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)
Or, fine, maybe I’d wanted one person in particular to hear them. Wanted him to know my years of longing, of utter fucking surrender to something I couldn’t have, were wearing me down until I was nothing but words and melody.
Even when I’d woken up hungover and anxious, I’d recognized the power of finally releasing my songs into the world. Of no longer carrying the burden of them alone. Of hope.
But now I carried a different burden.
Papa began massaging Dad’s feet through his socks. “Agreed. And ‘Far Away Nights,’ the one Looper recorded with Mazz Aveline.”
Dad stretched out more on the large sectional and groaned. “Don’t remind me of that one. You played it on repeat all last summer. I only just got it out of my head.”
I flicked my eyes away, turning to face out the slider doors so they couldn’t see the hot tear that escaped to track down my face.
The words piled up against my teeth. It’s me. I’m Fletcher Coe.
But that revelation was a bell that couldn’t be un-rung. And I’d decided a long time ago not to ring it.
Ever.
I’d stopped singing around my family years ago, when I’d lost my confidence and had tried to put music away forever. So when I’d started singing on a fresh, faceless Instagram account a few years later, no one in my life had put two and two together.
Papa’s voice was familiar and warm, still tinged with a twang from his country music days. “Impressive he’s been able to stay anonymous. Gotta say, I kind of envy the man. Imagine being able to have this kind of fame without anyone knowing what you look like.”
I scratched my face as an excuse to wipe away the tears.
“You’re being awfully quiet, Wolfe,” Dad said, reaching back over his head to pat my knee. “What do you think for Record of the Year? Lyra Vale or Niko Valez?”
Papa lifted his eyebrows. “The Solís song was good, too. I didn’t love the way it was performed by HuBrix, but the song itself is fire.”
I took a careful breath. “They’re all good. Without Lyra… I don’t know. Would ‘Not Mine’ have been as good?” I shrugged.
And okay. I was fishing. But imagine winning a fucking Grammy and not being able to tell a single soul, including your Grammy-winning father?
Just tell them.
But I couldn’t.
As he thought about my question, Papa’s hands slowed on Dad’s legs, where they’d snuck up under the hem of his jeans and started massaging his calves. “No. That song is transcendent regardless of who performs it. The bridge? Fucking gold.” Papa hummed a few bars before singing the final chorus.
Yeah, he shines brighter than the sun,
And I can’t look too long.
So I swallow every reckless thing I want.
No more glances, no more dreams,
No more reaching for what can’t be—
He still burns bright in my mind…
But he’ll never be mine.
I closed my eyes and sank into the moment, hearing his beautiful tenor give life to my own words.
He stopped and shook his head. “It’s fucking brilliant, is what it is. The longing. The emotion. The way the melody dances a little higher than the words. Like it’s a question. Just a lark. Like maybe he’s waiting for someone to say it wasn’t.”
My fathers continued talking about the song—my song—while I sat beside them, trapped in a prison I’d created for myself, and replayed the sound of Papa singing “Not Mine.”
How many times had I dreamed about working on one of my pieces with him? Hearing him sing my words and melody?
More times than I could count.
That particular song would have never been the one I’d pick to work on, of course. Because it was written about one of his closest friends. A man I had no business writing love songs for.
Which was just one of the many reasons I’d built my prison walls so high and so thick. Why I held my secret close, behind reinforced steel.
If my family knew I was Fletcher, they’d figure out the rest. Which was only slightly more horrifying than the other potential outcomes. The inevitable comparisons to my father. The accusations of nepotism. Papa’s guilt when he couldn’t shield me from it.
I’d been down that path before. So I kept the truth to myself, even if it sometimes felt like a hot coal burning me from the inside.
I opened my eyes again and pulled out my phone, scrolling to my social media feed to see the reactions online to the announcement.
At least, that was what I told myself I was opening the app for. The truth was something far needier than online praise from random strangers.
When I clicked on my profile, I couldn’t help noticing my follower count had gone up.
Normally, I avoided noticing. I’d even hired a business manager, just so I could stay off social media. The number was too big, too intimidating, whenever I caught sight of it. A warning that almost no one in human history had managed to stay anonymous once their work had reached critical mass.