Unfaded

by Julie Johnson

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. felicity

  2. ryder

  3. felicity

  4. felicity

  5. ryder

  6. felicity

  7. ryder

  8. felicity

  9. felicity

  10. ryder

  11. felicity

  12. ryder

  13. felicity

  14. ryder

  15. felicity

  16. ryder

  17. felicity

  18. ryder

  19. felicity

  20. ryder

  21. felicity

  22. ryder

  23. felicity

  24. ryder

  25. felicity

  26. ryder

  27. felicity

  28. felicity

  29. ryder

  30. felicity

  31. ryder

  32. felicity

  Full Lyrics

  Next up…

  Playlist

  Also by Julie Johnson

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE MONDAY GIRL: Excerpt

  Copyright © 2018 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

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  For the stars who shine on

  in defiance of the darkness.

  Never fade.

  Keep your jealous stars,

  for I have her light to guide me on.

  atticus

  WHERE IN THE WORLD IS FELICITY WILDE?

  TNZ EXCLUSIVE

  December 10, 2018

  LOS ANGELES — It’s been two months since WILDWOOD, America’s favorite new Nashville act, dropped their debut album, which raced immediately to the top of the charts and has gone on to sell more than 2 million copies.

  Despite regular paparazzi sightings of her bandmates — Ryder Woods, Lincoln Travers, and Aiden Hill — the female lead singer of WILDWOOD seems to have vanished entirely from the public eye. Last spotted at the launch party in early September, Wilde has not attended any additional scheduled press events to promote the double-platinum album.

  Insiders say plans for the highly-anticipated WILDWOOD world tour are currently on hold.

  Route 66 Records did not respond to this reporter’s request for comment.

  TROUBLED ‘WILDWOOD’ STAR ARRESTED FOR DUI OFFENSE

  LA Chronicle

  January 1, 2019

  LOS ANGELES — Ryder Woods, frontman for popular act WILDWOOD, was taken into custody by police following a motor-vehicle crash on New Year’s Eve, which left a downtown telephone pole flattened and several city blocks without power. Woods sustained minor injuries, which were treated by staff at a Los Angeles County emergency room before he was remanded on charges of reckless driving, operating a vehicle under the influence, and destruction of public property.

  This is the musician’s third offense in six months, following his arrest for cocaine possession at The Viper Room in West Hollywood last fall and a public intoxication incident on Christmas Eve, which did not result in formal charges. He is expected to appear in court on Monday morning.

  Woods, originally of Nashville, is new to the spotlight, but quickly became a household name after the success of his band’s debut album. Current sales estimates total more than 3 million copies domestically, with another million in international markets.

  While there has been no official comment from Woods’ representatives, fans speculate the singer’s downward spiral was spurred by the sudden departure of his singing partner — and rumored girlfriend — Felicity Wilde. No official plans for a tour have been announced, nor has there been any word on the possibility of a second album.

  This is a developing story.

  COMMUNITY COMMENTS:

  Emma M: Did you see this, @MaxineL ? Ryder is, like, totally off the rails.

  Maxine L: I know, @EmmaM it’s SO sad… Think I should offer to save him? ;) Now that Felicity isn’t around…

  Tori E: Felicity is such a bitch for leaving Ryder this way. #FelicitySucks

  Tammy Q: OMG! Have you seen the pics of him lately? He looks terrible!

  Candy C: You’re right, @TammyQ, he looks awful… I’d still screw his brains out, though.

  [LOAD MORE COMMENTS]

  PRESS RELEASE

  Route 66 Records

  September 25, 2019

  This serves as an official notice seeking FELICITY WILDE, formerly of Nashville and Los Angeles.

  Legal proceedings have begun in your name.

  Any information on her whereabouts, please contact the office of FRANCESCA FOSTER at Route 66 Records.

  DEATH OF A LEGEND: MOURNING THE LIFE AND MUSICAL LEGACY OF COUNTRY STAR BETHANY HAYES

  Obituaries

  June 14, 2020

  NASHVILLE — Bethany Hayes, 92, of Nashville, died Sunday. Hayes, best known for hits like STAY BY MY SIDE and CRY ME A RIVER, was a two-time Grammy award winner and Country Music Hall of Fame member. After her astronomical rise to fame in the 1960s, Hayes had a long-lasting career, continuing to produce hugely successful records until she was well into her seventies. She leaves behind two daughters, two grandchildren, and millions of loving fans worldwide.

  Hayes’ musical legacy lives on in her granddaughter Felicity Wilde, former lead singer of the popular band Wildwood. Two years ago, Wilde debuted a duet version of her grandmother’s love ballad FADED in a collaboration with Ryder Woods. The critically-acclaimed cover dominated the charts for months following its release, introducing a whole new generation of fans to Hayes’ music and honoring the undeniable talent of a country music titan.

