Chapter 1
WOLFE, SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER
“And the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to… Fletcher Coe for ‘Not Mine’!”
Sitting in the family room of my childhood home in San Francisco, I stared at my parents’ giant television in shock, trying my hardest to keep a neutral expression despite my entire body feeling numb.
I’d won.
It was impossible. Diabolical. Fantastical.
As the now-familiar strains of Fletcher’s biggest hit began to play, the cameras showed Lyra Vale in her gorgeous pink sequined gown taking the stage again to thunderous applause.
“Accepting the award tonight on behalf of Mr. Coe is Lyra Vale,” the presenter continued with a smile at the famous pop singer.
Applause thundered as Lyra flashed her trademark grin and accepted the statuette.
My statuette.
She turned toward the audience and the cameras.
“As you all know, Fletcher Coe doesn’t do public appearances, but I’m honored to accept this award on his behalf.
I can’t imagine a more deserving songwriter.
Fletcher has been instrumental in my own growth as an artist and performer, and I know several of you in the audience can claim the same.
The success of ‘Not Mine’ has been stratospheric, more than I ever could have imagined when I first reached out and asked him to collaborate.
I know if Fletcher was here tonight, he’d want to thank all the people on his team, and all of the other artists who’ve helped him reach more listeners with his words.
And thank you to all of you out there who’ve taken this song to heart and given it wings.
Congratulations to my very deserving, very sweet friend… Fletcher Coe!”
The crowd roared again as my chin began to wobble. I swallowed quickly and tried to force my thoughts away from the kind tribute so I didn’t cry like a baby.
Lyra was a sweetheart. I couldn’t have imagined a more respectful and exciting creative partner.
Not only had she brought “Not Mine” to the masses with a blockbuster hit recording of it—even performing it two weeks ago at the Super Bowl halftime show—but she’d also turned three of my other songs into Billboard Top 100 hits this past year.
It was a hell of an achievement for her. For both of us.
Though no one in my life would ever know I’d achieved it.
“Wow,” Papa breathed, leaning forward to click the Mute button on the remote. “He finally won. Thank god. Whoever Fletcher Coe is, he deserves the recognition.”
Dad nodded and stretched his legs out on Papa’s lap. “Shoulda won it for ‘Live a Little,’ but what the hell do I know?”
The song was called “Live a Little Long,” but I bit my tongue against the urge to correct him. It had been a hit since the group Beautiful Wreck had recorded and released it three years ago, and by now, I should have been used to holding myself back.
But sometimes—like tonight—it fucking burned.
I’d never set out to become a professional songwriter. Even though words and melody had flowed from me for as long as I could remember, they’d always stayed hidden away in my journal and then, eventually, my computer.
It was only after a long night of drinking five and a half years ago that I’d made the decision to start an anonymous social media account under the name Fletcher Coe and put some of my songs out into the world.
I hadn’t done it for acclaim—god, no, I hadn’t even considered the possibility.
I’d done it because I wanted someone, anyone, to hear my words. To know the feelings Wolfe Marian could never express out loud.
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.
I quickly clicked into my follower list and searched until I found the particular name I was looking for. It was already captured in a screenshot in my password-protected photo app, but the screenshot didn’t feel as real as seeing it live did.
Trace Bishop.
The name had finally appeared in Fletcher Coe’s followers list six months ago. Five full years after I’d started the account. And knowing the man I’d written so many songs for was finally hearing them had been better than winning any award.
I ran my fingertip over his name before clicking it.
The only new picture in his feed tonight was a sunrise view of Slingshot Mountain in Legacy, Montana, posted this morning.
As usual, there was no caption, only the shot.
The snow on the mountain glowed a warm, golden pink, and a single set of footsteps imprinted in the snow led toward the lens from over the distant rise, as if he’d climbed up first thing this morning to capture the shot.
Papa’s voice broke through my drifting thoughts. “Wolfe, are you okay?”
I glanced up. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”
Dad’s forehead crinkled in concern. “Jude was talking to you, and you were a million miles away.”
I tried for an easy smile, but I felt a million miles away. I had the biggest, most supportive family in the world. Money in the bank. A fucking Grammy, for god’s sake. But I felt so fucking alone.
“Just thinking. I’m good,” I assured them.
Dad frowned for another beat, then nodded. “He asked if you’d go to Majestic with him to meet with Zane and his friends about sponsoring a youth program at their spring festival.”