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)
When Trace left, he lifted a hand in a casual wave. “See you Saturday, Wolfe.”
“Yeah,” I said. My voice sounded normal, thank god. “See you.”
The gate clicked shut behind him.
I stood on the porch and told myself to breathe. To stop being weird. Except I kept seeing the way water had dripped from his arm. Kept feeling his hand in my hair. Kept hearing him call me “kid” like he’d always done, except now it made something twist in my chest.
That night, I lay in bed with my journal open to the line I’d written. During dinner, I’d tucked the journal between old school papers in my drawer, like hiding it would make it less true.
He shines brighter than the sun, and I can’t look too long.
I didn’t know what this feeling meant. Didn’t know what I was supposed to do with it.
So I closed the notebook and shoved it back in the drawer.
Everything was fine. I was fine.
Tomorrow, I’d forget about this. I’d be normal again. Trace would come back Saturday, and things would go back to how they’d always been.
I turned off the light and lay there in the dark, listening to the house settle, trying not to think about Saturday.
Trying not to think about the fact that I was already counting the days.
And wondering if I’d ever be able to look away from all that bright, blazing light.
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.