  The Hayes family asks for privacy to mourn this tremendous loss. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the charity of your choosing.

  A private service will take place next week in Nashville.

  Chapter One

  felicity

  I watch them lower the casket into the earth with dry eyes and a hollow heart. I’ve done all my crying already, last week when I first heard the news about Gran — the kind of crying that lasts so long and takes so much, when the tears finally stop you feel as though your soul has gone dry along with your swollen red eyes.

  I take a step forward, pain sluicing through me from my pinched toes to my panging heart. The patent black pumps on my feet are a half-size too small, but they’re the only ones I had in my closet.

  Black’s never really been my color.

  I bend and grab a handful of dirt from the small pile by the side of the grave, forgoing the shovel. It feels gritty and cold against my palm as I stand at the edge of the perfectly cut hole, staring six feet down at the only member of my family who ever gave even half a damn about me.

  “Goodbye, Gran,” I whisper, my voice cracking with grief.

  I toss the dirt onto her casket, instantly marring the gleaming white lacquer surface. Though I thought my eyes had cried their last, a rogue tear slides down my right cheek and gathers at the corner of my mouth — which is currently slicked in bright scarlet. A bit ostentatious for a funeral, perhaps, but it was Gran’s signature shade. Somewhere up there, she’s smiling in approval.

 
Nothing ever seems quite as bad after a fresh coat of lipstick, honey.

  Nodding my thanks to the undertaker, I turn and start walking back to the nondescript rental car I picked up at the airport this morning, eager to get out of here now that I’ve paid my respects. There are too many ghosts lurking in the shadows, pressing in on me — and I’m not talking about the dead Nashville residents resting beneath my feet.

  Arms wrapped tight around myself as if it might somehow contain my sorrow, I trudge toward the dusty gravel path. Ragged gulps of warm June air are heavy in lungs. My high heels sink into the grass with each step, creating a trail of divots behind me. I don’t bother looking around — no one else is here. Not anymore.

  I made sure to wait until the last stragglers cleared out before I left the sanctuary of the car. A crisp hundred dollar bill in the undertaker’s hand was enough to convince him to delay his work long enough for me say my goodbyes to Gran.

  It felt cowardly and wrong — her own granddaughter hiding in the car while total strangers attended the ceremony — but I didn’t have any other choice. If I’d made my presence known, I have a feeling there would’ve been a full-scale riot amongst the eager paparazzi who staked out the front gates, desperate to snap a picture of Felicity Wilde in the wild after all this time. I can almost see the headlines.

  MISSING SONGSTRESS SPOTTED AT LATE GRANDMOTHER’S MEMORIAL! WHERE HAS SHE BEEN ALL THIS TIME — AND WHY ON EARTH DID SHE GO BLONDE? WE’VE GOT THE SCOOP ON PAGE SIX!

  I shake my head, sighing deeply at the thought of the media storm I’ve narrowly avoided. The slice of anonymity I’ve carved out for myself these past two years is precariously thin; it could’ve slipped completely through my fingers if anyone recognized me sitting behind the dark-tinted windows of my sedan or passing though the security checkpoints at the airport.

  God bless the TSA agent who read the name on my license with wide eyes, but let me pass without fanfare. She could’ve easily created a mob scene; instead, she showed me compassion.

  I was a big Bethany Hayes fan. I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Wilde. Go on ahead.

  It’s been two years, but the story of my disappearance from the public eye periodically circulates, cropping up on conspiracy theory blogs and fan forums. It still catches me off guard to see my own face appear on the entertainment news programs that play on television screens at the local cafe where I grab my coffee in the morning, or on the tabloid covers I’ve trained myself not to look at too closely whenever I’m in the checkout line at the grocery store.

  SPOTTED: FELICITY WILDE IN MELBOURNE… WITH NEW BABY AND HUSBAND!

  FELICITY WILDE AND LINCOLN TRAVERS: THE AFFAIR THAT BROKE UP THE BAND

  FELICITY WILDE AND RYDER WOODS REUNITE IN SECRET BALI GETAWAY… WE’VE GOT ALL THE STEAMY DETAILS ON PAGE 12

  I wonder who comes up with these ideas — the ones they pull from thin air and spin into stories based on nothing resembling fact. They’re never remotely close to accurate. Then again, I doubt those gossip rag reporters would tell my real story, even if they knew it. What actually happened to me wouldn’t sell half so many papers as a secret love affair or a tawdry fling in the South Pacific.

  But the facts are never quite as catchy or dramatic as the fiction they splash across their front pages over outdated photographs of me. And that girl on those covers, the one with the long, dark braid and those hopeful, haunted eyes turned up toward the man at her side as though he made her whole world turn…

  She might as well be a stranger.

