24. What’s JBF hair?
What’s JBF hair?
Colby woke up to a dead phone and a vicious hangover.
His brain felt two sizes too big for his skull and like it was made of cotton.
His mouth was drier than a desert, and the entire room smelled like vomit.
When he dragged himself out of bed to take a much overdue piss, he realized why that was.
He had forgotten to flush the toilet after he puked.
And discovering that had him bent over the bowl puking again.
Once he was done bringing up whatever was left in his stomach and pissing, he flushed the damn toilet and collapsed on the tile, closing his eyes and replaying what he could remember of the night before.
He had been so destroyed over the fight, or whatever it was, with Hunter, and if that wasn’t enough, he’d gotten a call from an unknown number. He hadn’t wanted to answer it, but he did because of the absurd hope that maybe, for some reason, it was Hunter. It was Atlas, his piece of shit brother.
“Don’t hang up!” He’d pleaded immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.”
“I don’t care.” Colby had said. Cursing his mom silently because he knew that’s how Atlas must have gotten his number. “And this—you—is the last thing I fucking need right now.”
“I would leave you alone if I could, but I’m getting married, Colb, and you haven’t RSVP’d.” Atlas’s voice had been raw, tortured, and Colby hadn’t felt the joy from it that he thought he would. “You’re supposed to be a groomsman, so please. Just come.”
“No.”
“Fuck, Colby. Come on.”
“I’m in Canada on tour.”
“Yeah, I know, but not in a month, which is when this happens,” Atlas had replied. And then he’d sighed. “Gina is already asking questions. If you don’t show up, what the fuck am I supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her why I’m mad at you. I’m sure she’ll understand my absence.”
“Colby.”
“Atlas.” Colby had pressed his fingers into his forehead in a desperate attempt to massage away the thumping in his skull.
“Look, there’s no fixing this, Atlas. Go get married, hide in the back of the deepest closet you can, and drag this poor girl in with you.
I won’t stop you, but don’t pretend you care about me and what you did to me.
If you gave a fuck about it, you’d have apologized and checked in on me long before you needed something. ”
“I was hoping Dad would get the fuck over it,” Atlas had replied. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I know that.”
“I thought Dad would adjust.”
“And let’s pretend he can get over being a homophobic prick and Dad suddenly accepts one of his sons likes to watch dudes fuck,” Colby had said, too furious to be even the slightest bit polite.
“Then you what? Turn around and tell him: surprise! I was actually watching the footage for myself. It wasn’t Colby. All good?”
“It was you. I was surfing links you’d saved.”
“Because YOU wanted to! Because YOU’RE GAY!”
“I’m bi, so fuck off,” Atlas had snapped.
“And you get to decide not to tell people that. I don’t get to decide anything because you fucking did it for me,” Colby had yelled.
He’d stopped and swallowed, his throat raw.
Then started to worry he’d get a fucking noise complaint.
He’d purposely lowered his voice. “I’ll never forgive you.
I’m not coming to your fucking bullshit wedding. ”
Then Colby had hung up, with shaking fingers, and he’d blocked his brother’s number.
The night took an ungraceful swan dive from there.
He’d ordered a bottle of Jack Daniel's from room service because VIP guests could do that at hotels like this, he’d learned through Ford, and proceeded to get drunk.
When Trevor had knocked on his door to see if he wanted to grab dinner, Colby had convinced him to smoke a blunt, and then Trevor let him raid his minibar.
Then he messaged Hunter for what he thought would be the very last time, telling him he would move out.
Finally, cutting off Atlas had somehow made him want to burn everything to the ground.
Colby told himself Hunter was better off without him.
He had his own career to focus on. Besides, how do you go back to being just buddies with a guy whose dick you’ve sucked?
No, they needed to walk away from each other.
He would do whatever it took to be successful, prove his family wrong—he was good enough and worthy—and he would find his people.
He had wanted Hunter to be one of those people, but maybe he just couldn’t be.
Because Colby wasn’t allowed to have it all. That wouldn’t be fair.
And then… Colby’s brain pulled the rest of the night together… His phone rang again. And it was… Hunter? Yeah. Hunter called him back. On video. And he was… having a panic attack? Colby opened his eyes as the memory came into focus. He stared at the pristine white hotel bathroom ceiling.
