There's no point in trying to sleep when it's already morning. Tossing and turning got old three hours ago, and so did staring at the ceiling while willing myself to drift off without actually having to close my eyes. My eyeballs are sandpaper, and my right eyelid is twitchy. Staring at my phone screen won't help either of these things, but it's what I do anyway.

I tap the Twitter app and wait for my feed to open. It's always a bad idea to spend time looking at Twitter, even on a normal day, but I'm not reading my mentions. I'm here to see if Bowie has shown any signs of being online since yesterday afternoon. If he's liked or tweeted or retweeted something, my irrational worry about him being at The Domino last night can stop. I would like one less thing to be anxious about.

I don't get past the search page, where my name is listed as the number one trending topic in Los Angeles. Number two is "17 dead." If it's possible for a heart that's already in a zillion pieces to shatter more, mine does.

Seventeen is five more than the police confirmed during the last press conference I watched in the early hours of the morning. That's seventeen innocent victims who didn't get to wake up this morning. Seventeen formerly living and breathing human beings who didn't also spend the night wide awake, remembering. Seventeen fans who didn't leave my concert alive.

Seventeen is one person dead for every year of my life.

The bitter taste of stomach acid and saliva overtakes my mouth. I struggle to push myself out of the tangle of sheets and my duvet, and I can't even make it out of my bedroom before I'm doubled over, heaving into a wastebasket in the corner. A low moan escapes me. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the jangle of queasiness and frayed nerves, but my stomach lurches again. Clutching the wastebasket in my hand to be safe, I race for the bathroom. This time I make it to the toilet.

After the gagging finally stops, I sink to the floor and curl my knees into my chest. Tears stream down my face before I can try to convince myself not to cry. I don't know how long I stay that way, with my arms wrapped around my legs and my forehead against my knees, my tears soaking into my pajama pants. All sense of time is lost between the moments I'm silently weeping and the ones when I'm a blubbering mess, shaking and sniffling until I'm forced to get up from the floor to find a tissue.

Once I'm on my feet again, I tie the top of the wastebasket trash bag into a knot, making a note to put the bag outside in a trash can later. I turn the bathroom fan on and crack the window open, then pick up the tissue box and carry it with me back to my bed. After slipping under the duvet, I make it into a cocoon of warmth around me. My body is still shaking, or maybe I'm shivering now. It's hard to tell the difference. I sob into my pillow until it, too, is soaked. My nose feels raw from blowing it, and I'm choking for air.

Breathe, I tell myself. I have to breathe. I focus on that one basic task of getting air in and out of my lungs. It should be simple, but nothing is easy right now. Every breath feels forced. I remind myself to inhale and then exhale again, mentally repeating this until my body stills.

When my breath is even once more, I reach for my phone to text Elton. He has always been the person who can find out anything I ask when it's related to one of my shows.

The girl and her mom who were supposed to have a meet and greet with me last night... do you know if they're okay?

I hit send, then wonder if I should send another text to ask how he's doing. I suspect it would be a lot like asking me how I'm doing today. Elton was there, and I'm thankful he was backstage when the bomb went off. He could have been watching my performance from somewhere else in the venue and not ended the night physically unharmed. If I asked, Elton would probably answer that he's doing okay. So would I, if he asked me. Both of us would know that's a lie.

Even so, I'm still debating sending another text to him a few minutes later when there's a tap at my closed bedroom door. The sound sends a jolt through me, and I feel like one of those cartoon people or animals who jumps straight up about ten feet in the air, even though I remain fully on my bed.

"Deni?" Mom asks. The door handle turns. I flip over on my side before she can see my tear-streaked face and swollen eyes.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Bowie is at the gate, asking if he can see you. I told him you might not be up for it right now, but I wanted to let you decide that."

At least I know he's alive. "You can let him in the gate. I just need a couple of minutes to wash my face."

"Okay. I'll tell him." She pauses, as if there's something else she wants to say. She must change her mind, because her footsteps retreat down the hall a moment later, and then back down the stairs.

I push the duvet off of me and sit up. I should be getting out of my bed, but instead I stay sitting for a minute or two, summoning the energy to do it. I remain there until the doorbell chimes and my dog, Alfie, goes ballistic. He's a tiny rescue Shorkie with a bark that could scare off anyone who doesn't know him. Listening to him lose his mind at the doorbell is the only comforting and normal thing that has happened since last night.

A low murmur of voices comes from downstairs, and Alfie stops barking. I hear Mom tell Bowie he can go upstairs. Now I know the world is upside-down. There have always been strict rules about where he and I can hang out in the house, and my bedroom has never been on the list of approved places. It was annoying at first, and I thought maybe Mom didn't trust my judgment, or that she feared I would give myself over to hormones and lust. Or something. But ever since Bowie started expressing his desire to take our relationship "deeper," as he puts it, I've appreciated her rules a lot more. I suspect these rules are also why he has wanted to spend less time at my house and more time at his, where rules and parental supervision barely exist.

I grab the first T-shirt, pair of shorts, and bra I can find, and take everything into the bathroom. Once the door is closed behind me, I splash some water on my face. It doesn't do much but wash the salt from my skin. My eyes are glassy and bloodshot, and my face is puffy, but there isn't much I can do about that. Even if I could, I wouldn't have the energy to.

I brush my teeth, then change out of my pajamas and into my clothes. A half-hearted swipe of a hairbrush against my tangled strands of hair is all I bother with before setting the brush on the counter and grabbing a hair tie. I pull my hair back into what passes for a messy ponytail. It's good enough, especially when I'd much rather still be in my pajamas, hiding under my duvet.

