Page 88 of If the World Was Ending

The last text Hunter had gotten was a week after his movie premiere. Hunter was back in Montreal waiting for his mom to come out of a chemo treatment.

Colby

I have autopay set up for the rent. It transfers to you first of every month since they take it from your account.

I can pay my half now and pay you back the months you covered.

Colby

We can deal with that back rent later. If you want to pay half now then fine.

Cool. How are things?

Colby

Fine. Hope your mom is doing okay.

Hunter had sent a thumbs up and that was that.

When the buzz around the movie was completely out of control, and he spent most of his days locked in the guest bedroom at his mom’s doing Zoom interviews and fielding calls from Margo, his parents had sat him down and demanded he go back to LA. “You worked so hard for this, and I won’t be the reason you miss out on the opportunities,” Catherine had told him. “I would actually sleep better knowing you’re working rather than skipping out on stuff to take me to chemo when your dad can do it anyway.”

So Hunter had gotten on a plane, about three weeks after that Los Angeles premiere and the stupid tequila kiss with Mikayla, and stepped into his ratty, old, beloved apartment. He knew instantly Colby didn’t live there anymore. His clothes weren’t stacked in the corner by the sofa. His guitar was gone. The sheets were washed and folded neatly on the bed. So Hunter sat on the couch and spent an hour drafting text after text to Colby, only to delete them before he hit send. What was the point of reaching out? How would it fix anything? Right now, they were friends, technically on paper, and maybe that’s the only way they could be friends.

If Hunter was alone with Colby right now he would spill his guts—ramble endlessly about how crazy it was that everything was changing so fast and about how guilty he felt leaving his mom, and Colby would tell him all the success and problems with his life and they would laugh and maybe cry and definitely touch and Hunter would cross lines—all the lines—because he still wanted to, more than anything. And that could not happen. So he didn’t send a single text. He unpacked, showered, ordered food, and got on with his life.

A resurgence of press for the movie had kept him busy enough that he didn’t mope. And Hunter tried hard to stay focused on his blessings. He was living his actual dream, in part because he’d walked away from his little fling with Colby. He did follow Colby’s career, which seemed to be moving at a pace that rivaled his own, and he was happy for him. Truly.

Hunter blinked and realized he’d been sitting in the driveway of his house for at least five minutes. Fuck. He needed to get a grip. He got out of his car and slowly walked toward the front porch. He was renting a house in Spaulding Square—a cute, flat area of West Hollywood that had a bunch of adorable craftsman cottages that used to house Hollywood starlets in the forties. He’d been in it for about a month, but the place was still mostly devoid of furniture except his bedroom, which had all new stuff he’d bought at a fancy store in the Valley.

Hunter took a shower, then made an iced latte with his fancy, expensive coffee machine that would make Starbucks jealous and FaceTimed his parents. His mother cried when she found out his salary for the superhero movie. She was so relieved. His dad had a puffed-up chest and an air of awe as he rubbed Catherine’s back. And when Catherine composed herself, she told her son it was time to get a good, reliable accountant because she was nothing if not pragmatic. After catching up with them, he took a power nap, which sucked because he dreamed of Colby and woke up horny and agitated. He jerked off and cleaned up, and then his stylist and groomer were knocking on the front door.

They set up in the bedroom as Hunter internally battled one of his anxiety attacks. But it wasn’t a bad one. The new meds he was on really helped keep them under control. As he got his hair done and listened to Knightley complain about LA traffic while he steamed the vintage Armani outfit, Hunter tried to think of all the ways he could recover from anything and everything that could go wrong tonight. Tripping in front of the cameras, tearing his outfit in an inappropriate place, saying something stupid to someone important. Running into Hannah Wolfe again. Running into Colby.

