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

Chapter Fourteen

It doesn't occur to me to mention the run-in with Hunter to Mom after I get home from my walk. I've bumped into him once, after all, and a ten-minute conversation doesn't seem worth bringing up. Mom is busy, anyway. I might be banned from contact with the outside world through my phone, but she's practically set up a communications command center on the kitchen table with her laptop, her own phone, and a mobile hotspot.

"We've been here for a couple of hours," I chide her. "What happened to disconnecting and relaxing?"

"I will," she promises. I have my doubts, since Mom co-owns an online business and still finds a way to work just as hard behind the scenes on my career as I do on stage and in the studio.

"If I have to take a break from my phone, you have to take a break from all of this." I gesture at the electronics on the table. "Have you even eaten yet?" I took advantage of our hotel's continental breakfast before we left this morning, but Mom didn't.

Her stomach growls as if on cue. "Nope," she admits. "I got a little wrapped up in what I was doing."

"Is there anything I should know about?"

I didn't check the news this morning before Mom took my phone away. While it's healthier for me to not keep up with headlines right now, I can't help wondering if something new has been uncovered about Dallas Fernsby's motive for setting off a bomb at my show or if Bowie has put me on blast about anything else on social media.

"Not really." Mom doesn't meet my eyes. She gets up from the table and walks over to the refrigerator. "Sawyer texted you a couple of times this morning."

"What did he say?"

"He was checking in and wanted to know if you made it here okay. I texted him back and told him you're fine and you're grounded from your phone, but that we'll set up some time for you to Zoom with him this week."

"Hold on." If she said what I think she did, I can't let this slide by. "How did you break into my phone to answer Sawyer? The passcode is always turned on."

"Oh-four-two-three wasn't hard to guess. It also isn't secure if you're trying to keep anyone else from getting into your phone."

I'll admit using 0423 for my passcode, which is the numeric month and date of my April twenty-third birthday, doesn't make it difficult to hack. In my defense, my phone is normally in my possession at all times and the passcode is something I can remember in a jet-lagged haze while hopping across continents and performing back-to-back shows.

Mom grabs a carton of eggs from the fridge and sets them on the counter, then pauses. If there's one thing I'm becoming better at recognizing, it's when she wants to say something but doesn't know if she should.

"What else?" I ask. Her face makes me think she found something on my phone she wants to confront me about.

"It's nothing."

"That usually means it's something. Spill it."

Mom doesn't answer right away.  She opens a cupboard and hunts around for something, then pulls out a frying pan and sets it on the stove before she responds.

"Bowie sent you some texts and tried calling a couple of times. He left you a voice mail."

"Oh?" I'm curious about what he said, but deep down I know it's either more accusations, passive-aggressive anger, or an apology someone on his team coerced him into sending for PR reasons.

"The text messages weren't that bad, but..." She trails off mid-sentence. I can tell she's being thoughtful about what she says next.

"But?"