Chapter 13
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 know how good ’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 is not to fall in love. Stella’s determined—she’ll bulldoze that list.
My great-grandad spent twenty years droving sheep in the Outback. 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 anywhere in Central or South America—except Brazil, obviously. In all the years I’ve been coming to this stand, I’ve never asked.
“He’s a very big deal,” Stella says, patting my arm. “People will want your burritos if they know Rhys James likes them.”
I grin at Pedro and Veronica, suddenly more grateful than offended they didn’t know me. I’m almost sorry I outed myself—no wonder they never made a fuss. I don’t want that to change.
Pedro shakes his head and both hands. “No, gracias. George Lopez came once and told people about us. We had too much business. More than we could handle. We want things small. We like knowing our customers. We’re the right amount of busy.”
Veronica nods.
“Good on ya for keeping it like that,” I say. “Too busy is no bueno.” I pay for the burritos, leaving a bigger tip than usual as thanks for reminding me that big doesn’t mean better. Definitely doesn’t mean happier.
We lock the bikes and carry the burritos to the sand. Stella keeps darting her eyes my way.
“What?”
“You didn’t mind their not knowing you’re a huge star?”
I laugh. “Honestly? At first, yeah. But now it’s a relief. They’ve been nice because of who they are, not who I am.”
“Most people are nice, Rhys.” She spreads the blanket, sits cross-legged, unwraps her burrito.
“Easy for the girl from Paradise to say.” I drop beside her and take a bite of mine. “But they’ve given me something to think about.”
“Like what?” she asks around a mouthful.
“Like, they chose something I never got to choose. Once ‘Fa-La La-La’ hit, the goal was always more hits, bigger shows—more money for Danny, the label, anyone taking a cut.”
She studies me, eyes deep and searching. It thrills me and puts me on edge. I’m not sure what she’ll find beneath the surface.
But in un-Stella fashion, all she says is, “I’m getting up today. Time to cross surfing off my list.”
I bark a laugh, happy to skip the therapy. “Good on you, La-La. And you can keep surfing after you cross it off. We could make this a regular thing.”
We comes out casual, but my heart kicks at the thought of every morning like this.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” she says, squeezing into her wetsuit. “Let’s go in.”
I shimmy into my wettie. Minutes later, she’s prone on the board, bobbing while I hold the nose, waiting on the right set.
“You like it out here, don’t you?” She grips the rails, ready.
“‘Course I do. Why wouldn’t I?” The ocean lifts and drops us.
“I mean…it’s like your happy place. Where you can be you.”
“Suppose that’s right.” Our faces are close enough to kiss, but I’ll let her make that call.
“What else makes you happy, Rhys?”
I consider, struggling to watch the swell. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Does performing make you happy?” She should look back for the wave, but those eyes pin me.
A good wave rolls through, and I push off the sand to stay up. “It used to.”
“Why doesn’t it anymore?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
I wish I’d done it first. “Reckon the music in my head isn’t the music I play on stage.”
“So why don’t you play that music?”
“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 for something. 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’s their music. 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.”
“You know there aren’t any more kissing ones on there, right?”
“According to you, there is one left—unless you lied about the world not stopping.” I crack an eye in time to see her blush. “But if you’re sticking to that story, we can try again. I’ll put in my best effort.”
She lets out a soft laugh, turning to her side, cheek on her hands. “What am I supposed to say to that, Rhys? I don’t know what’s happening here. I mean, you’re my client. I shouldn’t be kissing you at all.”
I roll to my side and mirror her. “Fair. Problem is, I like you, and I want to keep kissing you, but I’m not keen on asking VibeHouse to fire you just to do it.”
Silence. I’ve stepped straight into a vulnerability pit deep as Coober Pedy.
Finally, she smiles. “You like me?”
I let out my breath. “You kidding, La-La? ‘Course I like you. Been gone on you since the start.”
“Liar. You thought I was some crazed fan—which I was—the first time you saw me.” She gives my chest a gentle shove.
I catch her hand, press it to me. “All right—since the second time, then. On the way to Vegas for Dex and Britta’s wedding. I didn’t want you running my socials only because you’re good. I wanted an excuse to be around you.”
“Really?”
I loosen my grip and roll onto my back. “How much longer are you gonna make me bare my soul? I like you. Properly. This is where you tell me if you like me too.”
I cover my eyes from the sun. I feel her moving closer. Her arm drapes across my chest, cheek settling over my heart.
“To be honest, Rhys. I didn’t like you the second time. Or even the third or fourth. Maybe not even until yesterday—possibly the day before.” She swirls her fingers around my chest. “Christmas-decorating is a good look for you.”
She goes still, and I don’t breathe until she says, “But I like you now. I like you a lot.”
I slide an arm around her waist, ready to try stopping the world again—until I see the worry in her eyes.
“As much as I’d like to spend all my time with you, I think we’ve gotta take things slow, Rhys.” Her fingers trail up and down my chest. My brain ignores the word slow entirely.
“Because of your list?” I cover her hand to steady both of us.
“What would my list have to do with it?”
“You don’t want to fall in love.”
She huffs a laugh, settles back. “It’s way too soon to think about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” I mutter. Now that she’s said she’s gone for me too, nothing feels soon enough.
Stella sits up again. Her hair skims my chest, and a shiver runs down my spine. “What?”
“Nothing.” I tuck the loose strand behind her ear.
Her face softens. “The things on my list aren’t written in stone, Rhys. I can change them if I want to.”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are we talking about my list again? That topic is supposed to be off-limits, and it has nothing to do with why we’re not rushing into anything.”
“Yeah? What are our reasons?” I don’t have any of my own. Guess we’re using hers.
“Your career is the priority, Rhys. If people find out you’re dating your social media person, we both lose credibility. Your fans think your girlfriend is only trying to make you look good, and potential clients of mine think I got the job because I’m dating you, not because of my skill.”
I’m ready to argue, but she stops me with a kiss—quick enough I miss my chance to kiss back.
“Going slow doesn’t mean no. It means we’re intentional and careful, starting with no more public displays of affection.” She hops up and offers a hand.
I take it. She’s stronger than she looks. We end up inches apart, her gaze anything but careful.
“Your words are telling me not to kiss you, but your lips aren’t. Which is it, Stella?” Hope edges me forward.
She glances left and right, then smiles and loops her arms around my neck. “Beach is pretty empty right now.”
That’s all the invitation I need to try stopping the world.