Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rhys
Ireckon the reason I left a message for Stella that sounded like I was asking her out instead of wanting to talk business is because I would like to ask her out.
But minus the first time we met, she’s made it clear she’s not interested in me beyond business.
Tried to get to know her a bit better in Vegas.
That was a no-go. The few times we texted over the past year, she only talked about how I could improve my socials, even when I tried to bring up other topics.
Women rarely want to talk business with me. They rarely want to talk at all.
And while I’d rather have a less business-y relationship with Stella, what I need at the moment is her social media expertise. I’ve needed her for a while now, but it took me going viral for all the wrong reasons to convince my manager and producer to take her on.
If I didn’t think I’d sound straight-up desperate, I’d call her again and explain what I meant in my first message when I said, “Calling to see if I can take you to dinner.”
Instead, I try to watch some pointless TV while checking my phone too often to see if Stella’s rung back. Fame’s made me impatient. I don’t make my own calls anymore, let alone wait for people to ring me back—women, in particular.
Truth is, that’s only part of why I’m on edge.
I’ve been restless for a while now—long before I lost it on stage when the crowd started yellin’ for “Fa-La La-La Land.” I’d done it at a few shows ’cause it was on the set list, but for that show it wasn’t, and I didn’t want to sing it.
Never do, really. But I was knackered, a bit sick, and ready to get home.
Even before the chanting, the vibe was off.
From the second I stepped onstage, really.
Fans had been hopin’ I’d add more stops to the tour, but I just didn’t have it in me.
Then tickets started poppin’ up on resale sites for stupid money, and people actually paid it.
They spent so much; they showed up expectin’ me to prove I was worth every cent.
The entire show was a mess. Too much pressure, not enough left in the tank. And then, during the encore, the chanting started. “Fa-La, Fa-La, Fa-La!” over and over, ringing in my already buzzing ears, like an alarm that wouldn’t shut down.
If I thought the fans would ever forgive me for ditchin’ “Fa-La La-La Land” for good, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I hate that song—especially singin’ it when it’s nowhere near Christmas.
Things went pear-shaped fast. I tried to keep it polite, pretended I couldn’t hear ’em as I walked off. But then I lost my head completely. Went off while my mic was still live. Said a few words fans who’ve followed me since Surf City High probably didn’t think I had in me.
And of course, some wanker—actually, about a hundred of ’em—got it all on video. By the time I made it back to LA, Rhys Going Mad memes were everywhere.
I wind myself up again, thinking about that night and whether I made a proper drongo of myself in that message to Stella.
The thought won’t quit. I switch off the telly and wander into the main room, the silence heavy after all that noise in my head.
I sit at the grand piano, facing the view of the ocean through the window.
I let my fingers rest on the keys. The second I do, my pulse settles.
The view helps. The water’s calm, steady, everything I’m not.
The music, though, will help even more. It always does.
I tap a few keys—Middle C. D. G.
What starts as tapping turns into running scales, then chord progressions. The same ones Mum used to make me practice when I was a kid. I hated it back then, but now the repetition calms me. Gives my hands something to do while my head sorts itself out.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when Mum comes in and slides onto the bench beside me. We sit shoulder to shoulder. She doesn’t say a word—just starts playing the opening notes of “Carol of the Bells.”
I let out a soft laugh. “It’s September, Mum.”
“Humor your old mum,” she says. “We could use a bit of joy around here.”
I laugh again and lean into the keys, letting the bells ring out.
It’s not a hard song, but it was the first duet Mum and I ever played together, and we’ve played it a thousand times since.
Every note reminds me of where I started and who got me here.
Everything I am, everything I’ve got, comes down to Mum and Dad.
We play through to the end. She finishes with a touch so light, it feels like Christmas slips away with the last vibration of the keys. The hair on my arms lifts at the echo she leaves behind.
Mum’s an incredible pianist—played concert halls all over the world before she gave it up to have me. I was the late-in-life baby she always wanted.
I take my hands off the keys. She nudges me gently.
“Do I need to ask what’s wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Don’t listen to the negativity, love,” she says. “Push it aside and get back on stage. People will always try to tear you down when you’re on top. Don’t let them. You’re talented, and your next tour will be even better.”
