Page 106 of If the World Was Ending

At 8:30 that evening, Hunter parked his rental car in an underground lot just off a pristine, half-moon beach with pale sand and gently lapping waves that glinted in hues of pink and gold as the sun set in the distance. The sky was also the color of cotton candy, and for the first time since this movie started filming, he relaxed. He was in a plain black T-shirt and black joggers with plain white New Balance running shoes. There was a black Vintage Montreal Expos baseball cap pulled low and tight on his head, and he had on sunglasses he would have to take off when the sun disappeared, but he was hoping that if he avoided eye contact, no one would recognize him.

He watched the sunset, resting his elbows on a white railing on the boardwalk above the beach, and heaved in long, deep breaths of warm, salty air. He daydreamed ridiculous daydreams like him and Colby on a beach somewhere, alone together, warm and tanned and making out. Unworried and unrushed. Holding hands while walking on a shoreline. Bobbing in the ocean, touching and teasing each other under the water as they dodged waves. God, he longed for that, and it was such a futile waste of energy. He swallowed down the stupid visions and pulled up Google Maps for walking directions to the venue. The show started in forty-five minutes.

No one bothered him as he walked to the concert, although one teen girl did a double take. The town, he’d figured out from some googling before he left Bilbao, was a tourist mecca in the summer with perfect beaches and a lively bar and food scene. It also hosted great music at its big concert hall on the water. Everything from jazz festivals to pop concerts to Tidal. Hunter grabbed a beer at a terrace across the street, then waited until the opening act had started and the lines of concertgoers had dwindled to enter.

His seat was in a mid-level suite to the left of the stage. It was a VIP ticket, and the other people sitting around him recognized him immediately but were Spanish elite—millionaires and pop stars and actors—and not interested in selfies or fawning over him. He got a beer from the private bar in their suite, but as soon as Tidal took the stage, it was forgotten and grew warm in his hand. Hunter was too busy drinking in every move Colby made, his ears basking in Colby’s beautiful voice and gripping lyrics. He looked every bit the rock star Hunter always knew he would become. It was nice. Painful for some reason, but also fucking satisfying. At one point, Trevor started playing the wrong song, and Colby handled it with humor and had the crowd laughing. Midway through the set, Kenner and Trevor headed off stage, and Colby pulled out an acoustic guitar and a stool and saddled up to a microphone. He played and sang “Not Meant to Be Me,” his Oscar-nominated song, and the audience was enthralled, and so was Hunter. Hannah wasn’t there to duet, but her backing vocals were played through the speakers, and Colby easily sang both parts. He really hoped Colby took his advice for the Oscar performance because Hunter knew even before seeing this that the most incredible version of Colby Keaton was the raw, authentic one.

After the show, Hunter threw on his sunglasses even though it was almost midnight, and he stood in line like every other fan and bought a concert tee. As he walked back to the car, he switched T-shirts. No one blinked when his torso was exposed since it was a beach area and people were night swimming. As he drove back to Bilbao, he absently ran his fingers over the logo and sang along to his Tidal playlist on his phone, streaming through the car speakers. This was worth it. The endless aching for Colby eased just a little bit. Because he belonged on that stage. He deserved all the success, and Hunter wouldn’t be the one to take an ounce of it away.

Chapter 35

Friend might be an overstatement

I’ll play it cool. I’ll be chill. I can be happy for a friend. I know how to do that without being a fucking weirdo. Those were all the words Hunter had running through his head, on repeat, as he got ready in the hotel room with Briar and Knightley fussing over him and Mikayla texting him constantly. Despite being in the business for a decade, this was also her first time at the Oscars. They were presenting Best Adapted Screenplay together. Later this week, the sequel would be announced since they finally all came to terms with the cash aspect. Her people were holding out for the same amount the streamer had offered Hunter, which was fair. But for some stupid misogynistic reason, they weren’t willing to give it to her. So Hunter told Lorne he wouldn’t sign either and countered with a lower number, but only if the money he was refusing went to Mikayla’s paycheck, so they made the exact same amount.

Lorne thought Hunter was an idiot and said he felt like a fool negotiating it, but Hunter didn’t back down. The powers that be were also unimpressed and said it made them look bad, so they would only do it if Hunter signed an NDA about the negotiations. He did, and so the sequel to Platonic Planet would start shooting three weeks after Hunter got back from his superhero movie. They had the script already, and Hunter knew it was even better than the first. It was a fucking masterpiece, and he would act the living hell out of it.

