One Night Only

Chapter Thirty-Five

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.