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)
9
WOLFE
My hands shook as I drove into the campground and headed for my campsite. Heat still burned in my cheeks from Jake’s attempts to kiss me goodbye.
“Um, sorry,” I’d stammered, pulling away and feeling guilty about it. “I, uh, need to go deal with something.”
“Who was that guy, Will?” he’d asked, a frown of concern on his face. “He obviously made you uncomfortable.”
“Friend of my, ah, dad’s,” I’d said, wincing. I’d meant to say friend of the family to make it less weird, but I hadn’t been exactly in my right mind. Still wasn’t.
As I drove into the campground, I noticed a new tent camper by the entrance. It was an unusual site choice for a campground with plenty of empty spots near the back with better views and way more privacy. But then again, maybe it was someone who preferred being closer to the office for safety reasons.
I made my way to my own campsite and hopped out, taking a few minutes to hook my utilities back up before closing myself inside and pulling my guitar out of the case.
I learned to play guitar before I could remember. There’d always been music around my house, and Papa’s voice singing lullabies had been a part of my daily life for years.
I’d been asked about it once, standing at a red carpet event at age seventeen with Dad and Papa. “Wolfe, what was it like growing up with Jude Marian as your father? Did he sing to you when you were little?”
I’d looked at the reporter like they were insane. “Don’t all parents sing to their children?”
Everyone had laughed, and I’d felt the red-hot scorch of embarrassment on my cheeks that was pretty much par for the course at events like those. We didn’t do them often because Dad and Papa were protective as fuck.
One of my friends at school had joked that I could be a millionaire for life if I could dig up videos of Papa singing me lullabies as a kid. I’d bitten my tongue to keep from snapping back that I was already a millionaire for life. That probably wouldn’t have ingratiated me with very many people, but censoring myself always felt isolating.
I’d confessed those feelings to Trace once. When I was eleven and he’d stayed over to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. Papa and Dad had taken Rosie and Lennon to bed, and Trace had asked what was wrong.
I’d shrugged. “’S fine.”
“Okay. But you know if it wasn’t fine… if, say, there was a theoretical situation you wanted to ask my help with… you could do that, right?”
I’d picked at a loose thread on my jeans until it unraveled into a long string. “Theoretically… sometimes I feel like everything I do or say has a price on it,” I’d admitted in a small voice.
He’d moved closer on the sofa until he could pull the long string out of my hand and yank it off with a snap. Then he tied it around my pinky finger in several loose loops. I stared at the motions while he began to speak.
“I think,” he said carefully, in a slow, calming voice, “that if you feel like everything you say or do has a price on it… maybe stop hanging out with people who are always looking for something to buy.”
He continued manipulating the thread into a small bow. “Which isn’t always possible. But if you can find someone who isn’t interested in you as a commodity—which is what that’s called—then you can at least find a safe person to talk to when everyone else around you feels unsafe.”
Looking back on it, I wondered if maybe Trace had wanted to put his arm around me to comfort me. But he hadn’t. He’d recognized that I was an eleven-year-old boy who would have felt like a baby if he’d tried to coddle me.
Alright, I’d give him that one.
Six weeks later, he’d given me a leather journal cover for my twelfth birthday with my initials engraved on it and a composition notebook inside. On the first page of the notebook, he’d written, “A journal doesn’t have any need for cash. It won’t sell your stories. You’re safe here.”
I reached for my journal, which bore that same leather cover, now battered, scarred, and softened from years of handling. Dozens of composition notebooks had taken the place of the original over the years and now lived tucked safely in my home safe. All except the current one, which had the notes, songs, and thoughts from this trip in it.
I’d considered it my most prized possession since the day Trace gave it to me, and it usually lived under my pillow, in my backpack, or in the zip pocket of my guitar case. If I had to choose between the journal cover and my beloved Martin guitar back home, I’d choose the journal every time.