He was happy. Everything was great. His career was non-stop, big-ticket; he literally couldn’t go to the grocery store without twenty people asking for selfies. Hunter had “made it.” So yeah, he could handle watching Colby potentially win an Oscar for best song with his former fake girlfriend right in front of Hunter and respond with the same level of mediocre jubilation one would expect from a long-lost former roommate. He could. He would. He hoped.

“My work here is done,” Knightley announced as his eyes swept over Hunter, who was in jet-black tuxedo pants, a black silk dress shirt with no tie, and a vintage designer tuxedo jacket with jet-black silk lapels while the rest of the jacket was crushed burnt orange velvet. Louis Vuitton jewelry had lent him earrings, a short, simple chain necklace, and a watch. The total of the items was over a million dollars. Knightley snapped a picture. “Honey, you are going to break the internet tonight. The red carpet is going to go up in flames.”

Hunter smiled. He felt good. Balanced. Chill. Excited but not stressed.

Knightley went over to the bed in this obscenely expensive Beverly Wilshire hotel room and started collecting the extra accessories he’d brought, storing them in his carrying case.

“Okay sugar tits.” Briar admired her work on his hair, which had been cut shorter than he’d had it in years for the superhero movie. It was so fucking close to done Hunter could taste it and he couldn’t wait. The movie had been delayed by one week. The official story was that norovirus swept the crew. The truth was one Byrne brother had round-house kicked the other brother in the teeth, and expensive emergency dentistry was being performed at this very minute. Fuck, those men were train wrecks—and entitled pricks. They also dropped slurs on the regular and rarely came to set prepared. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. He had to fly back to Croatia tomorrow at noon, and then he’d be free of the toxic twins and the project and could concentrate on working with Mikayla and Eugenie and Chris again.

“I think you’re golden too,” Briar announced, bringing him back to the moment. Her eyes swept over his face one last time, examining the minimal makeup she’d applied, which included a no-shine tinted moisturizer, some setting spray, and a lip moisturizer, which thankfully wasn’t noticeable but made his lips feel hydrated and look soft. “I’m off to style a potential Oscar winner.”

Hunter frowned. “You didn’t need to tell me that.”

Briar winked. “You know I did. Anything you want to say to your buddy and pal about his big moment?”

“Tell him good luck, I guess.” Hunter shrugged. Briar didn’t hide her disappointment. Knightley gave him a quick hug and kissed Briar’s cheek before wordlessly leaving the room.

“Don’t stress fuck your hair. I’m only two floors up, but I won’t have time to come back down,” Briar said, pointing at him like an overly strict mother. “Two floors up in room twenty-thirty. It’s a suite, and he’s staying there overnight.”

Hunter glared. “Goodbye, Briar.”

“Goodbye, conflicted little bi-boy.” Briar kissed his cheek, then made sure it didn’t leave a mark. “Have fun tonight. This is what dreams are made of. Literally.”

“Getting an Oscar, not presenting one, is a dream come true.”

Briar nodded in agreement. “That’s next.”

Hunter wanted to believe that, but it seemed impossible. The superhero movie would not get him an Oscar. And as much as he loved Platonic Planet, and the world loved it, he didn’t see it getting that level of professional praise. The first one hadn’t, why would the sequel? But still… he had a long career ahead of him, thankfully, so maybe one day.

Two hours later, he was parched and a little sweatier than he’d have liked. Red carpets this long and this crowded were filled with lights that made him feel like he was melting. The crushed velvet jacket was a mistake. He shrugged out of it at the very end of the carpet, after his last interview, and accepted a bottle of water from Lorne, who was there to manage not just Hunter but two of his other clients. They were still calling Hunter’s name even though he’d left the carpet.

“That jacket needs to go back on,” Lorne told him, his eyes sweeping over Hunter’s bare arms because the silk shirt underneath was sleeveless.

“Yeah, just let me have a second,” Hunter muttered. “I’m gonna pass out.”

A nominated actress in a spectacular blush colored ballgown walked by and smiled nervously at Hunter, and he smiled back. Lorne took the water bottle as more people shuffled by, some pausing like Hunter had done. Other names were being shouted now, the press having given up on him. And as he shrugged back into his jacket, he felt his phone buzz in the pocket. He started to pull it out, and Lorne pressed his fingers to his wrist, gently guiding his hand away from the pocket. “We don’t answer phones tonight. There are cameras everywhere, and it makes you look like an entitled dick.”

“It might be my parents.”

Lorne’s expression got even more annoyed. “You just spent a week with them. You can take one night off. This is work.”