  Now, as far as anyone knows, my name is Joy Winters.

  That quiet, blonde girl who lives at the edge of town.

  Keeps to herself, mostly. You’ll never see her smile.

  It’s harder than you’d think to disappear, especially when everyone in the country knows your name and probably has a copy of your album in their iTunes library. When I left Los Angeles behind, I couldn’t just pick a spot on a map and start over somewhere new. I had to erase myself first. To become someone else. Someone unrecognizable.

  Two years off the grid, out of the spotlight.

  Two years of keeping my head down, my eyes averted.

  Two years of blonde hair dye and brown contact lenses.

  Two years of being Joy, but feeling none.

  I count the time like a prisoner on death row — all remaining appeals expired, all hopes of a lesser sentence extinguished. There will be no early release for good behavior, no glimpse of sunshine at the end of this tunnel. I am serving a life sentence. One I chose, perhaps, but that does little to lessen the blow.

  Leaving Los Angeles was hard enough; staying gone has been far more difficult than I ever could’ve imagined. My new life, the one I built for myself as far from the lights of Hollywood as I could possibly get without crossing international borders or vast oceans, isn’t glamorous or star-studded. No one asks for my autograph or screams my name on the street. There are no paparazzi hiding in my bushes when I go for my sunrise walk on the beach every morning, my feet submerged in the cool waters of the Atlantic during the few warm months New England experiences.

  No music in my heart. No lyrics in my head. No love to stir my soul.

  I wake. I breathe. I sleep.

  A ghost of a girl.

  Not so much a life — merely an existence. And yet, being there, being no one, is still less terrifying than being back in Nashville. I’ve been hiding in the shadows so long, the world feels glaringly bright against my eyes. My pace quickens as I approach the line of towering oak trees where I left the car. I’m eager to get back to my little seaside cottage on Cape Cod where the memories don’t tug at me quite so viciously. I can’t be here, can’t be in this city, without thinking of…

  Him.

  I don’t let myself say his name, don’t let myself remember the rasp in his voice or the angles of his face or the feel of his hands on my skin. Regardless… he’s everywhere. Around every bend in the road, saturating the air that fills my aching lungs. Two years, and the pain in my chest has never lessened. Two years of cursing his name, shutting him out, locking my heart away along with my memories… and he’s still there, poised on my lips like the lyric of a song I can’t get out of my head.

  He didn’t come to the funeral.

  Not that I expected him to — he only met Gran once, and that was years ago. Long before everything fell apart. Long before we fell apart. Still, I found my eyes scanning the crowd rather too intently earlier, as I watched the parade of mourners making their way across the cemetery behind the dark-tinted windows of my rental car.

  Stupid.

  Why would he come? I don’t have any clue where he spends his days anymore. What his life looks like, now that I’m no longer a part of it. I closed off that part of myself the minute I crossed the border of Los Angeles County, heading east… driving till I literally ran out of land halfway up the hook of Cape Cod in a town so quiet, the seagrass blowing on the sand dunes is the loudest sound for miles.

  It still wasn’t far enough to outrun my memories.

  Earlier, all of Nashville came out to say their goodbyes to the great Bethany Hayes — all the ones who can carry a tune, anyway. Old friends, lifelong fans. Musicians and bar owners and industry icons. My heart clenched when I spotted Issac, my one-time boss and owner of The Nightingale, looking totally uncomfortable in a suit as he lingered on the sidelines, waiting for the priest to start the ceremony. Carly, my friend and former co-worker, looked grave and pale in her sleeveless charcoal dress as she took a place beside him.

  Watching as the small section of folding chairs slowly filled with distant family members I met years ago, before Gran got sick and my parents burned all our bridges, I found myself holding my breath, waiting for two familiar, middle-aged figures to appear amongst the gathered mourners.

  There’s my Aunt Kim and her new husband… there’s my cousin Devyn with her girlfriend… a few family friends whose names I can’t recall… Gran’s old housekeeper… her longtime attorney Jerry
…

  But not them.

  Not the two people who raised me.

  Maybe raised is too strong a word. They didn’t raise me. They forged me like fire does a steel blade, a hellish blaze that made me stronger in spite of their best efforts to burn me into ash and bone.

  I was more surprised than I should’ve been that they didn’t show up. My parents have never thought much of family ties — evidenced by the way they sheared every one of theirs clean-through on a blind quest to control Gran’s assets when she was first diagnosed with dementia.

  It’s for the best that they didn’t come. I haven’t seen them since I left Hawkins, two days after I turned eighteen, when I hopped on a bus bound for Nashville, bones still rattling from the wrath in that house. With the exception of a single phone call my father once made to The Nightingale — a goading threat that he’ll always track me down, no matter how far I run — we’ve had no contact at all.