Page 3 of Tracking Wolfe

I didn’t have words for it. Didn’t want words for it. If I named it, it would be real.

I filled a glass with water and made myself drink half. The cold traveled down my throat but did nothing to calm my racing heart. I pressed my palm flat on the cool stone counter and counted to ten.

This was Trace. Trace. Who’d been coming to our house since before I could remember. Who knew Dad from work. Who was now Dad’s best friend⁠—

Who’d just touched my hair and made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.

I filled the glass again and dumped it in the sink, hands shaking.

In the music room, I pulled out my notebook with clumsy fingers and opened it to a blank page. The pencil felt too light. I stared at the lines.

I could hear them outside. Papa’s voice carrying through the window, Dad saying something that made Trace laugh, the twins arguing over who got to toss a swim ring into the deep end.

Normal. Everything was normal out there.

I pressed the pencil to paper.

The first line came out wrong. I crossed it out. Tried again. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just saw Trace climbing out of the pool, water on his shoulders, the way he’d stretched to reach the umbrella pole, how close he’d been when he leaned down⁠—

I wrote without thinking: He shines brighter than the sun, and I can’t look too long.

My hand stopped.

I stared at what I’d written. The pencil had pressed hard enough to leave a groove in the paper.

No. No no no.

I couldn’t—this couldn’t⁠—

This was Trace.

I folded the page over so I couldn’t see it. My face burned. My stomach hurt. I wanted to rip the page out, throw it away, pretend I’d never even had the thought.

But I couldn’t make myself get rid of it.

I sat there with the notebook closed on my lap, staring at nothing, until Dad called that dinner was ready.

I made it through the meal. Through Trace telling a story about a haunted ice maker that made Papa laugh so hard he snorted. Through clearing plates and rinsing dishes and pretending everything was fine. I let my family do most of the talking and escaped to the front porch as fast as I could.

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.