I used to blend in while traveling, but there's no hiding out now. Even with the white ball cap I purchased from the Thunder Bay airport gift shop covering the top of my head and casting a shadow over my face, a few passengers in the airline lounge in Toronto have me figured out.

"Do you think they're taking photos of us?" I whisper to Mom.

She knows my question is rhetorical, because what's going on is obvious. We retreated to the lounge for food and quiet before our connecting flight to L.A., but I have as many onlookers tracking me here as I did on our flight from Thunder Bay and in the terminal after we deplaned. I suspect a gallery of Cayden-Indigo-at-the-airport photos is already amassing online and in strangers' text messages.

Mom digs around in her purse and pulls out something I haven't seen for more than a month. "Here." She hands me my phone. "Take photos of anyone who takes one of us and see how they like having the tables turned. I charged it for you before we left."

I take the phone from her. As cut off from the outside world as I've been these last few weeks, I hesitate to turn it on. I have no idea what's waiting for me behind my passcode, other than Paisley's text from yesterday. Who knows what other messages I'll be greeted with?

"It's safe," Mom says, as though she's read my mind. "I blocked Bowie's number for you on Friday."

There was a time when I would have seen this as being overprotective or overreaching, but I've lived through enough of Bowie's toxic behavior this summer to want to deal with any texts he might send my way while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I'm thankful she did it. Now I just have to worry about social media.

"Thank you. Did you also delete Instagram and
Twitter?"

"No, but I can if you want me to. I'm sure Elton is happy to keep covering it until we can hire a social media manager, unless you decide to take the accounts offline."

I almost laugh at the thought of what my record label would say about me disappearing from social media, until I recognize the subtext behind what Mom said. The accounts go hand-in-hand with my music career. She's telling me I can decide if that's still the life I want.

The idea of fading into obscurity and forgetting everything about this summer except for how happy and alive Hunter made me feel is an enjoyable one, but music has been my passion for most of my life. While fame has come with a lot of things I wouldn't wish on anyone, I don't know if I'm ready to turn my back so easily on what I used to love. Playing guitar and singing are intrinsic to who I am, and music is the familiar friend that's always been here for me. It's the one thing I still have to hold on to, even when everything else has fallen apart.

"We should probably find our gate," I say, changing the subject. "Boarding is supposed to begin in ten minutes."

Mom agrees, and we gather our things. A few people are still watching us as we exit the lounge and head for the elevator that will take us to the gate area.

I don't feel any less conspicuous once I'm on the plane. Since our seats are in business class, Mom and I are among the first group to board, which means other passengers walk past us when it's their turn to find their seats. I want to remind the ones who sneak photos that celebrities are just regular people with careers that put them in the spotlight, but I know there's no point, and I would only call more attention to myself. This is my life now, I guess, thanks to Bowie.

I do my best to keep my expression unreadable while fighting the urge to put my sunglasses on so no one can see my eyes. I also keep my phone off. Even though Mom blocked Bowie's number and claimed turning my phone on is safe, I'm not ready to risk reading something that could make me react when all these people have their cameras trained on me. I've waited for over a month to get my phone back, and I can wait another few hours to use it again.

It's funny how five hours on a plane can crawl by and seem more like five days. The time drags on as I alternate between watching the map of our flight path and not watching movies. My mind and my heart are still at the lake, even if I'm headed back to my old life. Mom must sense my need to process the last couple of days, because she doesn't try to force conversation and dozes off about two hours into the flight. I close my eyes, too, but only to block out what's around me as I mentally replay the last conversation I had with Hunter for the hundredth time.

I don't even have a photo of him and me together. Hunter has a few selfies of us that I finally let him take, but I don't know if I'll ever see those again. The video of our kiss that blew up online may be all I have.

I hate how a moment I wish I could treasure forever has become public fodder and exposed Hunter to a world he probably wants nothing to do with. It's something I would have done anything to protect him from, but I failed. At the same time, I'm grateful to have the video to look at when I want to see his face again, even if the memory of one of the best nights of my life makes me ache for what I've lost and the role my excuses and fear played in that.

"Would you like some more water, or some coffee or tea?" a pleasant voice asks. My eyes fly open to see a flight attendant standing in the aisle beside my seat, waiting for me to answer.

"Thank you, but no," I reply. "I'm good."

That's only true as far as beverages go. Anyone who could peek inside my mind for a few seconds would know I'm anything but good right now.

I turn off the movie I'm not watching and check the flight map screen again. There are still two-and-a-half long hours of this flight left, and nowhere I can go to escape from my thoughts.

* * *

Landing at LAX has the same effect on me as someone deflating a balloon. Being on the ground again makes the geographic distance between Hunter and me undeniably real. I have no way of waking up tomorrow and seeing him in person, and I can't go back to a time before I knew him. All I have is the aftermath of us, combined with reminders of what I tried to leave behind in L.A. that led to our paths crossing in the first place. I don't think being back here is healthy, but it's too late now.

