Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Rhys
When Stella introduces her mum to me in the Salt Lake City airport, Gia Sparks surprises me by throwing her arms around my neck and pecking me on the lips.
Before I know what’s happening, she’s got my face between her thumb and fingers.
“You are even more beautiful in real life, Rhys James,” she says, squeezing my cheeks.
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Sparks,” I say, glancing around the airline’s private lounge to make sure no one’s recognized me. Derek is nearby keeping watch, but Gia isn’t exactly helping with the whole low-profile thing, and for a “private” lounge, the place is packed.
“No ‘Mrs. Sparks’ for you, Rhys James. You call me Gia.”
“Mamma, keep your voice down,” Stella says, prying Gia’s hands from my cheeks. “And you don’t need to call him by his full name unless you want photographers following us all over Italy.”
Gia scoffs. “In my town, there is nothing to photograph. No one moves fast enough to even think of taking a picture. The only thing Rhys has to fear is getting too bored.”
“They wouldn’t be there to take pictures of Stagno. They’d be there to take pictures of him!” Stella hisses through her teeth.
Gia smiles at me while digging through her purse. “He is very beautiful. Even more beautiful than you said.”
Stella’s face turns three shades of red, and I laugh—until Gia pulls out her phone and snaps a photo.
“Mamma!” Stella whisper-yells.
“We’re on holiday! I must make a record.” Gia tucks away her purse, slides her arm through mine, and steers me from the buffet I was about to attack. “Don’t eat too much airplane food. I will feed you when we get to Stagno. My sister, Angela, is already preparing.”
“Mamma, let him eat. We’ve got a nine-hour flight.” Stella tugs me back.
Gia throws up her hands. “Have it your way, but don’t blame me when the airplane food makes him too sick to eat the good stuff when we get to Italy.”
She rattles off dishes I don’t recognize, but she’s convincing enough that I only take two slices of banana bread instead of three. I’ve known Gia thirty seconds and already know why Stella is who she is.
Our trip to Italy is short—only a few days—and while we’re flying first class, it’s been a fair bit since I’ve flown commercial.
When I haven’t been on VibeHouse’s jet, I’ve been on Archie’s.
I’m more on edge than usual, worrying about being recognized.
This trip’s not about me; it’s about Stella and Gia.
I don’t want anything, especially fans, to ruin it.
The whole point is for Stella to cross things off her list and for Gia to reconnect with family.
To maintain some privacy, we’re the last people to board the plane, and we’ll be the first off when we land in Pisa. Stella didn’t want Gia flying alone, so we flew from LA to Salt Lake so we could fly the rest of the way together.
Once we’re on the plane, I’m restless. I can’t move around the plane without risking a hundred people noticing me or snapping photos. But when my brain won’t stop, I surf or I pace. Can’t do either of those here.
Winter Lights is only a month away, and the song Danny’s sent me, “Under the Christmas Lights,” is the musical equivalent of mass-produced wrapping paper.
Painfully generic, built for a Target commercial.
I haven’t done more than glance through it.
Every time I set up to practice it in my studio, I end up singing “December Dreams” or my version of “Fa-La La-La Land” or one of the other songs I’ve been messing with.
I’m supposed to rehearse with the band and start learning the choreography the Monday after Thanksgiving. I’ve never been this under-prepared for a concert.
I did what Stella wanted and played “December Dreams” for Danny. Didn’t get to the bridge before he shot me down. Said it was “nice, but not you.” Maybe someone else—Noah Kahan, Zach Bryan—could pull it off. He reckons I can’t.
I’d like to prove him wrong. The fact I can’t riles me every time I try to practice the mindless song Danny claims is “catchy, festive, totally on-brand—exactly what Winter Lights needs.” Which he follows up with promises like, “You’ll thank me when the streams roll in.”
Can’t picture ever thanking him for making me sing lines like:
Under the Christmas lights,
Everything’s shiny and new,
Under the Christmas lights,
All I want is you.
No one likes “Wonderful Christmas Time,” but everyone’s willing to forgive Paul McCartney for that crap because of songs like “Yesterday” and “Eleanor Rigby.” What I’m about to do to Christmas is unforgivable.
I doubt that being in Italy will sort me out, even with Stella by my side.
We’ve got a day trip planned to Florence—a city built on art and inspiration—to see works by the likes of Michelangelo and Botticelli.
Don’t imagine that’ll make me feel better about inflicting lyrics like, “Snow is fallin’, hearts are callin’, everybody’s feelin’ right,” on the world.
I read them to Stella, and not even she could keep from wrinkling her nose at the stench of those lines.
I’m honestly more stoked about Paradise than Florence. The more Stella talks about her hometown, the more I wonder if that’s where I’ll find my spark again. No cathedrals or master artists there, but it sounds like it’s got a warmth and joy I’ve been missing.
By the time we land in Pisa, I’ve watched three movies and made zero notes on “Under the Christmas Lights.” We’re met by a driver, Giulio—a distant cousin of Gia’s—who takes us to her small hometown of Stagno.
It’s nothing like Rome or Florence. Looks a bit like a California town, just older.
Rolling hills, bougainvillea, no palm trees.
“This is where you grew up, Mamma?” Stella asks, her disappointment plain.