“If there is a next tour,” I mutter. “Sometimes it feels like everyone wants to squeeze everything out of me and leave me high and dry. I don’t even feel the music anymore, Mum—and what I do feel, no one wants. I was an idiot demanding they let me play my own song at Winter Lights Live.”
“You’ve got nearly three months,” she says. “You can write a song in a day once you find your muse. Your dad and I believe in you.”
She slips an arm around my shoulders, kisses my cheek, then stands. “I should check on your dad, see if he’s ready for dinner.”
Dad had a stroke a few months ago. He’s recovering, but he’s nearly eighty. He’ll never be quite the same, and he’ll need more care soon. Now’s not exactly the time for me to reinvent myself, not when they’re depending on me.
A big reason I didn’t add dates to the tour is that it didn’t go the way I’d hoped. Critics—and even fans—called it tired and heartless. The worst were the ones who said my songs were unoriginal—like I’ve ever had much say in what I sing.
The mess with the fans in Seattle didn’t help either. But that one’s on me.
VibeHouse made me into what the public wanted.
I don’t know how to be anything else. But the older I get, the less I believe in the guy up there smiling and dancing his way through songs he doesn’t feel.
Still, for almost a decade, I’ve made the label—and myself—a fortune by playing that part.
I need to figure out how to keep doing it…
only different. Older. Realer. The formula needs updating, that’s all.
I just have to figure out how.
I push back from the piano and wander to the kitchen, that uneasy feeling creeping in again. Then my phone lights up with Stella’s name on the screen, and just like that, I’m smiling.
I saw her for the first time in a year last night, at Archie’s place for the AFL playoffs, and swear I nearly imploded. She had on these tiny denim shorts and a Freddie Ridgefield tee, like she was trying to get under my skin.
Freddie hasn’t been called washed-up or tired. He’s selling out stadiums, and I’m genuinely happy for him—he’s a good bloke.
But I’m jealous as hell.
“Hi, Stella,” I answer, embarrassed by how nervous I am. “Thanks for ringing me back.”
“Yeah, hi. VibeHouse Records called too, and I’ve got some questions.”
Stella has this voice that always sounds like she’s on the verge of laughing. She reminds me of that old song about a kookaburra in the old gum tree. Mum taught me that song when I was barely out of nappies. It’s silly, but it makes me happy.
“Ah, sorry ’bout that. I was hoping to talk to you first, to give you a heads up.” I grab a drink from the fridge and pop it open.
“It’s my fault for not picking up when you called. I was on location with Georgia.” She sounds like she’s on speaker, and I hear the faint sound of honking in the background.
“You on the road?”
“Stuck on the 405.”
I tsk. “Welcome to LA.”
“I don’t mind,” Stella says brightly. “Gives me a chance to return calls while also driving slow enough to get a good look at LA.”
“She doesn’t look her best from the freeway.” I boost myself onto the counter and picture Stella, the only person on the 405 enjoying the slowdown—and the view of graffiti and concrete.
“But there’s so much to see, and it’s different every time.
Like yesterday, I saw a tent on the side of this underpass—which made me sad—but today it’s gone.
Not to sound shallow, but I want to believe that person found somewhere more permanent to stay because people like Britta are trying to help solve homelessness.
Little efforts can make a big difference. ”
I scoff, but I’m smiling. Her naiveté is both unbelievable and endearing. But also a bit dangerous, I realize, when I hear her call Hello and I know it’s not for me.
“Stella, stop waving to the person in the car next to you.”
She laughs. “How’d you know?”
“I just did.”
“He waved first. He looks friendly enough. He’s smiling.”
“Smiles can mean a lotta different things.” I scoff again. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”
“He’s rolling down his window. I think he wants to say hello.”
“Stella! Don’t—”
I’m too late. She’s already greeting the guy in the car next to her. I don’t hear what he says back, but I hear her uncertain, “Oh…” followed by, “I have a boyfriend, but good luck finding someone who is interested.”
My stomach does a funny twist when she says boyfriend.
“Hold on, Rhys,” she says. “I’ve gotta change lanes, and I need to focus.”