"Elton is meeting us here and driving us home," Mom tells me when we're off the plane and inside the terminal. "I had a text from him when we landed. He said we should wait somewhere in the gate area until he has our bags, and then he'll bring the car around to pick us up."

My stomach drops. Elton advising us to hide out in a secured part of the airport isn't a good sign. Someone must have posted the details of my flight online, or maybe the photos people have been taking all day tipped someone off. It wouldn't have been difficult to guess which flight out of Toronto I was on.

"Okay." I set my guitar case down, since it sounds like we might be here for a while. "Let me know when he gives us the all-clear."

I spend the next twenty minutes pacing the terminal and avoiding eye contact with other people while Mom sends messages on her phone. At one point she joins a video call with Elton, describing our suitcases and watching for them with a view from his phone. Her frown and the crease in her brow when she picks up Alfie's carrier and says we can go reveal everything she hasn't yet said. Something is waiting for us on the other side of security, and I presume it's the paparazzi. This is probably why Mom instructs me to exit to the departures level, instead of heading down to arrivals. I follow behind her, clutching my guitar case like it's a shield.

Elton picking us up here instead of on the lower level is a smart move. We make it past the ticketing counters and to the terminal doors without being stopped by anyone. The roar of traffic, honking horns, and airplanes coming in to land are an assault on my ears when I step outside, especially after the weeks of quiet and tranquility at the lake. My hand that isn't holding my guitar case instinctively comes up to cover one of my ears against all the noise.

That's when flashbulbs go off and the yelling begins.

We haven't outsmarted the paps, after all. They must be stationed at a few possible exits, because a crowd of them are here, flinging questions at me and getting in our way. I remove my hand from my ear and keep walking as I try to ignore them.

"What made you go to Thunder Bay?" one calls out.

"Have you heard anything more about the investigation into who could have been working with Dallas Fernsby?" another asks.

"No comment," I mumble, keeping my head down and walking past the endless shutter clicks and flashes of light.

"Cayden! Can you confirm the boy you were with at the concert on Friday is Hunter Gray?"

"Is Hunter Gray the same person you were seen kissing in an Instagram video?" someone else shouts. That's when I lose every ounce of self-restraint I had left.

"What did you say?" I stop walking and glare at the man the last question came from.

"Are you dating Hunter?" he tries again.

"Leave him out of this," I say between gritted teeth. I can't believe it—they're asking me to confirm his name and divulge details, as though it's their right to know. If any of these vultures show up at Hunter's house, I swear I will make them pay. How, I don't know, but I'll figure something out because this is indescribably wrong.

"How long have you and Hunter been together?" another paparazzo calls out. "Did you know him while you were still dating Bowie?"

"Did you not hear what I just said?" My voice rises and gets louder with each word. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. It's her silent signal to zip it and keep walking, but now that I've started speaking, I'm unable to stop.

"Go ahead, stalk me any time I leave the house!" I yell at all of them. "Blind me with your flashbulbs and ask whatever else you want, but leave Hunter alone. I promise you'll regret it if you don't. I'm not going to let you invade his life the way you do mine."

I pause, realizing I've just confirmed Hunter's identity for them. I want to smack myself for making this mistake, but I want to smack all of them more.

Mom pulls at my arm, trying to get me out of here, but the inquiries about Hunter are still coming from every direction and I'm not finished yet.

"He didn't ask to be part of your miserable circus!" I scream.

"We're not taking any more questions," Mom cuts in before I can holler anything else at them. She moves her hand from my arm to my back and nudges me forward toward Elton's waiting car.

I'm trembling with fury by the time I throw my guitar case in the trunk and fling myself into the back seat. Mom puts Alfie's carrier on the seat beside me and shuts the door. Flashbulbs are still going off, even though tinted windows partially obscure me from the paparazzi's view.

Elton glances at me in the rearview mirror and starts to say hello, but he's interrupted by Mom sliding into the front passenger seat. Knuckles rap against her window less than five seconds after she closes the door. They're converging on us and surrounding the car. Elton locks the doors and then leans on the horn, muttering something unrepeatable, but they only grow in number. It's like watching ants swarm to someone's spilled soft drink.

I don't even have the energy to panic. Everything inside of me is numb. I listen to Mom and Elton discuss the best way to extract us from this without having to run someone over, all the while feeling detached from the chaos unfolding around me. A siren from a police cruiser sounds a few times from somewhere close by, and then an officer barks orders at the paparazzi to clear the street. For once, I'm thankful for the traffic cops who patrol LAX.

How Mom thought bringing us back to this would be safer or better than a few more weeks at the lake, even with my general location made public, is beyond comprehension.