Chapter 1 #2
Papa added, “They’ve already committed to a sponsorship for the festival, but they’d like to discuss some of the projects the foundation is working on to see how they can best help.
Their group represents a seven-figure charity contribution last year alone.
Since the foundation is your baby, I thought you could help answer any questions they have. ”
The Bluebell Foundation was his baby, not mine.
But my day job—the only job my family knew about—was running it.
And I did love it. I loved how much good we were able to do with the money and connections the foundation had.
My father had been friends with Zane—aka, singer Zee Barlo—for years.
I’d been to his home in the mountains of Wyoming several times, and I liked his friend group a lot. They reminded me of my family.
I nodded. “Of course. Yeah.”
Papa turned to Dad with an apologetic expression. “There’s a catch. The only time they’ll all be there together is the day after tomorrow.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed. He sat up and gently tugged a hank of Papa’s hair. “Bluebell, I have that meeting with Joel and JJ about On Your Six.”
My dad had been a bodyguard for decades. It was, pretty famously, how my parents had met. These days, Dad consulted with my uncle Joel and my cousin JJ, who ran On Your Six Security. Dad joked that endless boring meetings were more dangerous to his health than any guy with a gun ever had been.
Papa leaned forward and kissed Dad sweetly on the jaw. “I know. And I’m sorry. But you know I can’t miss an opportunity to secure this level of funding for the foundation.”
I could tell Dad was trying to keep his cool. He hated when Papa went somewhere without him. It made him semi-feral and moody as hell.
“You’ll take Fowler and Perriot,” Dad said firmly. “And maybe Shi, too.”
Papa rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You get one, babe. That’s it.”
This was an old argument. Papa had been the target of more than one stalker over the years, and Dad took his safety seriously. Even though people weren’t nearly as hot for the lead singer of Jude and the Saints anymore, Dad still acted like Papa was Lyra Vale or something.
Dad closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, and I didn’t miss the sneaky sniff he took of Papa’s hair in the meantime. The two of them were disgusting.
I envied them.
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to be that close to another person. To have someone know all my terrified longings, half-articulated dreams, and foolish inconsistencies, the secrets I’d locked away. To know they thought the sun rose and set on me, and I’d never be lonely again.
“Fine,” Dad said. “Take Fowler. But if Perriot ends up in Wyoming on vacation at the same time, I can’t help it. It’s probably a coincidence.”
Papa sat forward and pointed at the television. “Oooh! Record of the Year. Wolfe, what’s your pick?”
I glanced down at my phone again, taking a short dopamine hit from the sheer number of posts and DMs that had come in for Fletcher Coe during the short commercial break. “‘Lately Free,’” I murmured. “Looper has it in the bag.”
Papa shook his head. “I say ‘Not Mine’ is going to sweep. I’m calling it for Lyra Vale.”
I smiled, hoping it didn’t look as bittersweet as it felt. Papa loved the album “Not Mine” was on, at least in part because of the song he didn’t know was mine.
The first time he’d played it, last summer out by the pool, was a treasured memory.
Rosie had been visiting and had made our ears bleed all afternoon with show tunes, until Dad had finally said, “Enough, baby girl. I love that you love Phantom and Les Mis. I do. But I really need a break right now.”
Rosie had groaned. “That was from Six, Dad. Jesus.”
Dad had pushed up from the chaise and leaned over Papa to get his phone. “Babe, pick out something decent, please. And change the password on the Bluetooth speakers, for fuck’s sake. Your daughter will drive me to drink.”
When the first few chords had come over the speakers, my entire body had gone strangely hot and cold. It wasn’t the first time one of my family members had actively listened to a Fletcher Coe song in my presence, but it was the first time it had been that one.
The one about Trace.
The one about Trace.
The one about Trace.
One of Papa’s former bodyguards. Dad’s best friend. A man I was supposed to consider an uncle.
In a way, all my songs were about Trace, but this one was the one I’d written first. The one I’d rewritten most. The song that held over a decade of longing and continued to swim lazily through my bloodstream like one of those decorative koi fish who’d outlive us all.
A year and a half ago, I’d finally shared it on social media in another desperate attempt at drawing Trace’s attention to me like some kind of soulmate tractor beam. Instead, it had drawn Lyra Vale.
And in my hopeful naiveté and willingness to believe in anything that might make Trace Bishop look at me as something other than Derek and Jude Marian’s baby boy, I’d made myself a simple promise.
If anything comes of this song… if it goes triple platinum, or wins a Grammy, or is ever performed at the Super Bowl… I’ll tell Trace how I feel. I’ll tell him the song’s about him.
It felt like a hundred years ago now. Like a whole other Wolfe made that promise.
The presenter’s voice over the surround-sound system punctured my thoughts. “And the Grammy for Record of the Year goes to… Lyra Vale for ‘Not Mine’!”
This time, I didn’t hide my shock. “Holy fuck,” I breathed.
“I’m telling you,” Papa said with a smile. “It’s that song. ‘Not Mine’ is magical. Not that Lyra didn’t kill it, of course. But…”
As his voice faded out, a clip of the song swelled again through the speakers.
Lyra’s voice crooning the now-familiar heartbreak. “No more glances, no more dreams. He still shines brightly… But he’ll never be mine.”
I stared at the screen as Lyra finished hugging her boyfriend and her mom and made her way to the stage again.
Her words were emotional and filled with sincere gratitude. She thanked her team, her family and loved ones, the producer and other artists who’d collaborated on the album.
“And special thanks to Fletcher Coe for his work on ‘Not Mine’ and ‘Picky Palaces.’ You keep writing pretty songs, baby, and I’ll keep singing them!”
It was a rush. The recognition, the crowd’s validation. Reaching a career high unlike any I’d ever imagined for myself. Winning a Grammy without a single person knowing I was Jude Marian’s son.
It was impossible to believe. Diabolical. Fantastical.
And the first person I wanted to tell was Trace.
But of course, I couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t mine.
And he would never be mine.