The sun, hovering directly in front of me, does not seem to be my friend. It certainly doesn't help that the windshield of my old hatchback is smeared with dirt, bird droppings, and the remains of dead bugs—a mixture that had refused to succumb to the sopping wet sponges of the gas station I'd stopped at on the way here, even though I'd put my full weight into scrubbing at the glass. I let out a sigh, blowing some of my hair out of my face as I flick on my turn signal and ease my car to the right. I glance over at the GPS perched on my dashboard. Only a little bit to go before I reach my turn. I manage a small smile. Almost there.

While I had been hesitant at first to book a vacation for myself, the jittery excitement deep in my stomach—much lighter and fluffier than the ever-present anxiety I'm used to—seems to be reassuring me that this was the right choice. It certainly doesn't hurt that the landscape is absolutely beautiful. Mountains shape the horizon in nearly every direction. As I make a turn, the rays of the sunset shimmer on the ocean to my right, bordered by dark, jagged outcroppings of rock. Even in summer, I know the water is far too cold for my liking—not that I'm much of a swimmer.

A few minutes later, a rustic wooden sign advertises my entry into West Rye, "The Coziest Town in the World!" I snort out a soft laugh as I read the corny phrase. The speed limit drops as the road narrows, gradually shifting from asphalt to worn stone. Just before the road switches to a pedestrian path, my GPS chimes.

"Turn left at the stop sign. Then, your destination is on your right: Regal Peaks Resort."

Following the device's instructions, I turn left and exit the road to the right. As the hotel comes into view, I whistle softly under my breath. Standing at a towering seven floors, the building somehow maintains the look of a rustic hunting lodge, all dark wood and slanted eaves. And it's pet-friendly, too,  I think to myself contentedly, glancing over to the passenger seat. A mesh cat carrier sits upon it. Hazard has been surprisingly quiet the whole drive. As I turn into a spot and park, I give the carrier a gentle nudge.

I'm greeted with a soft squeak. Chuckling softly, I unzip the top of the carrier part-way. A furry black head pops out. 

"Morning, bud," I murmur with a smile as the cat yawns widely, his yellow eyes fluttering open and closed. "That explains why you've been so quiet. Did you have a good nap?"

Hazard blinks sleepily up at me and yawns again. As I reach over to stroke his soft fur, he lets out a bubbling purr and affectionately bunts his head against my hand. 

"You just have to stay in there a little bit longer," I promise. "I just have to go check in, and then you'll be free to wander around as soon as we get to the room."

The cat just chirps softly before settling back down into the carrier, as if he understood what I just said—that, or he's eager to return to his nap, which is also a likely possibility. I quirk a smile before zipping the mesh top back up. I turn off my car and tuck the key into my pocket as I get out. Arching my back in a stretch, I self-consciously tug at the binder beneath my shirt. Shit, I've probably been wearing that too long. I assure myself that I'll take a break from wearing it as soon as I get up to the room before walking around to the trunk to grab my things. I've always been a light packer, and all of my necessities for the week fit into one rolling suitcase, with Hazard's food and supplies in a separate tote bag. I haul the bag over my shoulder and pop up the handle of the suitcase, carefully slinging Hazard's carrier over my other shoulder. With that, I lock the car and set off toward the hotel lobby.

The automatic doors slide open before me as I walk up—which I'm thankful for, considering I don't really have the hands to open them myself. The lobby is spacious and seems to match the aesthetic of the hotel's exterior, with wooden walls and floors covered in old paintings and rugs respectively. As I let my gaze flit across the leather couches lining the lobby and the surprisingly fancy chandelier above, a voice drifts my way.

"Hi there! Are you checking in?"

I flinch, turning to see the clerk standing at the front desk. She offers a polite smile and I awkwardly return it as I wander up, gently setting down the tote bag and cat carrier on the polished lobby floor. "Oh, hi!" My voice cracks pitifully and I cough to clear my throat, managing a slightly deeper tone when I speak again, "Yes, I'm, um, checking in."

"Great!" The woman responds simply. She either didn't notice the source of my embarrassment or doesn't care—realistically, it's probably the latter. I doubt voice cracks are anything to hoot at when you've been working at a front desk and interacting with people for who knows how long. She turns to face the computer to her right, the movement stirring me out of my thoughts. "What's your last name?"

"Hoffman." I answer, spelling it out for her as she types it into the system.

"Looks like we've got you booked for a non-smoking, single room. Is that correct?"

"Um, yes."

"Perfect." With a click of her mouse, she pivots back around. I wait in silence as she ducks behind the desk and pulls out a small envelope. "These are your room keys. You're in Room 214. Just take the stairs or the elevator up to the second floor. The stairs are at the end of the hall on either side, and the elevator is just around the corner." She uses the envelope to point in the directions she mentions before passing it across the desk.

Smiling gratefully, I take the envelope. A quick peek inside reveals two cards printed with the hotel's logo, which appears to feature the letters 'RPR' with an arrow striking through the center. Good to know that I won't be totally out of luck if I lose one. But I should probably still keep track of them both just to be sure. I carefully tuck the envelope into my pocket before turning back to the clerk.

"Breakfast is served on this floor every morning from six to ten," she recites, her gaze distant as if reading off of an invisible script. "The pool and spa are around the side and are open from nine in the morning to eleven at night. If you have any questions or concerns, you can contact the desk from your room at any time by dialing '0' on the phone provided." Her eyes shift back to me. "Any questions?"

"None at the moment, thanks." I reply, taking a step back from the desk. 

The clerk nods, offering a polite smile. "Then enjoy your stay."

I nod as I collect the tote bag and Hazard's carrier, carrying them toward the elevator as I roll my suitcase beside me. I press the button to call it and shift my weight to one hip to wait.

An echoing murmur draws my attention back to the front of the hotel. My eyes widen as I notice a large crowd of people standing just outside the entrance. They're holding microphones and flashing cameras, shouting eagerly as someone steps out of a shiny black limousine.  

"What the—" I mumble. My curiosity stirs me to step forward and I crane my neck around the corner to try and see what's going on.

A couple of men in suits part the crowd to allow the figure through, who holds up a hand to dismiss those gathered as they hoist a guitar case over their shoulder. The figure steps inside as the front doors slide open to emit them, carrying the hubbub of noise with them. The two suited men remain on the other side of the doors to prevent the excited group from following at the figure's heels. While it's hard to make out all of what the reporters and fans are yelling, I catch phrases here and there as the voices drift my way and the figure makes their way into the lobby.

"Why are you taking a vacation without the rest of your band? Why here?"

"Is it true that The Kissing Teeth is breaking up?"

"Mr. Reed, now that your tour is over: what's next for you and your band?"

Mr. Reed? My eyebrows furrow. The Kissing... Teeth.

Dread drops into the pit of my stomach as the pieces come together in my mind. No. It can't be—

At last, the figure turns my way, and an all-too-familiar pair of brown eyes locks on mine. It's a pair of eyes that belongs to the front man of a band quickly becoming the nation's favorite rock group—a pair of eyes that once belonged to one of my closest friends.

It's a pair of eyes that belongs to a boy who, until now, I've been lucky enough to avoid. 

Axel. Fucking. Reed. 

My heartbeat picks up its pace and I turn, jabbing at the elevator call button again and again as the glowing number above—indicating what floor the elevator is currently on—slowly creeps its way down. Shit. My frantic gaze shifts between the lobby and the elevator before I finally give up and take off running toward the stairs, hoping beyond hope that my famous ex-friend somehow didn't see me.