I manage to check myself in just before the doors slide open and a rush of shouting fans and reporters floods the lobby. Even though my two bodyguards—or whatever you'd like to call my suited companions working to keep the crowd back—had managed to give me some space on my way in, the massive number of people finally seems to have overwhelmed them. Oh well. I've never minded the attention.

"Hey, hey, one at a time!" I chuckle as the crowd hurries toward me. I take a step away from the lobby's front desk, keeping a careful hand on the strap of my guitar case. My other bags remain at my feet.

"Mr. Reed can sign a few autographs and answer a few questions for you this evening," one of my suited bodyguards calls out as he and the other make their way around to the front of the thrush of people. "Then, we ask that you give him space."

I quirk an eyebrow. "If you guys wouldn't mind, I think I can handle this on my own."

The two glance my way, laughing uncertainly. One of them offers me a weary smile. "I mean, I'm not sure..."

"Please," I reply, a grin tugging at my lips. "I've got this. It's my vacation, after all, and I haven't hired you to be on duty with me the whole time. Go take a break. I'll let you know when to pick me up."

I wait, staring at them with raised eyebrows as if to remind them that they follow my direction and not the other way around. While neither of the men seem especially excited about my decision, they eventually nod, relenting.

"Alright, Mr. Reed," one of them eventually responds with a sigh. "Have a good vacation."

I nod as they carefully make their way around the crowd, which is still abuzz with excitement in front of me. I roll my eyes and take a step forward. Might as well give my people what they want.

"Okay, okay, who's first?" 

Several people rush forward at the same time and I hold out a hand, my eyes wide. "Like I said before, one at a time."

A few minutes later, the people in the crowd have finally managed to organize themselves into two semi-straight lines: one for reporters looking to ask me some questions, and the other for fans demanding autographs and photos. I fall into a pattern quickly enough, simultaneously signing autographs and answering the reporters' requests. For the most part, they ask nothing I haven't heard before—my responses are practically instinctive at this point.

"What is The Kissing Teeth planning next?" For now, we're taking some time off to debrief and rest after our latest tour. When we announce our next project, you'll be the first to know.

"What is your relationship like with your other band members?" We're all very close and really come together as artists to produce a lot of great stuff. We work well together and I'm sure you can hear that when listening to our music.

"Are you dating anyone, Mr. Reed?" I'm sorry, I'd like to keep questions focused on my band and our music. I won't be answering any personal questions today.

After what seems like hundreds of questions and twice as many autographs, the crowd is finally subdued. I sigh, rubbing at my cramped hand as I watch the last of the eager onlookers exit the lobby. Well, I do know one thing: Teethers are relentless. Still, there's something somewhat amazing about being the band behind such a lively fan base. 

I sling my guitar case back over my shoulder and collect my other bags waiting off to the side. And now my vacation really begins. I'm not entirely sure how my fans knew I was here in the first place, but I'm just hoping that the rest of my time at the hotel will be a bit less hectic. Wait, who am I kidding? I live for this shit. Chuckling to myself, I head for the elevator, pulling the envelope containing my room keys out of the inner pocket of my leather jacket. I can't help but snort in amusement as I eye the room number. 420. Nice.

The elevator doors slide open with a melodic ding and I step inside, pressing the button for the fourth floor. Fortunately, I seem to be the only one taking the elevator right now. I fish my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and glance at the time. 

"It's almost ten o'clock? Jesus." I guess time passes quickly when you're facing a raging crowd of fans. I must have arrived around eight, based solely on the fact that the sun was just starting to set when I got to the hotel.

As I arrive at my floor and the elevator doors slide open once again, I lug my things out and start down the hall, grateful to find a sign indicating which direction to turn to get to my room. At long last, I arrive at the door marked 420. A quick insert of my key-card into the door's sensor results in a welcoming flash of green lights and a soft click as the door unlocks itself. I push it open, stepping into the room. 

I've been to plenty of hotels, motels, and resorts in my time on tour and I never know quite what to expect. Some hotels always seem pristine and ornate on the outside, but the rooms end up being completely trashed. Others are the opposite—run-down on the outside, well-kept on the inside. Regal Peaks Resort seems to be somewhere in between: the appearance of its exterior seems to perfectly match its interior.

The single queen-size bed to my right is made with a moss green comforter, a decorative throw pillow embroidered with a jagged mountain range sitting in the center of the other two at its head. A printed photo of the ocean hangs on the wall just above the bed. A mirror in the corner sports a frame inlaid with a pattern of overlapping leaves. I set my things down, propping my guitar—still safely in its case—against the wall, and wander over to it to eye my bedraggled appearance.

I run a hand through my hair, raising an eyebrow at my reflection. I suppose I don't look too far different from usual. My whole aesthetic seems to be something along the lines of "bad boy who's been through hell and back." I lean closer to inspect my smudged eyeliner. 

Just as I begin to consider whether it's too late to reapply it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pause for a second, waiting for it to stop, but it continues to vibrate incessantly. Okay, so it's a call, not a text. I fish it out of my pocket and look at the name on the screen: Parental Figure #1.

Mom. Wait... Why is Mom calling me?

I slide my finger across the screen to answer, raising the phone to my ear. "Hey, Mom. I haven't heard from you in... A bit. What's up?"

"I just wanted to talk to you," her cheerful voice answers after a moment. "It's been so long and I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Oh. Um. Okay." I begin to wander around the room, stepping toward the window. I'm lucky enough to be in a room that faces the west, giving me a decent view of the ocean a couple blocks away—though it's not too easy to see at the moment, considering it's nearly pitch black outside. I stare out of the window for a moment as I consider my next words. "I'm fine, I guess. How are you?"

"We're doing fine, too," she replies. "Your dad picked up pickleball recently, so we've been learning the ropes."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. It's good. Fun."

Having nothing else to add, I fall quiet. Our conversations are always like this nowadays. Mom asks how I'm doing, I say that I'm fine, she tells me the same, and then we trail off into silence. I let out a long sigh, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

"How's your band stuff going?" She eventually asks.

"Good," I reply simply. "Our tour just ended."

"That's nice, honey."

Yeah. It's nice. Isn't it, Mom? Even now, when I've toured across the country, you still can't be proud of me? I heave another sigh. Not like I can actually call her out on it. "Yeah."

The line is silent for a moment, just long enough that I feel the need to check whether the call has ended. Nope. She's still there. 

"So..."

She cuts me off before I can try to spur her into speaking. "Well, I won't keep you up too late, honey. Goodnight. I love you."

"Oh, alright. 'Night. I—"

A soft sound indicates that she's hung up. I toss my phone onto the bed, flopping onto my back beside it. 

"Fuck." I breathe with a groan, running a hand down my face. "This is so stupid." I'm not sure exactly what I'm referring to. A bit of everything, I guess.

I stare up at the ceiling. The room is nearly silent except for my breathing and the gentle whirring of the air conditioner. I collect my phone and pull up my camera roll. I flip through the videos from our last show, watching myself jam with the other band members onstage. There's something so electric about playing live music—literally and figuratively—and I can see it in my movements as I bounce across the stage and nod my head along with the beat. A small smile tugs at my lips as I watch through each video one by one, from every energetic, bass-heavy song to each slow, sentimental ballad. My phone battery dies before I get through them all, but I replay them in my head as I tuck myself under the sheets.

God, I hope I never lose this. 

My mind drifts as I fall asleep, my thoughts shifting from music to my bandmates to a familiar set of blue eyes. I had nearly forgotten in the midst of the crowd of reporters and fans, but as sleep overtakes me, I remember the boy who caught my eye in the lobby.

It's been years, but... Could that really have been him?