Chapter 5
WOLFE
After kissing Trace in Legacy, I’d intended to go home.
I’d gone to Majestic for my meeting first, as promised.
I’d spent the night with Rosie and Lennon.
And I’d even given myself a fully respectable pity party, complete with imagining myself as a misbehaving stray whose nose had been whacked by a newspaper, tail tucked neatly under and a pathetic whimper barely audible.
But the idea of going back to my regular life in San Francisco—a life I’d never actively chosen for myself—had made me want to throw myself into shark-infested waters.
I was at a crossroads, so I’d done what any other self-respecting twenty-something did when they didn’t want to go home and get back to work: I’d taken off on a nebulous search to “find myself.”
Which had, apparently, required the purchase of a slightly used Mercedes camper van with decals all over the back windows, claiming I was now a rabid supporter of national parks, ecofeminism, leaving wildflowers wild, and a band called the Angry Sprites.
My first stop had been a nondescript campground in Palm Springs, where I realized very quickly that I hadn’t paid enough attention to the salesman’s instructions on how to hook the damned van up to power and water.
Thankfully, a man named Thierry in the campsite next to mine had offered to help and had me set up within ten minutes.
After that and a crumbly granola bar from the campground gift shop, I’d hidden myself inside the van and slept for thirteen hours, waking up just in time to see the sun paint the surrounding desert in shocking swaths of pink and golden orange.
Had anyone asked me thirteen hours before, I would’ve agreed I’d made a huge mistake. I might have even admitted to mapping out my route back to San Francisco, where I’d happily sell the van at a loss to the first person I could, and return home to pretend like the entire thing had never happened.
But that sunrise…
It had reminded me that the world was an incredible, breathtaking place full of new beginnings. Of hope. Of beauty and light and warmth.
It had also made me cry my fucking eyes out and put pen to page about how unfair it was that I was here and he was there and there’d never be a future where we’d sit and enjoy the sunrise together.
It had taken me a full week at the campground in Palm Springs to get up the nerve to disconnect and soldier onward.
In that time, I’d let the music pour out of me.
All of the emotions from my encounter with Trace had gone directly into my journal until I had a dozen iterations of heartbreak to put to music.
I’d also stocked up on supplies and groceries, slept way too much, and planned my next stop, which would get me away from California and put some miles between me and everything familiar.
I needed some space to think about what I wanted my life to look like, now that I’d finally let myself realize just how unhappy I was.
I hadn’t traveled far when Joshua Tree captured my attention.
After spending that first week in an easy campground with full hookups, I’d run into Thierry again, who’d convinced me to follow him and his husband, Armand, out to a free boondocking site on national BLM land.
Since I’d already asked around about boondocking in Joshua Tree, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve to actually try it yet, I’d seen his invitation as a sign.
That first evening was mostly a relief that I’d made it.
Boondocking meant I’d needed to top off my water tank and make sure I had enough solar and battery power, since there wouldn’t be hookups to rely on anymore.
But when we pulled into a wide-open expanse with views unhindered by any buildings, artificial lights, or road noise, I realized it was worth the nerves I’d had going into it.
There were several other campers gathered in a loose circle, and one group had already set up a portable fire ring, inviting everyone else to join them.
At first, I’d politely declined, content to stay inside my own place, using the phone and laptop I’d picked up in Palm Springs to upload a new song that my business manager, Sunny, could post on my Fletcher Coe account. But after the sun went down, Thierry and Armand came and knocked on my door.
“We told them you played guitar, and everyone’s begging for you to come out and join us,” Thierry said with a wide, bearded grin. “Come on, what d’ya say, Will? We picked up some killer IPA before heading out here, and the girls in the skoolie bus are grilling burgers for anyone who wants one.”
It was nice to be included, especially by people who didn’t seem to have any idea who I was.
I’d introduced myself to them as “Will” only because I’d started to say Wolfe, then second-guessed it.
The whole point of this trip was to be able to find myself, and giving out my real name—a name that would get me immediately recognized as Jude Marian’s son—seemed like a step in the wrong direction.
Will Martin was close enough, it hardly mattered.
