The house where Bowie lives with his parents and older brother is only two miles away from mine. Either one of us could have easily dropped by the other's home during the last couple of weeks to talk or check in, but we haven't. We both share the blame for that. The distance between us feels as though we're worlds apart, and what I'm about to confirm for Bowie won't do anything to bridge that gap.

Sawyer and I pull up to the iron gates separating the Nelson's driveway from the street. Like other houses in this area, tall hedges designed for maximum privacy border their yard. Attaining financial success can buy you a mansion in a beautiful neighborhood here, but when that prosperity is tied to fame or mega-millionaire status, freedom to live in it without intrusion often means hiding behind fortress walls.

A gate-access remote or keypad code are needed to get past the Nelson's front gate. Bowie gave me my own code a month after we started dating. Him not having to buzz me in means he doesn't have to stop what he's doing when I come over, which is usually playing video games or working on a song. He also once suggested I use the code to sneak in for a late-night hookup, even if he claimed to be kidding when I gave him a look.

After Sawyer's car comes to a complete stop, I open the passenger door and get out. My nerves and dislike of confrontation result in quivering limbs, something I try to keep under control as I walk around the car to the gate's keypad and punch in a series of numbers. The gate clicks, then inches open. I get back in the car. Sawyer waits until the gates have finished opening and then shifts the car out of park. We creep up the driveway.

Bowie's Maserati is in the driveway, and so is a blue Ferrari convertible I don't recognize. It appears he has company, something I didn't factor in when trying to pre-plan our conversation in my head on the drive over.

"Someone is here with him," I say. "It might not be a good time to talk."

"You won't know that until you see who's here," Sawyer points out. "Maybe his parents got a new car, or maybe Jackson did."

"His parents aren't the Ferrari type. Neither is Jackson, as far as I know." Bowie might be all flash and rock-star style, but his parents and brother are complete opposites. All three of them own hybrid crossovers, something Bowie ribs them about all the time. While Bowie is all about the celebrity life, Jackson is a studious brainiac who is set on being a neurosurgeon. He just finished his freshman year at Harvard and is home for the summer.

We exit the car and amble up to the front door, where I jab my finger at the doorbell before I change my mind. Faint echoes of the doorbell's chimes ringing inside the house carry outside to where Sawyer and I stand, waiting. There's no sign of life from inside after a couple of minutes pass.

"I don't think anyone's home." I'm seeking any excuse to escape now that we're here, and Sawyer knows it.

"Give it another minute." He tries ringing the doorbell this time. Footsteps approach the door from inside, and then the handle turns.

When I see Bowie, I can guess what took him so long. I don't know that he's drunk, exactly, but his glassy eyes and rumpled appearance are clues he isn't sober.

"Hey." He leans against the doorframe but doesn't invite us in. His gaze bounces from me to Sawyer and back to me again. "What are you doing here?"

I smell vodka on his breath. This is the worst-case scenario. Alcohol-influenced Bowie can be sharp-tongued, belligerent, and crude. He can also be loud, which means the best place for this conversation is in the house so there's no risk of paparazzi overhearing us.

"We're here to talk to you, or I am. Can we do this inside? Paps have been tailing us." I duck past him and enter the house.

"This isn't a good time." Bowie gets in front of me before I make it past the foyer. "Could we do this later, like maybe tonight?"

"Were you doing something other than drinking?" Sawyer asks. Bowie ignores him.

I'm tempted to use Bowie's resistance as an easy out, but if I don't talk to him now, he won't be hearing about the tour from me. If he gets the call from his manager or someone at the label first, he'll think I was trying to hide the news or lying to him by not coming clean after his text today. There will be no way to undo that damage.

"There's something you need to know, and I don't think it can wait."

Bowie rakes his fingers through his already-messy hair and shuffles from one foot to the other. Impatience or whatever he's exhibiting right now is out of character for him, but it could be the booze.

"All right," he concedes. "I can talk for a couple of minutes, and then can we catch up later? I can come to your place or something. I'm in the middle of something."

"It's about the tour."

This commands his attention. "Right. Did you post something like I asked you to? That rumor has been spreading all day."

My teeth graze the inside of my lip. It's a nervous habit I have when there's something uncomfortable I need to say. I force myself to look Bowie in the eyes.

"It isn't a rumor. I can't do the shows. Not right now."

Confusion registers on his face as he considers my words, then his eyes narrow. "What do you mean you can't do the shows? You have to do them."

I know Bowie well enough to recognize the anger brewing inside of him. It's everywhere in the stormy expression clouding his face. My heart races as I form an answer.

"I'm taking some time off. I can't be on stage right now, performing in front of crowds."

"Yes, you can. We both signed on to this tour, and you can't back out on it. There's a contract." He stares me down, a cold glint in his eyes.

