Chapter Thirty-Seven

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The news about Bowie going to rehab drops the next morning, just like Sawyer said it would, but it doesn't knock my paparazzi rage or speculation about my relationship with Hunter out of the entertainment news cycle as I had hoped. If anything, it gives those stories and what happened at the music festival on Friday more life.

One of the more ludicrous takes I stumble across online makes me want to eye roll myself into another dimension. The post reads: Do you think Cayden's new romance was too much for Bowie to handle and that it led to his decline and all of this?

"No, I don't," I mutter. At least this didn't come from an entertainment reporter and is the opinion of someone who appears to be an influencer without a clue, but still. She must have missed when Bowie was seen all over town with Portia and when he put me on blast for dropping out of the tour.

There are quite a few replies to the post, which I don't read. The only person whose reaction I care about is over two-thousand miles away. I won't lie—the chatter about Hunter and me being even more amplified today makes me nervous. He was already upset when people were trying to figure out who he was. Now there are millions of people who know, and his name is trending on social media.

By the time ten o'clock rolls around, I can't force myself to hold off on calling him any longer. Paisley didn't say what time she expected him to be back today, but it's already one in the afternoon in his time zone, so there's a chance he and his dad have returned from their fishing trip and that he's aware of what's going on. I just want to hear his voice and know he's okay.

I sit cross-legged on my bed and hold my phone out in front of me. Then I take a deep breath, unlock the screen, and find Hunter in my contacts list. Here goes nothing, or perhaps the start of something. I need to be optimistic about this.

One ring. Two. Then it's three rings, four, and five. On the sixth ring, it goes to voice mail.

Hey, it's Hunter. Leave a message.

I was prepared with something to say if he answered the phone, but voice mail is a situation I didn't plan for. I chicken out and hang up before I say something that's guaranteed to ramble on, give away how nervous I am, and not make a ton of sense.

My heart races. Just breathe, calm down, and figure out a backup plan.

Hunter will see my number in his missed calls. I should call back or send a text to say something about why I called. Maybe it's because I now lack the courage I thought I had a minute ago when I tapped his number and let it ring, but I decide to send a message.

Hi. It's Deni. Paisley has probably told you I'm back in L.A. I'm sorry about your name getting out to the media, and I'm sorry we couldn't talk again before I had to leave. I hope things are still peaceful at the lake and no one is hounding you with questions.

Can we talk? I know we left things with you asking not to do that, but I'd like to know if you're okay.

I read what I've typed no fewer than twelve times while second-guessing myself, making changes, and then going back to the original message. When I finally send the text, I keep my index and middle fingers crossed on the hand that's not clutching my phone. I would wish on all the stars in the sky for a positive outcome, too, if it wasn't morning and daylight outside.

I'm still staring at the screen and my delivered text when three dots pop up below it. I don't mean to hold my breath—what a cliché, right?—but it's what my body insists on doing, knowing Hunter has read my words and is writing back to me. But then the dots disappear. I wait for them to come back while forcing myself to breathe normally. Ten minutes pass with nothing else appearing on my screen.

"He'll answer," I say, as if speaking the words out loud will make it so. It's like waiting for paint to dry. I need to put my phone away and find something else to do, or the day will drag on and my overthinking will be torture.

I review my options. I can sit here, restless and distracted and constantly checking my phone while dwelling on everything that got me to the point of being back in my bedroom a month before I was supposed to be. I can open the social apps on my phone again, but the psychological destination that leads to isn't good. Or I can attempt to get myself together, clear my mind, and channel my energy into something I haven't done much of the last few weeks, which is play my guitar.

Other than the day Hunter caught me playing and singing, my guitar only came out of its case a couple of times while at the cottage. The act of putting my fingers on the strings and strumming the first chords that come to mind has soothed me through other stressful times in my life, and there's a chance it will now. There's something about getting lost in the music that transports me to another place and uses a different part of my brain.

Today's guitar session begins with me playing the song Hunter overheard. But I'm soon experimenting with other chord combinations, and from there, fingerpicking notes that begin to take on a distinct melody. I'm soon tuned out of what's around me and locked in on whatever this is that's taking form, alternating between recording what I'm playing and scribbling notes to myself.

Sometimes an idea for a new song begins with the melody taking shape while playing my guitar, and other times it's with a lyric I can't shake that demands to have a melody composed for it. Today it starts with the melody, but I'm soon humming along and trying out words to paint the story that's meant for it.

All I had were ashes and a life burned to the ground,
Screaming out in nightmares, trying not to make a sound.
You saved me from a fire I wouldn't talk about,

Healed my shattered heart again until I had no doubt.

That one night under moonlight, Mercury and Mars,
When time stood still for us, under impossible stars.
Our kiss was all that mattered, it's all that matters now,
I'd hit rewind and tell you then, if I just knew how.

I repeat these two verses, this time recording them with an app on my phone. All those times Hunter teased me about serenading him or writing him a song and I told him to keep dreaming, and now look at what I'm doing. This is his song. I can't see him or speak to him, but I can lose myself in my memories of the time we spent together and immortalize what I experienced, in a way.