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. Is he here or back in Paradise?” I’m nonchalant. Just making conversation until she’s ready to move on to more serious subjects.
“I don’t. It’s something I say when I want to let someone down easy.”
“He hit on you?” My stomach twists in a different direction, and I clutch my mobile tighter.
“More like he invited me to pull over at the next exit to…well, it’s not really worth repeating.” She sighs.
“Stella, this isn’t small-town Idaho. Maybe there you can make conversation with random men who say hello while stuck in traffic, but not in LA.
” I take a sip of my soda to stop myself from lecturing—but mostly to cool the anger simmering at the thought of whatever rubbish that bloke might’ve said to her.
“Well, we don’t really have traffic in Paradise—unless you get caught behind a tractor—but the roads are only two lanes, and there’s no way to talk to the person in the car behind you.
I usually knew them anyway. Can I tell you how much I love seeing so many people every day who I’ll probably never see again? No one knows my story.”
This right here—this is why I want to take Stella to dinner. Something about her makes me want to know all her stories.
“I get the appeal for sure. The whole world thinks they know my story.” I blow out a breath, trying not to think about the viral TikToks and reels of my Lumen Field meltdown.
“I told you a year ago you needed to take control of the narrative,” she says, only a hint of accusation in her tone.
“I know. I believed you. But VibeHouse already had a social media manager for me.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” she teases, and for the first time in weeks, I actually laugh.
Only for a beat, but it’s enough. It feels good to talk to someone who isn’t pretending my life can be fixed with a PR campaign.
“Not great. That’s why I need you.”
“Again…I believe I suggested the same thing on our way to Britta & Dex’s wedding.”
“You did. I even pitched it to the label, but they weren’t keen on hiring someone outside LA who didn’t have ‘industry connections.’” I didn’t agree with them—but I didn’t fight it either. One more regret on a list that’s getting longer by the day.
“So what made them change their minds? I mean, other than the ton of trouble you’re in.”
I push off the counter and wander toward the back door. I need the ocean air before I can say what’s next. “I told them you were the only person I’d trust…that I wouldn’t work with anyone else.”
Stella goes quiet. I hold my breath and stare out past the rooftops on the hill, toward the waves rolling in below. If I listen closely, I can hear them.
“Really?” she asks softly.
“Really. You sold the story of Georgia and Zach dating when they weren’t.
Dex and Britta said your posts about Frothed doubled their business and the donations for their homeless programs.” I pace along the edge of the pool as I talk.
The day is cooler than usual for September, but I’m sweating anyway, probably from nerves more than heat.
I sit down on the cement and dip my feet into the water. The shock of it clears my head.
“Thanks, Rhys. That’s really solid of you.”
Her praise makes me happy I pushed for her.
“Danny wants to meet tomorrow afternoon at VibeHouse’s offices,” she adds. “Will you be there?”
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head. “Didn’t even know about it.”
Once again, the label’s steering my life without asking me to hold the wheel—but at least they’re finally listening about Stella.
“Why do they want to meet me without you?” she asks.
“I reckon to see if you’ll write the story they want you to tell about me.”
“Is that the story you want?”
I bounce my foot in the pool, making small ripples. “I want to keep the label happy.”
“Whatever story you tell, Rhys, there has to be truth in it. Georgia and Zach were in love—they just didn’t know it yet. That’s why her fans believed it, why their story still resonates. People want fantasy, but they also want to believe the fantasy is real.”
I sigh. “I’m not sure what the truth is anymore. I only know the story people want to hear. That’s why I wanted to talk to you before VibeHouse did—to come up with a plan. Something that shows fans I’m still the person they think I am.” I wince. Even saying it out loud makes me sound like a fraud.
“Hmmm,” she says, thinking it over, and I remind myself this is what I like about Stella. Aside from the first time we met, she’s never been much impressed with my fame. She’s not afraid to tell me no.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Let’s do coffee first thing tomorrow at Frothed. I’ll tell Britta to create some privacy for us, and you can come in through the back door.”
I smile. “Beaut, Stella. Cheers.”
When we hang up, I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Partly because maybe I can still turn this mess around—but mostly because I get to see Stella again.