Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Stella
As if spending three days in Italy with Rhys James wasn’t surreal enough, now I’m sitting at the Garden of Eatin’ in Paradise, Liam Dexter across from me in full PDA mode with his wife, my cousin Britta.
Archie Forsythe is on Dex’s other side, Piper Quinn next to him, and then Frankie Forsythe.
When Britta and Dex announced they’d be making a quick trip to Paradise for the holiday, everyone else decided to come, too. To Paradise…Idaho.
Oh, and Rhys James is on my right with his hand on my knee.
My cousin Adam owns the Garden of Eatin’, and my entire family is here, seated at one long table, waiting to eat. My brother Seb, his wife Hope, and their daughter Charly; all my Thomsen cousins with their spouses; Mom, Grandma and Grandpa Sparks, Uncle Pete.
I have a very big imagination. But this—right here, Thanksgiving with my entire family and the cast of Surf City High? I never dreamed it. Never came close. For the first time in my life, I think it’s possible for reality to be better than fantasy.
Adam and Bear have done most of the cooking, and the smell of homemade rolls, mashed potatoes, and sausage stuffing wafts through the air. This is a Paradise Thanksgiving, though, so the menu includes elk and deer meat, wild turkey, and even goose.
And did I mention, the guests include the entire cast of Surf City High? Rhys James is dragging his thumb across my pinkie right now, igniting an electric storm in my chest.
The whole thing is so unbelievable that I pinch Rhys.
“Ow! What was that for?” He rubs his arm.
“I wanted to make sure this isn’t a dream.”
“You’re meant to pinch yourself,” he mutters, but under the table he twines his fingers through mine. With a quick glance to make sure no one’s watching, he leans close and whispers, “Could kiss you if you need proof.”
I shake my head. “Then I’d know for sure it’s a dream.”
Rhys lets out a quiet laugh. “Do we really have to pretend you’re not mad about me while we’re here?”
“Of course not!” Mom, who has supersonic hearing, answers for me. “Stella’s always been mad for you. Everyone knows that. She used to kiss your poster every night. Did she tell you that?”
“Ma!” I yelp as everyone laughs, including Rhys.
“I might’ve heard something about that,” he says.
“What?” I smack his arm in the same spot I pinched him. “Can you please stop talking about embarrassing things I did when I was thirteen, Mamma?”
My face doesn’t cool until Rhys swings his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his chest. My first instinct is to resist since we’re still not public.
But now that the word is out with my family, there’s no point in pretending I don’t want him to hold me every second he’s close, even if number one on my list flashes in my brain every time I melt into him.
“I’ve been mad about Stella since the first time I laid eyes on her, so I reckon the feeling’s mutual,” he says, making my pulse flutter.
“Second time,” I mutter. “You’ve been mad about me since the second time you laid eyes on me.”
He breaks into a smile. “Only ’cause I was too thick to get it right the first time.” Rhys kisses my forehead.
“That we can agree on.”
A loud throat-clearing cuts through the surrounding laughter. “Enough of that now,” Grandpa Sparks barks from the head of the table.
Rhys immediately releases me and sits up straight, like he’s been caught misbehaving in class, murmuring under his breath, “Blimey. You’re right. He’s terrifying. Could scrub rust off iron with that buzzcut.”
“I think he has,” I whisper back.
“Let them be in love, Grandpa,” Mom says dreamily, and I almost forgive her for embarrassing me. “They remind me of Mike and me. When we fell in love, we couldn’t walk a block together without sneaking into an alley or behind some bushes for a—”
“That’s okay, Gia, dear,” Granny Sparks says gently from Grandpa’s side. “We don’t need the details; we’re just glad you found each other, even if it was only for a short time.” Her chin quivers, and she swipes at her eyes.
“What are the tears for?” Rhys whispers.
“My dad. She still misses him.” I blink back my own tears as Grandpa Sparks stands and awkwardly pats Granny on the shoulder.