I'm about two hours into my songwriting session when my phone chimes. I hear it above the sound of my guitar, as focused as I've been on playing and working out the melody and lyrics of this new song. I don't know if it's wishful thinking or telepathy that insists I take a break and check my phone, but I listen to my inner voice and set my guitar down.

My heart soars for a split-second when I see Hunter's name and words on the screen.

I'm okay... sort of. Thanks for asking. Things are weird. I don't know how you do this as part of your life.

I don't have a great response for that. Telling him it only got easier when I became conditioned to it and figured out ways to block it out won't help him. And, if I'm honest, the strategies for blocking things out aren't foolproof, as evidenced by my freak-out on the paps yesterday.

I'm still searching my brain for something to answer him with when the three dots show up again and a second message from him comes through.

We'll talk, but I can't right now. I need to wrap my head around what's going on and to stop feeling on edge and like I'm watching something happen to someone else, if that makes sense. I don't know how to explain it.

It does make sense. The on-edge feeling is familiar and is something I've experienced countless times since my music career took off and strangers began talking about me. I'd give anything to put my arms around Hunter and never let him go.

It makes sense, I type. I'm here whenever you want to talk. Take care of yourself until then.

I send the message. He doesn't reply to it, and I don't expect him to. I'm mostly relieved he answered my first message at all, that his response was more than a word or two, and that he said we'll talk. I respect his need for time and space, and it isn't a surprise since it's what he asked for the last time I saw him. I can't give him his privacy and anonymity back, but I can give him this.

So now I wait. I just hope I won't be waiting forever.

* * *

A week and a half slips by with no other texts or calls from Hunter. I exchange messages with Paisley a couple of times, but I don't ask her about him. It's difficult not to, but I don't want to come across like some sort of stalker, even if he's always on my mind. All the time I've spent working on a song that's about him doesn't help things.

I've been back in L.A. for twelve days when the update Mom and I have waited weeks for arrives. I've just finished having a shower and getting dressed when Mom calls out to me from downstairs.

"Deni! Can you come here for a sec?"

"Coming," I reply, as I finish squeezing water from my hair with a towel. I set the towel on my bathroom counter and leave the room to see what she wants.

Mom is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. There's something different about her today. She seems more relaxed than she has in weeks, even more so than when we were at the lake. She's also smiling.

"I had a phone call while you were in the shower and wanted to tell you right away, but it's already leaked to the press and is all over the news. Why don't you come watch?"

I try not to do a double-take. Mom encouraging me to watch the news is completely out of character.

"Okay," I agree, and continue down the stairs. I follow her to the living room, where the TV screen is paused on a cable news channel. Mom unpauses it now, and a serious-looking anchorwoman on the screen speaks.

"Investigators have ruled out the possibility that anyone else was working with Dallas Jones Fernsby, the nineteen-year-old man who set off a bomb at Cayden Indigo's concert in Los Angeles, killing seventeen people in attendance. A toxicology report has been released with findings of high levels of several hallucinogenic drugs in Fernsby's system at his time of death. Investigators say Fernsby's altered state of consciousness was likely connected with his action of setting off the bomb, and that it lines up with statements made by friends and family about his recent history of substance abuse that may also have been a factor in his plot to bring the bomb to Indigo's show. Indigo, a former schoolmate of Fernsby, was one of several famous alumni from the school they both attended who Fernsby listed as a target."

The story continues, but I'm no longer listening to what the anchorwoman has to say. I'm equal parts relieved and numb.

"Wow." This is all I can come up with to say. The more I think about everything, the more overwhelmed I am.

No one else is out there lurking in the shadows and waiting for me so they can finish what Dallas started. No one is after Sawyer, either, or anyone else I know. But it doesn't bring back the people who died. Nothing can do that. And, as selfish as I know this thought is, it doesn't do anything to make being in L.A. instead of still being at the lake for the rest of the summer feel right.

"It's good news," Mom replies. "Finally. We don't have to live like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Good news," I echo, but my heart isn't in it. "I should tell Kara, Dylan, and Key in case they haven't heard yet."

It's an excuse to leave the room so I can stop trying to hide the conflicting emotions surging through me. I don't want to talk about why I'm feeling anything other than elated just yet—not with Mom, not with Dr. Delacruz, and not with anyone else. I need to be alone with this and work it out for myself.

I return upstairs to my bedroom and pluck my phone up from the nightstand beside my bed. My bandmates have already started a group text. They've heard the news, and Key remarks about how comforting it is to know it's safe to get on a stage. No one asks when we'll next do that as a band, but they must be curious about what the future holds, even if our plan had been to take the summer off.

There's also a message from Paisley. I just heard the news and I'm so happy to know you're safe. Maybe you can come back now?

She has no idea how much I wish I could, just like my band has no idea how much I wish I could join in on their optimistic texts. I'm still processing the news and I have a million thoughts pinging through my mind like balls in a pinball machine.

My thoughts range from relief that Hunter and Paisley aren't in danger from anyone who might have been after me, to more guilt over why I didn't tell Hunter about who I am before Bowie did, to what I'm going to tell the people at my record label when the inevitable question of when I'll return to performing comes up.

There's also a question that rises above the noise and sticks in my brain until I acknowledge it. That question is, where do I go from here?


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