Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
It was nice to be included, especially by people who didn’t seem to have any idea who I was. I’d introduced myself to them as “Will” only because I’d started to say Wolfe, then second-guessed it. The whole point of this trip was to be able to find myself, and giving out my real name—a name that would get me immediately recognized as Jude Marian’s son—seemed like a step in the wrong direction.
Will Martin was close enough, it hardly mattered.
Unless I met someone special. And I really fucking wanted to meet someone special. I wanted to scrub my brain of all memories and thoughts of Trace Bishop. Reverse and obliterate this obsession with a man who was completely off-limits and impossible to attain.
I liked to think the Trace in my imagination wasn’t even real. That I didn’t know the real Trace anymore, so the Trace I was in love with was a myth. And truly, that needed to be the case if I had any hope of getting over him.
I’d spent so much time learning about limerence, I was sick to death of it and beyond disgusted with myself.
But after kissing him, after feeling his hands on me and his lips on mine… fuck. It had felt real. It had felt like nothing I’d ever even dreamed of before.
It had felt like mine. Like something that was meant to be mine forever, as if it had been created especially for me and somehow set aside until it was the right time.
But I’d spent half my life waiting for that magical “right time.” I was done. Happiness was a choice, and I wanted to choose mine… even if it didn’t include Trace Bishop.
After grabbing my guitar case and my camp chair, I followed Thierry and Armand to the fire ring and settled into the group, enjoying the flickering flames in the dark desert night and the warm laughter of a group of strangers.
“So, Will,” the younger woman next to me—who everyone was calling Lena—asked after a while. “What are you after out here?” Bright blue eyes twinkled over a sunburned nose.
“Probably doing what many of us are. Trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on with my life,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh.
Several heads bobbed in agreement as someone muttered, “No shit.”
One guy held up his beer bottle. “To what the fuck,” he said like a cheer. Everyone repeated it, holding up various cups, mugs, and bottles to air-clink together.
It was nice. The kind of nice I hadn’t had in a while. Peaceful coexistence with strangers who didn’t know me or my family, and therefore didn’t need anything or demand anything of me.
I felt a little like I had when I’d created my Fletcher Coe persona, before I’d attracted my first followers. Like I could say anything I wanted, be whoever I wanted, love anyone I wanted… without worrying that I was hurting or disappointing anyone.
I felt free.
After a while, the woman next to me tilted a chin at my guitar. “I’ve always wanted to play guitar.”
I nodded. “Ever taken lessons?”
She shook her head while her friend on the other side of her chuckled and responded. “Lena tried learning ukulele during her Sara Bareilles era. It didn’t take.”
Lena leaned back and groaned. “Ugh, she’s so fucking pretty. I just wanted to be like her.”
The woman’s friend, whose bright eyes and dark skin shone in the golden light from the fire, met my eyes. “She wanted to fuck her.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. “I don’t blame you. She’s gorgeous and talented, a heady mix.”
Everyone around us joined in the laughter, talking about various singer-songwriters they liked. Someone finally asked me to play something.
“What do you like?” I asked, pulling my guitar out of its case. It had been the first thing I’d purchased on my trip, but the shape and feel of it were already familiar after the previous couple of weeks of heavy use. “What kind of music?”
When no one could agree, I began to pick at the opening chords of a Sara Bareilles song called “Tightrope.” I’d fiddled with it a few years ago to get an acoustic arrangement I liked, then I’d played the hell out of it until the chords moved through my fingers from muscle memory alone.
From there, I went straight into a few more of the artists who’d been mentioned. The sound of the guitar grounded me as it always did, calming my nerves and reminding me that no matter what happened in my life, I had music. The transformative power of it was with me always, no matter what instruments were at hand.
And I’d decided I would not give up my love of music for fear of being discovered. The chances anyone would expect the Fletcher Coe to be some random-ass guy in a vanlife van in Joshua Tree were slim anyway.