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)
“Of course you are.” I shrugged. “You’re family. You always will be.”
Even if I was starting to worry that he’d always be way more than that to me.
As we continued up the trail again, we stayed away from tricky topics like my crush on him or any thoughts he might have had about me.
But eventually, he broached a different subject. “Tell me about Thornton.”
The question surprised me. “I told you everything back then.”
“It scared you. The comparisons to your father.”
I glanced over, but Trace’s eyes were focused in the distance, where the trees ended and the wide-open view began.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “It hadn’t really hit me until then that there would be no way to have a successful music career without Jude Marian’s ghost haunting the fuck out of it.”
Trace’s eyes turned to meet mine. “Unless you got creative.”
My heart rate picked up as I studied his face for clues that he knew… anything. “What do you mean?” I asked carefully.
He shrugged. “You’re talented as fuck, and I know better than anyone that you had big dreams back then. You must have felt lonely. I’m sorry, baby.”
I swallowed hard. It had been lonely.
Was lonely.
I’d locked parts of myself away for years, until the weight of what I was holding back became too much to bear. Being Fletcher Coe released a little of the pressure, but not all of it. And not being able to tell anyone about it sucked.
Knowing Trace saw me, that he understood a little of it… it mattered.
Fuck, I’d missed this.
“Thank you,” I whispered, not trusting myself to say more.
We walked in silence for a little while before he spoke again. “If you could have a music career right now, what would you want it to look like?”
I scoffed. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be living in a van right now.”
We stepped out of the trees and into the sunlight. The vast expanse of the West Elk Mountain range and Gunnison National Forest spread out as far as the eye could see.
“What’s the worst that could happen, Wolfe?” he asked gently. “If people compare you to your father.”
“My dad might feel guilty that his fame affected me. Even though it’s not his fault.”
Trace shrugged. “Jude’s responsible for his own feelings. He’d never want you to take that on. Otherwise, he’d be feeling guilty for you feeling guilty about him feeling guilty. An endless guilt spiral does no one any good.”
I huffed out a laugh. No one could cut to the heart of the matter like Trace did. I’d fucking missed this too.
“What’s the worst that would happen to you?” he prompted.
It was a question I’d considered often. It made me confront my own ego, determine how bothered I was by other people’s opinions about me.
“I might question my own ability to succeed,” I said, though this was a lie.
It had been true, once. I’d wondered if any success I found in the music industry would be caused by my connection to Jude Marian’s legendary musical legacy. But Fletcher Coe had no connection to Jude Marian. And he boasted the kind of career songwriters all over the world would kill for.
“What’s your definition of success?” Trace wondered.
I shrugged. I didn’t know the answer to that question. I’d already won a Grammy, but I still didn’t feel like I’d achieved it.
Trace lifted my chin and forced me to look at him. “What if that article you were telling me about earlier said SERA’s success was only thanks to the Marian family? Said I’d only succeeded because the foundation invested in the organization and helped get it off the ground? And because the family donated the land the academy sits on?”
“That would be ridiculous,” I said promptly. “SERA wouldn’t exist without you.”
“What if people didn’t believe that? Would it make my success any less real? Would it make me less successful?”
I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “You’re about as opaque as glass.”
His grin was soft and familiar as the morning light caught the little sunspots on the upper part of his cheek. “Okay, but answer the question.”
“It shouldn’t, I guess,” I said. “But it’s complicated. I—”
Just like with my parents the night of the Grammys, the urge to blurt out the name Fletcher Coe, to tell him the whole truth so we could discuss it, was right there.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wasn’t strong enough. Not when I didn’t know what this even was.
“What are we doing?” I blurted.
Trace blinked. “Hiking? Talking?”
“No,” I said, flapping a hand between our two chests. “This. Us. Hooking up. Acting like this is… normal. What are we doing? What does this mean? What are we?”
I felt my breath get shallow as Trace’s smile dropped.
“Okay, slow down.” He reached for my flapping hand and put it against the center of his chest. “Take a breath.”