Unless I met someone special. And I really fucking wanted to meet someone special. I wanted to scrub my brain of all memories and thoughts of Trace Bishop. Reverse and obliterate this obsession with a man who was completely off-limits and impossible to attain.
I liked to think the Trace in my imagination wasn’t even real. That I didn’t know the real Trace anymore, so the Trace I was in love with was a myth. And truly, that needed to be the case if I had any hope of getting over him.
I’d spent so much time learning about limerence, I was sick to death of it and beyond disgusted with myself.
But after kissing him, after feeling his hands on me and his lips on mine… fuck. It had felt real. It had felt like nothing I’d ever even dreamed of before.
It had felt like mine. Like something that was meant to be mine forever, as if it had been created especially for me and somehow set aside until it was the right time.
But I’d spent half my life waiting for that magical “right time.” I was done. Happiness was a choice, and I wanted to choose mine… even if it didn’t include Trace Bishop.
After grabbing my guitar case and my camp chair, I followed Thierry and Armand to the fire ring and settled into the group, enjoying the flickering flames in the dark desert night and the warm laughter of a group of strangers.
“So, Will,” the younger woman next to me—who everyone was calling Lena—asked after a while. “What are you after out here?” Bright blue eyes twinkled over a sunburned nose.
“Probably doing what many of us are. Trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on with my life,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh.
Several heads bobbed in agreement as someone muttered, “No shit.”
One guy held up his beer bottle. “To what the fuck,” he said like a cheer. Everyone repeated it, holding up various cups, mugs, and bottles to air-clink together.
It was nice. The kind of nice I hadn’t had in a while. Peaceful coexistence with strangers who didn’t know me or my family, and therefore didn’t need anything or demand anything of me.
I felt a little like I had when I’d created my Fletcher Coe persona, before I’d attracted my first followers. Like I could say anything I wanted, be whoever I wanted, love anyone I wanted… without worrying that I was hurting or disappointing anyone.
I felt free.
After a while, the woman next to me tilted a chin at my guitar. “I’ve always wanted to play guitar.”
I nodded. “Ever taken lessons?”
She shook her head while her friend on the other side of her chuckled and responded. “Lena tried learning ukulele during her Sara Bareilles era. It didn’t take.”
Lena leaned back and groaned. “Ugh, she’s so fucking pretty. I just wanted to be like her.”
The woman’s friend, whose bright eyes and dark skin shone in the golden light from the fire, met my eyes. “She wanted to fuck her.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. “I don’t blame you. She’s gorgeous and talented, a heady mix.”
Everyone around us joined in the laughter, talking about various singer-songwriters they liked. Someone finally asked me to play something.
“What do you like?” I asked, pulling my guitar out of its case. It had been the first thing I’d purchased on my trip, but the shape and feel of it were already familiar after the previous couple of weeks of heavy use. “What kind of music?”
When no one could agree, I began to pick at the opening chords of a Sara Bareilles song called “Tightrope.” I’d fiddled with it a few years ago to get an acoustic arrangement I liked, then I’d played the hell out of it until the chords moved through my fingers from muscle memory alone.
From there, I went straight into a few more of the artists who’d been mentioned.
The sound of the guitar grounded me as it always did, calming my nerves and reminding me that no matter what happened in my life, I had music.
The transformative power of it was with me always, no matter what instruments were at hand.
And I’d decided I would not give up my love of music for fear of being discovered. The chances anyone would expect the Fletcher Coe to be some random-ass guy in a vanlife van in Joshua Tree were slim anyway.
“You don’t sing?” Lena eventually asked as the final note of Noah Kahan’s “Strawberry Wine” faded into the dark night. She’d done a good job of recognizing many of the songs and singing along, often being accompanied by a few others around the fire.
I shook my head. “I mean, I do. But not in company,” I said with a laugh. “Nobody wants to hear me sing.”
Thierry caught my eye from a few chairs over and winked.
There was no doubt he and his husband had been close enough at the Palm Springs campground to hear me singing through my open windows while working on my songs, but I appreciated him not calling me out about it in front of a group of strangers.
I sang enough during the day when working on my songs; I had no need to sing in the evenings around the campfire.