"I'm already off the tour. It's done, and I'm sorry."

I don't know why I'm apologizing. I shouldn't have to be sorry for being human and needing time to heal. Judging by the set of Bowie's jaw and how his entire body tenses up, he doesn't agree.

"Do realize what you're doing? You may not care about your career, but have you thought about anyone other than yourself?" He takes a step closer to me, and I back away on instinct.

"Yes, I have."

"That's a lie. I don't think you have, or else you wouldn't be trying to sabotage ticket sales and my career like this. Or your friend's career." He gestures to Sawyer. "He's on that tour, too." Bowie moves in closer again.

Sawyer steps in front of me. "She's not sabotaging anyone's career. People will still be at the shows, and they'll still buy your music and merch. It's fine."

I open my mouth to speak, but I pause when I hear a cough. It sounds distinctly female, and like it's coming from Bowie's bedroom. Bowie also heard the cough, judging by how he freezes in place.

If I ask him about what we all just heard, odds are he'll make something up to save face or deny there was any noise at all. Instead, I say nothing and make a break for his bedroom to see what's going on for myself.

Bowie chases after me. "What are you doing?"

"I think I left my sweater here the last time I was over," I lie. "I'm getting it, and then I'll go."

He catches up to me and grabs my shoulder, bringing me to a halt. "I'll get it for you. What does it look like?"

I shake his hand off of me. "Why don't you want me to go in there?"

Bowie doesn't answer. He manages to get between me and his bedroom door just as Sawyer catches up to us.

"Bo, who's here? I thought you said your family went to Tahoe?" The female voice coming from Bowie's bedroom is muffled.

"Yeah, Bo," I say, mimicking what I just heard. "Who's here?" Except I know. I've seen Portia Garnet on TV enough to recognize her voice.

There's a rustling noise, then the door opens to reveal Portia, the embodiment of someone who has just tried to put herself together after a make-out session or something more. She might have run a brush through her hair, but the flush in her cheeks and her swollen, been-kissing-the-day-away lips give everything away. So does the fact that she's wearing one of Bowie's button-down shirts as a dress, under which she clearly isn't wearing a bra.

"What's going on?" she asks Bowie, completely ignoring Sawyer and me.

I could ask the same thing, but I don't. Not when my eyes land on an open condom wrapper littering Bowie's bedroom floor. The bra Portia isn't wearing is right beside it.

All I can do for a moment or two is stare at Bowie and search for a trace of the person I used to know. The guy who stands in front of me seems nothing like the one who stumbled over his words when he asked me out, or who showed up at my front door with flowers for me and for my mom on the afternoon of our first date. He isn't the guy who took me to his favorite hidden spot at the top of the Hollywood Hills with a picnic lunch and a cheesy board game, nor does he resemble the Bowie who rented out an entire arcade for our one-month anniversary so we could play skee-ball and whack-a-mole without interruption.

"Don't look at me like that," Bowie mutters. "It's not as if we've been together lately, or like you even wanted to be. You made that clear."

"You could have had the decency to tell me we were broken up before you went and slept with someone else," I tell him, my tone flat. I'm proud of myself for keeping it together right now.

"You could have had the decency to not wreck the tour or take a swipe at my success," he fires back. The look on his face is defiant, entitled, and unquestionably pissed off.

"This isn't about you!" I explode. So much for staying in control. "You can't possibly think I broke a major contract and dropped out of a tour just to take a hit at your career."

"Right, I forgot. Everything revolves around poor little you and your never-ending tragedy. Get over yourself. I have."

I've never been a violent person, but my arm snaps back and my hand readies itself to take aim at Bowie's jaw. Sawyer grabs hold of my arm before I can do something stupid that I'll instantly regret.

"I think it's time for us to go," Sawyer says. One look at him tells me not to argue. His temper has a slow fuse, but the way he glares at Bowie and the color creeping into his neck and cheeks are signs he's reached his limit. Sawyer would never try to make a decision for me, but I know him well enough to hear the thoughts running through his mind. End it and leave now. You deserve better than this.

"You weren't there," I seethe at Bowie. I won't let him have the last word this time. "You think you know all about it from watching a few news clips, but you don't know what it's like to see kids our age die right in front of you, all because they were there for your show. You don't get to tell me how to feel."

"God, you're dramatic." Portia rolls her eyes at me and sidles up next to Bowie, slipping an arm around his waist. "Can you make her leave? She's killing the mood."

She turns her head away from me and presses her lips against Bowie's collarbone, and then his neck. I don't wait to see how he responds or what she does next.

Sawyer is right behind me as I storm away from the two of them, heading for the front door. I don't stop until I'm in the driveway, my entire body trembling from a depth of fury, hurt, and embarrassment I never imagined possible.