Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Stella
Iwalk back to my place, hoping Rhys might stop me, but he doesn’t.
Once inside, I lean against the door, replaying everything—Rhys’s song, the fight, the look on his face when I walked away.
This thing between us is so new, I don’t know if we just had our first fight or if I ended something that could’ve been great.
I push away from the door and make it as far as the couch before the fuzzy blanket there beckons to come cuddle. I flop down, pull the blanket over me, then prop a Santa pillow under my head. I smell sandalwood. Rhys used this pillow.
If I can recognize his scent, maybe I know him better than I thought. That’s how I felt listening to his song, too.
All I could think while it was playing was that I was hearing the real Rhys James—that and wondering whether the song was about me.
I don’t want to get too in my head about it, but he had a lot to say—sing—about Christmas and brown eyes.
Those are kind of my thing. Sure, a lot of people with brown eyes might also love Christmas, but how many of them believe in it, like I do?
I bury my nose in the pillow and take a deep breath, but I don’t smell Rhys. A laugh scrapes out of my throat. I imagined his scent lingering here, just like I’m imagining he wrote those lyrics about me. Even I can spot wishful thinking when it’s right in front of my face. Or, in my head.
Who could blame me? Any woman with an ounce of romance in her would want “December Dreams” to be about her. The lyrics are so tender and heartfelt. I’ve heard nothing like it from Rhys—on stage or in person—but it felt so authentically him.
In the last few weeks, what I’ve discovered is that both Rhys’s grumpy exterior in real life and his hyper-showy persona on stage are masks that hide someone much deeper, much more sensitive and caring than I ever imagined.
The Rhys I’ve seen day in and day out is so much better than the Rhys I fantasized about for years.
Everyone should get to know that Rhys. Not as thoroughly as I hope to, but he could at least give the public a glimpse of his artistic sensitivity.
But pushing him to share that song might just push him away.
He could easily fire me or disappear from my life altogether.
Even as new as my feelings for him are, and despite how hard I fought against falling for him, I’m not ready to let him go.
So, as much as he deserves to create art that’s authentic to who he is and who he’ll become—not who he was—I think I have to resist shoving him in the direction I want him to go.
I don’t want to do the same thing to him that Danny’s already done.
What I want to do is apologize, but I hear the advice Georgia’s given me more than once: give it a second.
It’s just past eight, but the only thing that can coax me out of my cocoon is the button on my jeans digging into my stomach.
I unwind myself from the blanket long enough to put on my favorite Christmas jammies: flannel shorts and a tank top with a rock star Santa printed all over them.
Then it’s back to the sofa and my blankie. I wish I could call Mom and ask for her advice, but she doesn’t know Rhys and I have been seeing each other. I’m the one who insisted we keep our relationship private, and I’ve held myself to that rule.
Britta and Dex don’t even know. They suspect, thanks to the barbecue disaster a few days ago.
I burned everything, but every time Rhys took a bite, he said how delicious the food was, even though no one else could pretend to choke down.
More than once, Britta caught my eye and raised an eyebrow.
On her way out, she whispered, “Something you want to tell me?”
Not now, there isn’t.
Which leaves me with one option. I grab my phone and pull up my purchased movies, scroll to It’s a Wonderful Life, and send it to the TV. I don’t always watch the classic before Thanksgiving, but I know it will give me the cathartic release I need right now.
I cry when George thinks all is lost, again when the town saves him, and again when Clarence gets his wings.
By the credits, Jimmy Stewart’s done exactly what I needed—made me cry.
I dry my eyes, wondering if it’s too late to text Rhys an apology.
Before I’ve finished typing, my phone dings with a text from Rhys:
There’s only one person I want to share this with. You.
Seconds later, an attachment appears with the title “December Dreams.” A staggered laugh escapes my chest, and I open the file to listen again.
By the last line, I’m flooded with the same emotions I felt a few hours ago.
The song is soooo good. Aside from my yearly letters from Dad, this may be the best gift I’ve ever received.
Rhys has offered me a piece of his heart.
I want to keep it safe and all to myself.
Which is what I’ll do for now, even though I don’t think that’s what’s best for Rhys.
Letting people see the real Rhys is the key to reviving his career.
As much as I want this song to be only mine, when the time is right, I’ll encourage him to share it.
