Sawyer waits until we're in the car with the engine running to ask what now tops my list of most-dreaded questions. "Are you okay?"
I swipe at the tears in my eyes with the back of my hand before shoving my sunglasses over my eyes. "What do you think?" My reply comes out somewhere between a whisper and a snarl. I don't mean to snap at Sawyer, and I hope he knows that. My anger is for someone else.
"I think I asked a stupid question. I also think I should get you out of here."
I sniffle a couple of times while buckling my seatbelt. "It wasn't a stupid question. Thanks for caring enough to ask."
Sawyer shifts the car into drive and starts to inch it around the driveway's roundabout. He pauses after a moment, seeming to change his mind, and brings the vehicle to a stop.
"Do you need a minute or two?"
He doesn't have to explain why he asks. There's a good chance the paps who followed us here are still waiting outside of the gates, and photos of me appearing upset while leaving Bowie's house are the last thing I want to deal with on top of everything else. The hurricane of tabloid gossip already out there makes me dizzy enough. I won't hand them something else to sensationalize, or give Bowie the satisfaction of knowing he's brought me to tears.
I shut my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Sawyer keeps the car idling in park, giving me time to regain my composure. When my heartbeat slows, I open my eyes again and give him a slight nod. "Okay. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."
The car resumes its forward motion. I keep my gaze fixed on the birds of paradise flowers bordering the driveway, then on a squirrel perched on a low-hanging tree branch near the gate. Mostly, I try not to think. Sawyer taps something on the console screen and the car speakers come to life. I immerse myself in the beat of the song playing, and I even manage to fake a smile when we drive past the photographers waiting outside of the gates. A sigh of relief whooshes from my lungs once we're past them and in the clear.
"Do you want to head home, or do you want to go somewhere else? You could humiliate me at mini-golf again if you want."
It's tempting to take Sawyer up on the distraction of mini-golf so I don't have to process what just went down with Bowie, but I'm at high risk for a meltdown. There's also the possibility of paps following Sawyer and me wherever we go, even if I don't see them tailing us yet. My house is probably the safest and most private place I can be right now.
"Home," I answer. "I just want to hide out for a while."
When we're safely inside the gates and parked in front of my house, Sawyer offers to come inside. I would appreciate his help with smuggling me past Mom so she won't detect something is wrong and ask questions, but my deepest desire is to be alone. I decide to take my chances at sneaking inside on my own and say goodbye to him instead. He makes me promise to check in by text later tonight so he knows how I'm doing.
I make as little noise as possible while opening the front door, removing my shoes, and creeping through the foyer. Fortune is finally on my side as I tiptoe up the stairs and make it to my bedroom without encountering Mom. I close the door, not making a sound, then skulk across the floor to my bed. Once there, I curl up under the duvet and pull it over my head to block out the afternoon sunshine. I would block out the world if I could.
As I lie there, memories of the many times I've let Bowie touch me, kiss me, make out with me, and his attempts to persuade me to "go all the way," crowd my mind. So does the image of Portia standing in his bedroom, her bra and an empty condom wrapper on the floor. I can't help wondering if it was the first time they've slept together, or if it's happened before. How many times did he have his hands and lips all over me right after having them all over her?
The thought of physical contact between Bowie and me makes my skin crawl now. I taste saliva at the back of my mouth and wrestle with the impulse to scrub every inch of my body under a hot shower, as though this might erase the sick feeling I've had since finding Bowie and Portia together today. If I could turn back the clock, I would go through with breaking up with him that night I'd planned to, when we wound up eating Chinese take-out and watching a rom-com instead. I wouldn't be the naive girl he probably laughed at as he strung me along.
But then, if I could turn back the clock, I'd also cancel my show at The Domino. My fans who died would still be alive, and I'd save so many of us from the living nightmare this summer has become. I would still love being on stage and remember what happiness feels like.
A knock at my door startles me out of my thoughts. "Deni?" Mom says.
I hold my breath. If I don't answer, maybe she'll think I'm still with Sawyer and won't find me in here, a stowaway from my own life. My hope for this evaporates when the door handle turns.
"We should talk." Those three words might be worse than asking if I'm okay.
"I'm not feeling well," I croak, my head still hidden from view.
"I'm guessing Bowie has something to do with this?" Mothers have clairvoyant powers, I swear.
I don't answer. The mattress shifts as she sits on the edge of my bed.
"Elton called a few minutes ago. He said Bowie knows you won't be on the tour and posted something on social media. Is that why you're holed up in here?"
I left Bowie's house less than thirty minutes ago. He must have been rage-posting before Sawyer and I were out of his driveway if Elton has already caught wind of it.
"Not exactly. I didn't know he was broadcasting the news already."
"Want to tell me what happened?"
I don't, but refusing to tell Mom about this afternoon would only be postponing the inevitable. Bowie could have announced our break-up and confirmed his relationship with Portia to his fanbase and every entertainment reporter out there already for all I know.
I push the duvet down as far as my neck, leaving my face uncovered, and look at her.
"Someone leaked the news about me dropping out of the tour and Bowie texted me about it. Sawyer and I went to his house to talk to him in person. We interrupted his afternoon of cheating on me with a reality TV star, he accused me of sabotaging his career, we argued, and I left. The end."
I manage to say this in a steady monotone, but Mom isn't fooled. "Are you okay?"
There's that question again. I shake my head and shrug, not trusting what my voice will do if I tell her the truth.
She purses her lips. I can tell she wants to ask more questions, but she's holding back. I'm glad, because talking about Bowie, Portia, the tour I bailed on, or my current mental and emotional state is only going to end with me crying. This afternoon's heartbreak is nothing compared to the devastation of what happened at The Domino, but it's one more thing to add on top of it all.
Neither of us says anything for a minute or two. Alfie's nails click against the hallway floor and his furry head appears in my bedroom doorway. He spots Mom and me and trots up to the bed to nuzzle my hand. He always senses when I'm upset, and lately he's been my one tether to normalcy.
I pull myself up to a sitting position, then reach over the side of the bed to pick up Alfie. I've just gotten him settled in my lap and am scratching his head when multiple loud pops that sound like explosions assault my ears. I shriek and duck. Alfie springs to life, growling and barking at full volume.
"It's just a car backfiring," Mom says. Her voice sounds like it's coming from a distance, even though she's sitting beside me.
"A car backfiring doesn't make everything shake," I say in a panic, before I realize the only thing shaking is me.
Alfie hops off the bed, still growling. I don't know what to do, or how to stop the tremors running through my body. Mom takes my hands in hers and murmurs something about being safe and everything being okay. She holds on to me until my trembling subsides.
She waits for a few minutes, until she's sure I have myself together, before speaking again. "I think we need to get out of L.A. for a while." Her voice is quiet, but I hear the no-nonsense tone. "We both need a break from this."
I don't know if "this" means the loud noises of living in the city, the paparazzi that watch my every move, the flashbacks of the explosion at The Domino that still haunt me, the drama with Bowie, or all of these things, but I can't argue her point. I could use some time away from what life here has become.
"When do we leave?" I ask.