Hunter’s mom… Shit. Colby hauled himself to a sitting position.
He started to crawl toward the bed and his phone, then he stood up and stumbled there.
He plugged in his phone and reached for the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.
Hunter had watched Colby puke, got him to drink water, and stayed on the phone with him until he passed out.
His mother was sick, and he was there for Colby.
His phone was still too dead to use, so he dragged himself into the shower and cleaned up. By the time he was back, wrapped in a towel with the hotel robe hanging off his shoulders, the phone had enough juice to power up. He immediately sent a text to Hunter.
Hey. How are you?
Hunter
Probably better than you. Glad you’re alive.
Colby smiled.
Hungover AF but breathing. I’m really sorry about your mom. You gonna be ok?
Hunter
Depends on the outcome, I guess. But right now, better than I was. Thanks to you.
Colby stared at that text. He hoped they really were going to figure out how to be friends, but he was worried.
If he were back in the same place with Hunter, like when the tour was over and they were back to living together, would he still be able to control the urge to do things that went far beyond friendship?
He was attracted to Hunter, full stop. And that attraction felt uncontrollable when they were together. That was a big scary problem.
Hunter
Listen…. I know what I said last night and I meant it. We are friends. All good.
But…?
Hunter
But I’m staying here, with my mom, for a while. Indefinitely.
That made sense. That didn’t feel like a contradiction.
Yeah of course.
Hunter
I might have to let the apartment go.
There was the other shoe dropping. Colby immediately felt like it was a personal attack, but he tried to talk himself out of it.
Hunter still wasn’t booking constant work, and if his mom was sick, he’d be in Montreal, not auditioning, which meant not working.
Paying money for a place he wasn’t living in, when he wasn’t working…
I can transfer you three months rent right now. In full.
He had the cash. It would make things a little tight, but he could do it and still manage. Mostly everything was paid for on the road by the label. If he did this, the apartment would stay theirs for a little bit longer. No one would have to move out.
Hunter
I can’t ask you to do that.
You didn’t ask. Look, if things work out, you can pay more later. Ok?
There were bubbles, then nothing, then bubbles, then nothing.
There was a knock on Colby’s door. He got up and glanced through the peephole. It was Hannah. He opened the door and motioned for her to come in. She shook her head.
“We’re supposed to sightsee together, remember?” Hannah said. “Hope we get people asking for selfies or making videos of us without our knowledge.”
“Right. Fuck.” Colby’s headache was back. “Let me get dressed.”
“Meet you in the lobby.” She turned and headed down the hall.
Colby let the door close and messaged Hunter again.
I’m Venmoing you now. Please. Let me do this. We’re
A team. That’s what Colby started to write but stopped himself. It felt like it was too much.
I’m Venmoing you now. Please. Let me do this. It’s my place too so let’s just work together.
Hunter
Appreciate it.
Don’t mention it. I gotta run.
Hunter
I’m not really going to be in touch a lot. If this is serious.
I get that but whatever happens I’m here if you need me.
Hunter sent a thumbs-up back. Colby let out a long, shaky breath and put his phone on airplane mode so it would charge faster as he scurried around the hotel room trying to make himself moderately presentable.
He threw on one of his vintage Ts over a charcoal Henley and tucked it all into a pair of faded vintage 501s.
Then he pulled on his boots and grabbed the charcoal beanie he’d snuck into his luggage when he left LA.
It was Hunter’s, and it had an embroidered hockey team logo in black thread that Colby couldn’t name.
He’d brought it because he wanted a piece of Hunter with him on tour. He’d borrowed a few of Hunter’s things.
In the lobby, Hannah had gotten them both Starbucks, and he thanked her profusely. The caffeine should help with the lingering headache. She smiled up at him. “What first? Museum? Skating on the Rideau Canal?”
“I’m from California. I can’t skate on a good day, let alone hung over.” Colby confessed.
“I’m from Upstate New York and, not to brag, but I won a ton of figure skating competitions before the age of fourteen,” Hannah told him with a proud grin. “But then I discovered I could sing, and was sick of being cold all the time. But I can teach you to skate.”
“You really want to?” She nodded excitedly, her long dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. He groaned. “Okay, but first some kind of greasy breakfast. Because I had a rough night.”
She looped her arm through his. “Okay. Greasy spoon, then skate.”