Chapter 28

There was nowhere to go

Colby got out of the tinted SUV and thanked the driver, who had gotten out to open his door. Cameras started flashing immediately. A bunch of photographers and fans called his name. He wasn’t in a mood to stop, but he did because he promised himself a million years ago, daydreaming in his van, that he would never be that asshole who didn’t give people the time of day. So he moved quickly to the group of fans and, ignoring the bouncers who shot him a look that said thanks for making us work harder, he signed a bunch of stuff that people shoved at him and posed for a few selfies.

Then he moved on to the paparazzi line. He posed one way, then the other, and ignored the “over here!” and “just one more!” and “Colby, smile this way!” and headed into the Chateau. The lobby always made him feel important. It was Spanish tiles and old dark wood with plastered walls, and it just screamed secrets and power. He’d never even been able to get past the gatekeeper at the door of this place until Tidal’s album hit number one, and now she smiled and welcomed him in by name any day of the week, not just during events.

The place was packed, and everyone looked like someone, because even if Colby didn’t recognize them, he knew they were someone. An actor, a musician, a director, a producer, an agent, a model. Someone. And the part that always took his breath away was that these people looked at him like he was someone too. It was nuts. He’d shot to this status blindingly, unbelievably fast. It was a Cinderella story just like what was happening to Hunter right now…

He pushed thoughts of Hunter out of his mind but couldn’t ignore the flutter in his gut at the thought that he would probably see him tonight. Hannah had texted Colby earlier while she ate lunch with her manager. Colby had been on the fence about attending this event. Trevor was bailing on it, Kenner was going, but only to make his ex jealous because he was supposed to be here. Colby had a new song bouncing around in his brain that he wanted to work on, but with Trevor staying home, he likely wouldn’t get the peace he needed to work on it. And Kenner wanted a wingman for moral support. When Hannah said she ran into Hunter, Colby immediately booked Bailey to do his grooming and his usual stylist, Anthony, to find something for him to wear last minute.

And now here he was, playing with the collar of his shirt absently, making sure the neck was open and hanging the way Anthony had placed it before he left the house. Trevor, who had been drinking beers in the living room watching Colby get ready, had said he looked “fruity.” Colby had ignored him because he loved the clothes Anthony found for him. Living with Trev was not a dream by any means, but because they combined their incomes, they were able to afford a house tucked into one of the winding streets across from the Laurel Canyon general store.

It was an ugly house, built in the late seventies with no charm and no land other than a short, stout patio with broken terracotta tiles that faced the neighbor’s fence. But the rooms were a decent size, and it was the Canyon, Colby’s dream. In a year or so, he’d have enough money to get his own place in the Canyon, and he would take more care picking that. Trevor was at least fairly clean. The only thing he left lying around the common spaces was beer and tequila bottles, which Colby could easily pick up. He never cooked; he slept most of the day when they weren’t doing band stuff, and yeah, he brought home random women, but he was also too drunk or unconscious most of the time to notice who Colby brought home. And who he didn’t.

Colby found Kenner on the terrace, holding a gin and tonic with a hefty wedge of lime. He walked over to him, and they hugged. He smelled good. He looked great. He kissed Colby’s cheek, softly, subtly, as he pulled away and Colby smiled. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah. Well.” Kenner laughed, and his smooth, dark skin took on a pink tint. They had seen each other last night. All night. Kenner had snuck out of the house at five o’clock this morning.

“Is he here?” Colby decided to get right to the point.

Kenner’s ex was an agent, high up in one of the biggest talent firms in town. He was fifteen years older than Kenner and had been Kenner’s first and only acting agent when he moved to LA at eighteen. He had love-bombed the shit out of Kenner, played endless mind games, seduced him, and then broke his heart and dusted his career by dumping him as an agent and a boyfriend. A total scumbag.

Kenner had confessed all this to Colby only a month ago. They’d smoked a joint after a late night of jamming and trying to write new music together at Kenner’s funky, loft-style apartment in Studio City. They’d started really talking for the first time since forming the band. Sharing deeply personal details about their lives. Colby told Kenner about Hunter, without giving his name away. Kenner told Colby about the agent, completely willing to give his name away.