Because Rhys without a music career won’t be Rhys.
And Rhys acting as anyone other than himself on stage isn’t making him happy.
I push myself off the couch, meaning to go to bed, but something propels me outside.
With the blanket wrapped around me and my feet bare, I walk outside and stand in the grassy patch by the pool house.
The grass sinks under my feet, the soil wet from the sprinklers.
I wiggle my toes, remembering Paradise and barefoot summers in the backyard, late sunsets, and dark nights looking at stars.
Rhys’s place is higher on the hill, and the lights of other houses, cars, and buildings shine below me. But when I tip my head back to look for stars, I only find a few.
I love being in LA, but the thing I miss most about Paradise is a sky full of stars.
“La-La,” Rhys says, startling me. I turn to find him on the covered patio, bathed in light. “Sorry—didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
“You didn’t scare me, just surprised me.”
I walk toward him. He walks toward me. Our pace increases until we’re practically racing by the time we meet in the middle. We throw our arms around each other and say, “I’m sorry,” at the same time.
“Thank you for the song,” I tell him.
He tucks me into his chest and rests his cheek on the top of my head. “Wrote it about you… for you. You work that out when you heard it?”
“I didn’t know. I hoped.”
“It’s yours, Stella. All yours. Do what you like with it. Just don’t tell anyone it’s mine.” Rhys brushes his hand over my hair, then kisses my forehead.
I want to stay right where I am and agree to his terms.
Obviously, I don’t.
I sigh and pull away from him, the blanket falling from my shoulders as I take his hands. “Thank you. I’ll keep it. For now anyway...”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You never quit, do ya? Even when it’s not in your best interest.”
“What do you mean?” I shiver in the light breeze, breathing in the damp, salty scent of the ocean.
Rhys picks up my blanket then wraps it around my shoulders, holding the ends together while looking me in the eye.
“I’m under contract with VibeHouse for another two years, Stella.
If I release it, they’ll drop me—dead set.
Which means you’re out of a job, too. They won’t send you clients while you’re tied to me. ”
I hadn’t thought about that side of it. I’ve got Georgia and Piper for clients, but most of my time is spent on Rhys’s socials.
Even with the free rent he’s giving me, I can’t afford to lose this job before I’ve found more work.
Not only financially, but also if I want to build my own business, which is something that’s never changed on my 30 Before 30, and I don’t want it to change now.
“Will you at least play it for Danny? Make sure he doesn’t want it?” I’ll feel better about keeping the song to myself if Rhys at least tries to get it produced by VibeHouse.
“Stella, come on…” He tries to pull me close again, but I don’t move.
“Rhys, I’m not trying to pressure you. It’s just…
your song is so good. And I don’t think you hear how good it is because Danny’s been in your head for too long.
So will you at least think about letting him hear it, please?
I promise not to say anything else about it.
But you should give him a chance to say no. ”
Rhys huffs, then reluctantly nods. “You know pushing me to do things I don’t want to isn’t technically in your job description, right?”
I laugh. “It’s not not part of my job either, if it means it’ll help revive your career. And I really think this will, Rhys. I really do. Your career may look different if you go this direction, but would that be a bad thing?”
Rhys sighs. “Don’t wanna talk about it tonight, Stella. Can we just sit for a bit? I don’t care if we talk at all. I want you next to me.”
With my hand clasped in his, he leads me to two lounge chairs. We lie down and look at the sky, and I tell him about the stars in Paradise—how clear they are. How bright the North Star is.
“I’ll show you when we go,” I tell him.
“Sounds lovely,” Rhys says.
“We won’t be able to sit outside like this, though. Not for long. It’ll be too cold. Prepare yourself to freeze.”
Rhys laughs. “Spent most of my life in sunshine. Bit of cold might do me some good.”
My eyes grow heavy, and the smell of camellias lures me to sleep.
I startle awake a few hours later, wondering where I am before remembering I’m on Rhys’s padded lounge chair.
He’s covered me with an extra blanket and is wrapped in one of his own in the chair next to me, snoring lightly.
I turn on my side and watch his uncovered chest rise and fall with each deep breath.
I brush his hair from his forehead. His eyes flutter open long enough to smile before he’s breathing deeply again. The night hums soft and steady, the kind of quiet that feels like forgiveness.
I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.