Page 26 of Tracking Wolfe

7

WOLFE

Joining the other campers in Joshua Tree had been a stroke of luck. They were a great group, and I’d been able to have the best of both worlds: solitude when I wanted it, good company when I didn’t. After several weeks of traveling with the impromptu group, I’d fallen into a new normal.

Most days were spent adventuring or exploring, making music, or reading tattered paperbacks from local thrift stores or campground “take one, leave one” libraries. Evenings were usually spent hanging out around someone’s campfire, either talking, sharing a potluck-style meal, or playing guitar.

Thierry and Armand had started to feel like yet another set of uncles, and I joked that they were only one of many, many sets I already had. Brennan and I had quickly become friends, and I loved hearing about how he’d amassed a large social media following from posting about his travel adventures with his cat, Pup.

Brennan had been joined by his best friend and massive crush, Val, whose immediate and intense dislike of me possibly indicated he wasn’t as straight as he seemed to think he was. Val’s presence had at least taken the pressure off me to decide whether I wanted a repeat with Brennan because as long as Val was around, Brennan’s moony eyes only focused on him.

Lena had picked up a ukulele in a thrift store in Moab for what she called her “Sara Bareilles Era, Part II,” which had turned into music lessons with me and headaches for Imani. Over the weeks, my new friends had started to feel a little bit like family, and I sank into it with surprising relief. Rarely had I had a life outside the large, oftentimes overwhelming Marian family, and it was nice having something—people—who were simply my own.

But when we’d pulled into Hush, Colorado, I’d surprised myself by wondering for the first time if I might stay behind when the rest of the group moved on. There was something incredibly peaceful and restorative about the place, a hidden oasis in Gunnison National Forest oddly protected from the worst of the early spring weather and far enough away from any larger towns to result in breathtaking views of the starry night sky.

The campground we’d found had extra-large sites with full hookups and plenty of room between rigs, which was a nice break from boondocking. I’d spent the first few days here recording another new song and catching up on the Fletcher Coe admin work Sunny had been reminding me to do. I only took breaks for long runs in the morning and to accept a charity meal offer from my friends when they had extra.

Emails from Sunny revealed that my followers were loving “Into the Watercolor Morning.” I’d recorded the song at the Grand Canyon, then sent it to her to post on my Instagram along with a few shots I’d taken of the sunrise. The video had gotten a record-breaking number of views in the month since she posted it.

She also mentioned interest in Fletcher Coe was higher than ever after the Grammy wins, and there was renewed fervor in “uncovering” Fletcher’s true identity. But she assured me she had it all under control.

It was nice knowing I could share new music without having to go online and post the videos myself. As soon as Lyra had played “Not Mine” at the Super Bowl, the barrage of fan comments and messages had been enough for me to hand account control over to Sunny and mostly step away. By the time I’d left Legacy just after the Grammys, I was already spending as little time on social media as possible.

I loved making new music under the safety of anonymity, and I didn’t want to lose that opportunity. Not to internet trolls, and not to my own terror.

The third morning in Hush, I was finally ready to put the electronics away and tackle the mountain of dirty laundry that had piled up, so I unhooked the van and headed to the laundromat.

Hush wasn’t really big enough to be called a town. From what I’d seen on my runs, it had a gas station with a small grocery market attached, a pickup-only pizza place, a laundromat run out of the back of the tiny post office, a fly-fishing store that was closed for the off-season, and a dive bar called Jake’s Place.

After pulling up behind the post office, I hauled my laundry bag through the door to the laundry room and shoved everything into two machines before pulling out my stash of quarters. Next door, Jake’s Place advertised hot breakfast, so I left the van where it was and headed for a bite to eat.

As soon as I walked in, I heard a young woman crying in a corner booth. On the table in front of her was a guitar with a broken fretboard. The strings lay slack, still tethering the head to the body.

I winced in sympathy but didn’t say anything. Instead, I meandered to the bar and took a seat at a spot with a place mat and menu already laid out.

A man came out of the back and flashed me a friendly smile. “Hey, I’m Jake. What can I get you to drink? Coffee, juice?”

He was good-looking enough to cause me to trip over my tongue for a beat, not at all the kind of grizzly old guy I’d pictured owning a place like this in the middle of nowhere. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

He tilted his head and smiled wider. “Yeah, thanks coffee or yeah, thanks juice?”

Shit. “Coffee. Please. Cream and sugar, if you have it.” If you have it? What kind of place serves coffee without cream and sugar? Idiot.

He nodded and turned to the counter behind him, where the coffeepot was currently steaming. “Shay, honey,” he called over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go put that in my office? I’ll see if Billy can do something to fix it tomorrow when he gets back.”

The young woman with the broken guitar looked up and sniffled. Warm brown eyes sparkled over a reddened nose. She was cute in a way that reminded me of my sister. “But you said I could play my set tonight. And now I can’t.”

He set the mug in front of me and lowered his voice. “Sorry. My sister saved two years for that guitar, and I accidentally dropped my toolbox on it.”

She crossed her arms on the table in front of her and buried her face, sobbing some more and wailing that it was probably the end of her life. Jake winced and shook his head. “Teenagers.”

I snorted softly. “I’d cry like that, too, if mine broke.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You play?”

I nodded and hesitated before making a decision. “Yeah, actually. I’m, ah, in the area for a bit, and… well… she can use mine tonight. I mean, if she wants.”

Shay’s head popped up. “Really? You mean it?”