Bowie has already made himself at home in my bedroom by the time I emerge again. In his white T-shirt and black jeans, and with his tanned skin, he looks like he just stepped out of any one of his many photo shoots. I watch him for a few seconds, taking in how he's casually perched at the edge of my bed, typing on his phone and smiling at something. Whatever his attention is consumed by, I don't think he realizes I've come into the room.

"Hey." I fold my arms across my chest and stay standing at a distance from him. I don't bother asking where he was all night, or why he didn't check on me or answer my text message. Not yet. The single syllable is all I can muster for now.

Bowie sets his phone on my bed, screen-down, at the sound of my voice. He flicks a lock of hair away from his face and looks up at me. His gaze lands on my face. What might be alarm, or maybe concern, flashes in his eyes.

"Cay." He hesitates, looking as though he might say more, but then his mouth clamps shut.

"That's me," I reply, even though it sort of isn't. He never calls me Deni like everybody else I'm close with does.

Bowie shakes his head. "My God." He gets to his feet and takes a few steps toward me.

"What?" I ask. "I look like garbage, or like I haven't slept? Tell me something I don't already know."

"You could never look like garbage." He closes the remaining distance between us. I remain motionless and rooted in place, like a statue. "I'm just thankful you're okay."

He reaches his hand out and tucks a strand of hair that didn't make it into my ponytail behind my ear. His thumb strokes the side of my cheek, but I almost don't register him touching me. It's as though I'm here physically, only everything seems like it's happening at a distance. Maybe that's what no sleep does.

Or maybe that's what seeing a bomb explode and watching people die right in front of you does.

Bowie presses his mouth against my hair, then tilts his head down so his forehead is against mine. I put my arms around him and close my eyes, only wanting to hug him and be held. He holds me closer and kisses my eyebrow, and then the tip of my nose.

His lips brush against mine, but I don't respond. It takes him a few seconds to realize I'm not kissing him. When he does, he takes a step back. His gaze sweeps over me.

"What?" I demand.

Bowie starts to answer, but I'm distracted from what he says by his phone's text message alert. He was typing on his phone when I came into the room, but it didn't register with me until now that his phone is on and he's been receiving and also sending messages. He just hasn't been sending them to me.

"Your phone is on," I comment.

"Yeah?" He gives me a questioning look.

"Was it on last night when I sent you a text?"

"I was asleep when you sent that and my phone was off then." He peers into my eyes. His hazel irises appear bright, and the look he gives me seems innocent, but it's nearly impossible to tell with him sometimes. "Once I woke up and found out what happened, I came right over here. I had to see you to make sure you were all right."

He cups the side of my face in his palm, still watching me closely. I say nothing.

"Okay?" he asks.

I nod, not trusting my voice. I don't really know if it's okay, but I also don't want to argue with him about it right now.

My nod isn't enough to convince him. "I'll believe you if you kiss me." His palm is still cradling my face, and now his other hand slips under my T-shirt. It wanders upwards, caressing my bare skin. The sensation sends a shudder through me.

I step back from him and nudge both of his hands away. "It really isn't a good time for that."

"Wow. You're pissed at me." Bowie rakes his fingers through his hair. "Is this still about the other night?"

It takes everything I have in me to not roll my eyes. Of course this is what's on his mind, and not my current reality. The last time I saw him before this morning, we were at his house, watching TV. It started off okay with him kissing me, and it progressed to our usual level of making out. His parents were out that night, not that they ever check in on us when they're home.

Making out was only the start of Bowie's plans for us that evening. I knew he was being pretty intense and trying to take things further than usual, even though I kept pushing his hands and his head above my waist. When he produced a condom and took off his boxers, I realized we weren't on the same page. I told him I wasn't ready, and he cooled it and said he understood.

It's clear he hasn't stopped thinking about it, no matter what he said then. I should have known.

"Seventeen people died at my show last night." I try to keep my tone neutral and calm, but my voice catches. "I saw the explosion, and I saw my fans covered in blood and collapsed on the floor. Forgive me if kissing you or anything else isn't something I feel like doing today."

I shouldn't have to tell him this. Any human being with an ounce of sense or compassion would be here just to be here and be grateful it wasn't so much worse for either of us. He could have been at the show last night, after all. He was supposed to be there. I could have been closer to the explosion. My mom and Elton, my band, and Sawyer and Carter could have been wounded or killed. We're all incredibly lucky just to be alive.

For once in all the time I've known him, Bowie doesn't have a response. I don't have much more to say to him, either.

The doorbell chimes again, cutting through the silence in my bedroom. I use it as a reason to grab my phone and leave the room. Bowie follows me to the top of the stairs, where I stop.

Downstairs, Alfie is barking up a storm. I can't see the door from where Bowie and I are, or who's here. A male voice greets my mom, and then Mom tells whoever just greeted her that she'll get me.

"I should go," Bowie says. "I have rehearsal in a couple of hours."

"All right." I don't look at him.

Mom appears at the foot of the stairs. "Sorry to interrupt, guys. There are officers here who want to speak to Deni." If she senses the tension between Bowie and me, her expression doesn't let on.

"I'll talk to you after I'm done rehearsal." Bowie steps around me and escapes down the stairs. He glances up at me when he gets to the bottom step, and I can actually see the relief on his face.

"See ya." I raise my hand in a half-hearted wave. I won't be holding my breath about talking to him again tonight, or even tomorrow.