“Time for grace,” he says and bows his head.
Everyone does the same, and we sit through Grandpa’s typical thirty-second prayer that includes blessings for the military and the men who’ve given their lives. As a second thought he adds, “And ladies, too.” Which, honestly, is progress.
I love Grandpa—he’s the only grandpa I’ve ever had—but the only time he shows any affection is with my niece, Charly, and she’s only been a part of the family for the past two years.
Before that, he had a seventy-year run of greeting everyone with a firm handshake, including babies, according to my Aunt Heidi, who passed away a little over a year ago.
“Let’s eat,” Grandpa says and guides Granny to the buffet table where he lets her go first, mostly out of politeness but partly so she can help him fill his plate like she does every time they eat. Gender roles are strong with those two.
But I do the same thing with Rhys when he passes by the plate piled high with meat. “No venison?”
“Isn’t that deer? Yeah, nah, I’m good.”
“Just try it.” I scoop a forkful of meat onto his plate.
“Don’t I get a day off from you making me do stuff I don’t wanna do, La-La?” he grumbles.
So I add another forkful. He huffs, half-laughing.
We take our places at the table, my niece Charly on my left and my cousin Adam on Rhys’s right. As soon as Grandpa takes the first bite, the rest of us tuck into our food. Well, everyone but Charly. She’s too busy singing “Fa-La La-La Land.”
I have only myself to blame. I’m the one who introduced her to it, and now she’s an even bigger addict than I am.
“Can you think of another song to sing, Charly?” I ask her.
“No,” she replies matter-of-factly and continues singing, mangling most of the words, but there’s no question what the song is. She sings it too many times to leave that unanswered.
Rhys’s jaw goes tight every time she comes to the end of the song and starts right back up again.
“What about ‘Jingle Bells’? We could sing it together,” I try again.
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “I wike Fa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa wand. It’s my favorite.”
She pokes at her mashed potatoes and licks a dollop from her pointer finger.
“Charly. Manners, please,” my sister-in-law Hope says to her and hands her a fork.
“I like my fingers,” Charly sings back to the tune of “Fa-La La-La Land.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Rhys, trying not to laugh.
“Good thing she’s cute,” Rhys says with a mock scowl.
“What are you going to ask Santa for tomorrow?” I ask Charly, trying to distract her.
She shakes her head and sings louder, kicking her chair legs in time with the rhythm of the song—which, to be fair, is pretty good for a five-year-old with special needs. Still not great, though, and Rhys’s shoulders go tighter with every new version Charly attempts.
“I think Auntie Stella wants you to sing a new song, Charly,” Seb encourages.
Charly turns to look at me and stops singing long enough to ask, “Can I call you La-La too?”
“Of course you can.” Apparently, she’s heard Rhys call me that, and it’s stuck. I’m not mad about it.
I could make it conditional on her not singing “Fa-La La-La Land” anymore. But to be honest, I’m trying hard not to break into laughter. And Rhys is equal parts uncomfortable and totally smitten with her.
“Man, I hate that song,” Adam mumbles—but not so quietly that both Rhys and I don’t hear it.
And now it’s my turn to be uncomfortable. I glance at Rhys, waiting for his reaction, then lean forward to tell Adam he’s insulted my guest.
Before I can, Rhys bursts out laughing. “You and me both, mate. I hate that blasted song. Wish I never had to sing it again.”
Adam cracks a grin. “Wish I never had to hear it again.”
“Tell that to my label. They’re the ones who push it. I gave ’em one song; they handed me back this one. I was seventeen. Didn’t know I could say no. Never figured people’d lose their minds over it.”
“What was wrong with your version?” Adam asks.
“Nothing, far as I’m concerned. But VibeHouse wanted ‘more sparkle, less sad.’ All tinsel, no truth.”
“Did someone die in your version?”
Rhys laughs. “Nah, mate. Just painted Christmas how it really feels sometimes—after the wrapping’s ripped off and the quiet sets in. Bit like LA: looks like magic ’til you see the cracks.”
