Page 105 of If the World Was Ending

Brendan

Do I sign it with your full name or just Hunter?

Don’t sign it with anything.

When Hunter got off the plane in Croatia, there was a text message waiting. It was from Briar, and it was a picture of Colby sitting at a kitchen table chowing down on a burrito with the biggest smile on his face. Behind him were a bunch of gift bags and flowers and shit that everyone from the label to fucking Ford to whoever else had sent him, but he only had eyes for the burrito. And then Briar wrote: He would thank you himself, but he’s busy making love to your burrito.

If only, Hunter thought and stared out at the foreign scenery as his driver took him to whatever hotel he would call home for the next couple of months.

Six weeks. That’s how long they were in Croatia, and it was absolutely, positively the worst on-set experience he’d ever had. The Byrne brothers were toxic douchebags. They fought constantly—verbally and physically—and they acted like they were doing Hunter a favor by working with him. Their unrelenting condescension and belittling glances had made Hunter begin to think that maybe they were. Was he good enough to be in this? He was struggling with the character. He wanted to bring so much depth to it, and he tried, but the director had told him more than once to “dial it back.” He was miserable and lonely and hated it.

They moved on to Spain to film for the last ten days. They were filming scenes from the beginning of the movie, and it only involved one Byrne brother, so at least there wouldn’t be as much fighting. Andi, the director, had hired a counselor and a bouncer to deal with their bullshit. She was trying. Hunter wanted to like her, but he was too caught up in his head with how she didn’t seem to like him. Or rather, his acting.

He had been turtling, as his mother called it. He’d been doing that since elementary school. When he was unhappy or riddled with anxiety, he pulled away from everyone and everything, spending all the time he could alone. His mother had pointed it out on one of their video calls when she’d asked if he’d gone to the Guggenheim museum or seen any of the other sights in Bilbao and he’d said no. She gently pushed him to go out and do something. “Life is better with fresh air and life around you, honey. That’s why I got Manuel.”

Manuel was a blue-eyed, tuxedo cat that his mom had adopted from the SPCA right after Christmas. She adored the thing. His dad kept sending him videos of her cuddling it and feeding it bacon off her breakfast plate. He said she had bought a harness and a leash and was planning to take it for walks when the weather got better. Hunter was baffled but amused. Maybe his mother needed to come to Spain and drag him outside on his days off.

On one of those days off, Hunter was lying on his rumpled hotel bed, a bowl of fruit salad from room service balanced on his bare chest as he picked at it, and doomscrolling Instagram with the volume off. His blinds were closed, and the room was full of stale air because he hadn’t opened the window in… days. Suddenly Colby’s face filled his screen. He was on stage singing, smiling, and laughing. It was a fan video from a concert, and Hunter immediately turned the volume up. He caught the last few chords of “Uncomplicated Ending,” and then Colby looked out at everyone screaming in front of him and said, “Te quiero Madrid. Sigue siendo guapa. Buenas noches.”

His Spanish was flawless, his dimple was on display, and… Hunter sat up. Berries and mango slices tumbled out of the bowl and onto his sheets. Madrid? Colby was in Spain? He checked the date on the video. It was two days ago. Fuck. His fingers flew over his phone screen as he googled Tidal tour dates. He knew Colby was on tour, but he’d purposely ignored where because he was trying to ignore everything about Colby.

The Tidal tour dates filled his screen. Yes, they were in Spain. And tonight… they were in a place called San Sebastián. Which was… a little over two hours away. His eyes flew to the time. It was only noon. He had the entire day off and didn’t have to be on set tomorrow until late afternoon. Hunter chewed his bottom lip. His gaze rose, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. He looked like shit. Maybe some outside time would do him good. And San Sebastián was on the coast. Ocean air was therapeutic, right?

But he didn’t have a ticket, and of course the venue was sold out when he googled it. But… he was Hunter Law. He had connections. Despite the anxiety swirling in his chest, he quickly dialed Lorne. They bickered for a hot second because, for some reason, Lorne didn’t want to pull strings to get him a ticket. He kept asking him why he wanted to go.

“Because I like the band and I’m bored as fuck and trying to get my mind off the fact that this movie is a toxic work environment,” Hunter snapped, fed up with Lorne’s third degree.

“The media will make something of it if you’re seen with that singer,” Lorne said in a tone that dripped with exhaustion and condescension. Like he couldn’t believe he had to make that clear to Hunter. “They’re still digging up pictures from your past roommate adventures and splashing them online.”

“Yeah. So. Kevin Hart and Jason Segel used to be roommates,” Hunter said, throwing out what the photographer told him at that Marmont party. “And Lee Pace and Matt Bomer.”

“Not the best example. They’re both gay.”

“So?” Hunter’s hands fisted in his lap.

“So you want to be associated with two gay guys? Both of whom would never get superhero roles that pay millions because?—”

“If you finish that sentence, I may have to fire you.” Hunter didn’t even register what came out of his own mouth for a second. The line went deathly silent, and his words settled over both him and Lorne. “If you’re a homophobe, Lorne, I have to terminate this because I’m bisexual and won’t be giving any percentage of my paycheck to a bigot.”

Holy shit. He said the quiet part out loud.

“I’m not a fucking homophobe, Hunter,” Lorne replied swiftly. His tone was even and not at all defensive. “And me stating the facts of the industry doesn’t make me a bigot. The industry is the villain here. Ignoring that won’t make it go away. You’re not going to see a gay man as James Bond or Superman or anything else because the industry won’t allow it. So you being bi is fine if it stays personal. Because the studio will blackball you so fast if you come out now after they’ve hung a whole new manly superhero franchise around your neck.”

Hunter’s jaw was clenched so hard it ached.

“And before you say bi men or gay men can be manly, I fucking know. I do. I don’t make the rules. I don’t even enforce them. I just tell you about them.” Lorne sighed. “So I’ll get you a ticket, but when you’re there, know that if you’re photographed with him, it will keep spurring the bromance bullshit, and that’s a slippery slope for the people that pay you.”

“Yeah, if I were going to hang out with Colby, I would ask him for the ticket, Lorne,” Hunter replied. “I know how this works.”

“I can get you two tickets. You could invite someone from set. A makeup artist or like, what about the girl who plays the sister of the evil overlord?” Lorne asked. “I forget her name, but she’s repped by my colleague, and she’s hot and single.”

“No.”

“You said bi, right?”

“Yeah. Still no.”

“Okay. I’ll get on securing the one ticket,” Lorne replied dutifully. “Enjoy your day off.”