“It’s a big city compared to Paradise,” Gia says from the front seat of the tiny car that makes Derek look like a Great Dane stuffed in a chihuahua’s carrier. “But it looks smaller than I remember. So many boarded-up houses and buildings.”
“Reminds me of Barstow. Only smaller,” Derek mutters—not a compliment.
Gia talks rapidly to Giulio in Italian while I study Stella’s face, wondering if she’s regretting the trip. Maybe we should’ve gone to Rome. No one can be disappointed in Rome—and I know a brilliant gelato place there.
Then Stella squeals, “Oh look! McDonald’s! We don’t have that in Paradise.”
She taps Giulio’s shoulder and points.
“No!” Gia cries. “No McDonald’s!”
Giulio glances between them but can’t resist Stella’s smile, so he turns into the drive-thru. Gia throws up her hands, complaining loudly in Italian while Giulio tries—and fails—to calm her. I can’t help laughing.
“What’s funny?” Stella asks.
“We’re in Italy—home of the best food on the planet—and the first thing you want is Macca’s?”
She shrugs. “I like their Diet Coke.”
Derek snorts a laugh. First time he’s smiled since we stuffed him in this clown car.
We go through the drive-thru, and Stella orders two Diet Cokes and some fries, even though Gia’s family has a massive dinner waiting. I eat fries with her anyway.
I regret it as soon as we reach Angela’s house and see the feast. The smell of garlic, tomatoes, and basil fills the air.
Platters of chicken parmesan, veal, pasta, and focaccia crowd the table.
My mouth waters as a teenage girl walks past with bread.
She spots me, does a double take, and I press my finger to my lips.
A wink and a smile seal our silent deal.
Gia and Angela are attached at the hip, tugging Stella along to meet everyone in the room.
I smile and stay out of the way, watching Stella light up as she’s introduced to cousins, aunts, uncles—people who already adore her.
When she introduces me as her friend Rhys Smith, no one bats an eye except my focaccia girl, who grins like we share a secret.
Four hours later, Gia’s right—we’re stuffed. I crash on the couch while Gia and Stella share a bed. The next morning, I wake aching everywhere but perk up when Angela hands me a cappuccino and fresh pastries. I eat everything she puts in front of me.
First on the list: teaching Stella to drive a Vespa.
Angela’s kept the one Stella’s dad used to ride, and it still runs—mostly.
It’s easy enough for Stella, with all her years on ATVs.
While she’s circling the streets of Stagno, I half expect she’ll be underwhelmed, but an hour later, when she parks in front of the house, her smile says otherwise.
I meet her on the walkway to the front door. “Was it everything you imagined?”
Stella takes off her helmet, shakes out her hair, then kisses me. “Yes. And so much more.”
“So you reckon you can cross it off your list, or do you need to drive that thing across all of Italy?” If so, we’ll miss the next ten Paradise Christmas parades.
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to do something my dad had done. I could almost feel him next to me. Does that sound crazy?”
I pull her close. “Doesn’t sound crazy, and I’m glad you’re not planning to ride that thing coast to coast. You’d be pushing it most of the way.”
Later, with Gia chatting a million miles an hour in Italian with her family all stuffed in the small house, Stella and I leave for Camp Darby near Pisa, where her dad was stationed. Gia doesn’t feel the need to go back, but for Stella, it’s a chance to see the world through his eyes.
At her insistence, we’ve arranged a meet-and-greet for the soldiers and their families.
Generally, I like that sort of thing, but I was hesitant—didn’t want the trip to turn into a Rhys James event.
It ends up being the best part. Hearing their stories reminds me how unimportant my job really is, and also how music still matters.
If it brings joy to people, that’s enough.
Reckon that’s more important than having fans love me. Or even making the kind of music that fills my soul. If I have to play a role, at least it’s a role that brings people a bit of happiness.
I don’t perform—it would’ve needed clearances we don’t have—but I sign a few autographs and take photos. Everyone’s kind. If it were up to me, the visit would stay private, but Stella says all publicity isn’t good publicity, but good deeds make good content.
Bit long for an adage, but fair enough. I asked her to wait until we’re back in LA before posting anything, to keep the rest of the trip quiet.
By the time we get back to Stagno, it’s late, and Stella still hasn’t had gelato.
We only have one day left, so I surprise her with what I’ve planned for Florence—a day packed with private tours of art museums and cathedrals and, most importantly, many stops for gelato.
Being famous has its perks: private tours mean no waiting in queues.
Derek insists on tagging along for security, which isn’t a perk of celebrity.
Derek hovering in our shadows doesn’t keep Stella from enjoying every stitch of art in the Uffizi Gallery or the Accademia.
I like the art too, but the most beautiful thing I lay eyes on is Stella.
She asks our guides a million questions and talks non-stop, but I don’t hear most of it.
Her chestnut eyes shine, and I have a hard time looking at anything else.
We get gelato twice—once before the museums and again as we cross the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. We’re both shivering from the cold, but it’s worth it.
In the middle of the bridge, Stella loops her arms around my neck, presses close, and whispers, “Feels like a good time to stop the world, don’t you think?”
I kiss her long enough that she just might forget time exists. If nothing else, I hope it’s the perfect ending to a perfect day for her.
It is for me.