I listen with rapt attention. This is the most I’ve ever heard Rhys say about the original “Fa-La La-La Land.” His version sounds like everything I’d hate, but I want to hear it more now than ever.
“Yours sounds better to me. Would love to hear you play it while you’re here.” Adam cuts through a piece of turkey so tender, he barely needs a knife. “I’ve got whatever instruments you need. I play guitar. We could play the song together. Get the VibeHouse version out of both our heads.”
I barely have time to brace myself for Rhys’s refusal before he says, “I’d like that, mate. How about tonight? I’m only here for a few days.”
If Rhys notices me picking my jaw up off the floor, he doesn’t act like it.
“Sure. After dinner, we can set up here. If you want more backup, Seb plays bass. Bear plays drums.” Adam stuffs turkey in his mouth as if what just happened is not a huge deal.
Rhys sets down his fork, looks past Adam with a light in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a piano lying around somewhere?”
“I can get you a piano,” Adam nods, agreeing as easily as if Rhys had asked him to grab a bag of chips at the grocery store.
But this is Adam, and plucking a piano out of thin air is as easy as picking up chips.
Which is how, not too many hours later, after dinner’s been cleared, dishes cleaned, and tables put away, I sit with Charly in my lap, Hope and Britta next to me, Mamma behind, waiting to finally hear the song I’ve been begging Rhys to play for me for a month.
He taps out a bit of the melody on the piano, then tells Seb and Adam the chord progressions before starting again, both hands running across the keys to create a beautiful harmony. Seb and Adam join in, then Bear picks up the beat in the back, softly tapping on his drums.
The arrangement is similar to the VibeHouse version, but slower. The lyrics are the biggest difference.
Rhys’s version does exactly what he told Adam.
It captures that bittersweet feeling of Christmas—the one I always try to ignore.
But Rhys is right. Reality never quite lives up to the fantasy.
And even when it does, the fantasy ends.
Empty boxes. Torn wrapping paper. The dying tree weighed down by the ornaments on its branches.
The song wrecks me in a way that the version I know never has, forcing me to feel things I don’t want to let myself feel.
Charly wiggles and yawns, curling into my chest before closing her eyes.
I hold her a little tighter. She hums off-key, searching over Rhys’s song for the VibeHouse version of “Fa-La La-La Land” as she falls asleep.
The song ends. There’s a burst of applause.
Which isn’t surprising, because my family is always going to clap for my brother and cousins. But this applause is different. Everyone felt the song.
Rhys pushes away from the piano and waves to the room full of family and friends, smiling with a relief and peace I haven’t seen before. “Thanks. Good to play for a receptive audience.”
“It’s a good song, bro,” Seb says.
Bear taps his drumsticks softly in agreement.
“It’s a great song,” Adam says. “But the rhythm isn’t right for the words. If you went lower, to an A chord…maybe this progression.” Adam plays some chords on his guitar, and I can tell by the expression on Rhys’s face that what Adam said is a revelation to him.
Without a word, he sits back down at the piano and tries the chords. Seb comes in on bass. Adam on electric guitar. Bear on drums.
I didn’t think the song could get better. But this version brings tears to my eyes.
This is the song Rhys needs to play at Winter Lights.
Not that awful “Under the Christmas Lights” song.
I don’t care if VibeHouse gives him permission—if he won’t play “December Dreams,” he’s got to sing the original “Fa-La La-La Land.” The spark he’s been searching for in bigger venues just reignited on Adam’s makeshift stage.
Not only that, but there’s a lightness to him, a happiness different from the manufactured happiness he portrays at his concerts.
He’s allowing himself the authenticity he’s been fighting so hard to conceal.
Plugged in, unplugged, acoustic or full, I honestly believe playing his version of “Fa-La La-La Land” could change everything for him.
I just have to convince Rhys to believe it too—convince him to believe in himself.