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)
Maybe I was here in Joshua Tree to make peace with those memories. To carefully pack the photo album up and tuck it away where it belonged.
If that was the case, then I was ready. I’d force myself to be ready.
Ready was the only choice I had, really.
It was time to move on.
Three nights later, I let a guy blow me under the wide, star-dusted sky. I’d started the day with a trail run, remembering just how many different muscles were involved when the run was on uneven ground instead of a treadmill. My lungs had burned and leg muscles twitched as I’d pushed harder just to see how long I could go for.
Music had blasted through my earbuds, the rhythm thundering along with my pulse and connecting to the thread of melody I’d been working on in my head.
This was why I was here. Nothing but me and the feelings bottled up inside, the music itching to make itself known in some kind of organized, coherent fashion.
Why had I been hiding away in the city for so long? With every crunch of my running shoes on the trail gravel and hot slide of sweat down the center of my back, the city felt more and more like the physical manifestation of the prison I’d built for myself.
It was so much better to be alone in a place meant for solo reflection. Somehow, it wasn’t nearly as lonely being alone in the desert as it was in a city thrumming with people and stories.
After the run, I’d showered and settled into my camp chair, picking out chords and recording notes in my journal for several hours until I’d given up. The song wasn’t coming together just yet, but I had time. I’d be patient.
That night, several new people had joined our group, including a vanlifer named Brennan who also had a guitar.
“This where the musicians sit?” he’d asked with a friendly smile, unfolding his camp chair with a vigorous shake before sitting down in it next to me in front of the fire ring.
He seemed younger than me. Mid-twenties, maybe. He’d been easygoing and flirty from the beginning, chatting up the people around us without taking up too much of the conversation. Lena had asked us to play a duet, and we’d spent a couple of hours playing together or taking turns.
After a while, he’d even convinced me to sing, and the reaction of everyone around the fire had been an immediate ego boost.
Lena had smacked me playfully. “You dog! You said you couldn’t sing. Liar!”
When I’d finally had enough social time and I knew another beer would only cause a hangover, I politely excused myself with a good night to everyone. Imani, Lena, Thierry, and Armand had waved with friendly murmurs of “See you tomorrow” and “Promise you’ll sing again!”
After a few moments, I’d heard the soft crunch of Brennan’s shoes behind me as I made my way to the far end of the large oval of vehicles to where my van was parked. Earlier that afternoon, I’d noticed his own van pulling up in the large open spot a fifth wheel had left that morning. It wasn’t exactly next to my own spot, but it wasn’t far either.
“You up for a visit?” he’d asked softly just as we moved out of the fire-lit area and into the shadows.
I’d turned to look at him, his friendly, open smile and teasing eyes so clearly offering fun without strings. The sky was wide-open, covered with handfuls of glittering stars. Why in the world would I turn down the opportunity to have this man on his knees for me?
Let him remind me that I was an adult, not a child who didn’t know what the fuck I wanted.
“Yeah,” I’d said, and then I’d led him around to the far side of the van and let him slide to his knees in the dusty scrub.
It had been nice. A solid ending to a good day. About as therapeutic as my run and the few hours spent picking out chords by the fire. The kind of encounter where the wet splatter of his release on the dry desert ground would be gone by morning.
But when he’d asked if he could come inside for more, I’d politely declined. “You going to be here tomorrow?” I’d asked instead. When he’d nodded, I’d brought the topic back around to playing guitar. Something benign and neutral. Leaving the door open without stepping through it. “Maybe you can show me some of that funk picking?”
His face had relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that.”
“Me, too.”
As I fell asleep in my bed, with the dark, sparkling expanse of sky outside my windows, I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d been telling the truth.
6
TRACE
Trying to find someone who didn’t want to be found was a pain in the ass.