Page 111 of Tracking Wolfe

“So, I’d like to introduce myself to all of you. While I am Wolfe Marian… you might also know me as Fletcher Coe. This song is called ‘Not Mine.’ And my crush hasn’t changed, but I recently learned it’s reciprocated. This is for Trace. I love you.”

I forced myself to look down at the frets instead of catching anyone’s eyes as I strummed the opening chords to a song whose rhythm was as familiar as the beat of my own heart.

But as my eyes swept down past the audience, they landed on several familiar faces.

There in the second row, off to the side, was the beautiful, steady, loving face of Trace Bishop.

And next to him were the shocked faces of my parents.

28

TRACE

Wolfe Marian was so fucking beautiful. And brave. I stood in the crowd and stared at him as he claimed his accomplishments for the world to see.

“What?” Jude whispered, eyes wide in shock. He reached for Derek’s hand like he needed the support but couldn’t tear his gaze away from the stage.

“Fletcher Coe?” Derek asked in confusion. “But he doesn’t mean the Fletcher Coe, right? Not the Fletcher who…”

“Who won the Grammy,” Jude finished with a sniff. His eyes shone with tears. “Who wrote all those beautiful songs. Holy shit, Derek.”

I saw someone off to the side recording video of Jude’s reaction, a clip I was sure would go viral by morning. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that this was news to him.

Thanks to my job, I had an immediate distrust of candid videos. But I found myself glad someone was capturing this. That Wolfe would get to see the pride and love shining in his parents’ eyes.

Then Wolfe began singing, and I forgot all about Derek and Jude. Forgot about the video cameras. Even forgot about the crowd.

As his lyrics sank deep into my skin, I knew my eyes were teary, too.

I’d listened to this song hundreds of times while I was hiking, or sitting alone in my cabin, or driving down the road. Every time, I’d felt the sweet pain that comes from knowing a songwriter has scooped up all your deepest emotions and given them musical wings, making them a little lighter and easier to carry temporarily.

I’d said to myself, Shit, it’s like Fletcher wrote it for me.

But now I knew Fletcher—my Wolfe—had literally written it for me. And the knowledge was overwhelming.

I saw him standing in the doorway,

Sunset caught across his skin.

Wolfe’s voice carried across the murmuring crowd, the flood of held-out phones trying to capture the moment.

Like if I reached too close too fast,

He’d see straight through.

I closed my eyes and remembered moments cast across our shared history like confetti, colorful and bright. Moments I’d caught him staring or made him smile. Moments he’d surprised me with a bark of laughter or a clever observation.

When I opened my eyes, Wolfe had found me. Eyes locked on mine, seeking, as if worried about my reaction.

I love you, I mouthed as clearly as I could. His face lit up as he sang.

The crowd ate up every moment, finally recognizing that they were part of something historic. I was sure some would doubt his claim, say it was too crazy to believe, but this was a Marian hometown. People here knew the family, knew Wolfe wouldn’t stand up in front of everyone and tell a tale.

I could hear the excited whispers and see the local media scrambling to get good coverage, to broadcast this breaking news around the world.

But as I stood there listening to Wolfe sing about not being able to keep me, all I could think was that he was singing about the beginning of our story. A story that had begun a long time ago.

A story the two of us would get to keep writing, forever.