Page 21 of Tracking 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.