One Night Only (Season 1: Deni's Story)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

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.