him, and especially not when I know the real Rhys is so different from the version the world sees.
“But your story isn’t about what you aren’t. It’s about what you are. Who you are. That’s what we need to show your fans,” I tell him as Diva, the barista, sets my coffee in front of me.
Rhys scoffs. “What if ‘wildly popular teen pop star’ is all I am?”
I study him over the rim of my cup. There’s no arrogance in his voice, only exhaustion. “Would that be so bad? You’ve made a lot of money, right? You could probably live off royalties alone from ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’”
He shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward the window. “Could do, yeah. But I’m keen to leave a better legacy than that stupid song.”
“I love that song. I listen to it all year long.” I’m surprised he hates it so much, but at least we’re getting somewhere.
“‘Course you do.” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Figures. That’s why you’re perfect to sell me to the fans the way the label wants. Danny’ll love you.”
“I thought you wanted me.”
The words are out before I can catch them. I hear the double meaning instantly, and my face heats.Perfect.
“I do.” He smirks faintly. “You’re exactly what I need.”
The intensity of his words, of his gaze, catches me off guard. For a second, I think he took myyou wanted mein a way I didn’t intend—at least not consciously. But the way his mouth twists with frustration makes me think he didn’t notice my slip…or his own.
I shut my laptop and return Rhys’s gaze. He doesn’t need me to take notes. He needs me to listen.
“So, what is your story, Rhys? It doesn’t sound like ‘wildly popular teen pop star who wrote a wildly popular Christmas song’ fits who you are anymore.”
Rhys shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Didn’t write that song.”
I blink with surprise. “Your name is on the credits.”
