Page 55 of If the World Was Ending

“I… I was flying somewhere else. Was gonna come back Saturday.” Hunter asked. “I can fly directly from Boston to Atlanta on Saturday. Will that work?”

“No.” Margo exhaled so loudly it sounded like static on the line. “Hunter, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Hunter closed his eyes and sank down onto the bed next to his open, half-packed suitcase. Margo knew he had anxiety because he once bailed on an audition because of a panic attack early on in their professional relationship. She stuck with him, and he appreciated it. “Colby bought me a ticket to go see him on tour.”

“Can you move it? Fuck, I’ll pay the change fee.”

“No changes, no refunds,” Hunter replied.

“Fucking airlines,” Margo said. “Hunter, you can’t push on this. I’m sorry, but you must understand.”

“Yeah. I do. I know. I just… fuck.”

“Sorry, kiddo. Truly. I know you miss your friend, but this is the dream, right? A few months ago, you would have killed for this problem,” Margo said, and Hunter knew she was right.

“I gotta go. Have to repack for this instead and call Colby.” Hunter muttered and tried to swallow down the sadness. Margo was right, these were problems he’d have welcomed months ago.

“I’ll email your ticket info.”

Margo hung up, and Hunter swallowed down his bitter disappointment and tried calling Colby. When he didn’t answer, Hunter Venmo’d Colby the cost of the ticket and sent a text.

Hunter: They need me in Atlanta early. Tomorrow. Can’t make Boston. I’m so fucking sorry. I paid you back. Maybe another time?

And then, for some stupid reason, Hunter dropped back on the mattress and cried.

Chapter 18

You can have it all

“It was a great set, Colby,” Ford reassured him.

“Yeah. I know.” Colby muttered and then tried to shoot him a smile. It probably looked like a grimace. It felt like one. “Thanks.”

“What is it? Why are you all… emo?”

Colby frowned. “Why do you use terminology from eighteen-forty-two?” He countered and realized that was exceptionally bitchy, especially for him. Colby didn’t do bitchy. “Sorry. I’m just tired. I miss home.”

“Home?” Ford scoffed, and he fiddled with the plastic lid on his bottle of water and relaxed on the small couch in Colby’s hotel room. “You miss stocking shelves at Trader Joe’s? You miss that rundown shit hole in the gayborhood? You were sleeping on a couch, Colby.”

“It’s the best home I’ve had since leaving my parents’,” Colby admitted and really wished Ford would go back to his own hotel room. Why the fuck was he even here? “And don’t call West Hollywood the gayborhood. It sounds weirdly condescending and homophobic.”

“I didn’t invent it,” Ford argued. “It’s a known nickname. Said with love.”

“It’s one of the safest neighborhoods in LA,” Colby argued back for some stupid reason. “And rent controlled. And yeah, I miss it. I miss my friends.”

Ford didn’t respond. He just watched Colby walk around the room, expelling the pent-up post-show energy he had been planning on expelling with Hunter. They would’ve gone out to get food and maybe walked by the river on the way back to the hotel. They would have caught up in person, which felt necessary even though they talked and texted all the time. And then… like maybe… they could have done other stuff.

Colby wasn’t planning on it, but he was hoping for it. Desperately.

“Well tour’s over in less than two weeks, and then you can head back to Los Angeles and that… safe rent-controlled place and see your friends,” Ford replies. “Or get a new place and better friends. Because your album has a substantial pre-order, and the number has been bumped up even higher since the studio decided to pre-release the single. When it drops next month, you’re gonna be making decent bank.”

That did lighten Colby’s dark mood. A little. He wondered if Hunter would want to get a better place with him. He’d always wanted something in Laurel Canyon. He definitely couldn’t buy there yet, but maybe they could rent something. Lots of those places have guest houses nowadays. And he remembered once seeing a small seventies bungalow tucked into the side of the hill with a for rent sign. He’d called at the time, for shits and giggles, and they wanted three grand a month. He couldn’t swing that then, but with Hunter they should be able to swing that now.

Colby finally sat on the side of the bed and opened his stupid Instagram. He immediately went to Hunter’s profile. There was a new picture. He was sitting in a leather first-class seat on a plane, sunglasses on and a Montreal Expos baseball hat low on his forehead. The caption said: Am I doing this right? It would have been from his flight last night, the one he took instead of coming to Boston. Colby understood why, but he was still salty at the universe for cockblocking him.

Ford got up to throw out his empty water bottle and glanced over. “That Hunter? Flying first class? To where?”

“Atlanta. He booked a rom com called Staycation.” Colby let his forefinger slide across the screen, along Hunter’s jaw.