37. The damage is already done
The damage is already done
He walked out of the makeup trailer and onto set sixteen days later with a script rolled up under his arm.
He knew his lines, but lately he was forgetting his own name, so he figured it didn’t hurt to run them while he was in the makeup chair.
Jack Byrne was sitting in his cast chair playing with his phone, not bothering to look up.
The crew members who did look at him all flashed him sympathetic smiles.
It didn’t make him feel worse, but it also didn’t make him feel better.
Andi walked away from the monitor she was looking at and came over to him with open arms. She smiled sympathetically too, and that filled Hunter with relief. Because it was her film he’d completely fucked with. “Hi Hunter. Welcome back. Thanks for doing this. I know it’s the worst possible time.”
Hunter blinked as his eyes got hot. “I’m so sorry I had to take off at all. I know it cost everybody money and I—”
Andi was shaking her head, her dark brown bob bouncing around her ears. “Do not apologize. And for the record, I’m sorry you had to take time off too, but not because of the film or the money. Because of why you had to do it. How is she doing?”
Hunter shrugged and nodded at the same time, which was no answer at all, but he didn’t want to rehash the details of it.
Not at work because he hadn’t been able to talk about it without breaking down.
And also because people didn’t understand.
His mother’s cancer had returned, but now it was in her brain.
The night of the Oscars, she’d had a seizure in her sleep that thankfully woke up his dad, who called the ambulance.
At the hospital, they discovered the tumor in her brain, and later that week, they found the tumors on her spine.
There would be no saving her this time, just maybe, if they were lucky, buying her time.
But Catherine Gibson, Hunter’s stoic, worrywart, practical mother, didn’t see the point in more treatment.
More time that would be riddled with pain and side effects, but that would never cure her.
At best, doctors said she’d have less than a year with treatment.
Less than six months without. She had applied for MAID, which was Canada’s assisted dying program.
Hunter was furious and broken by the decision, even if, deep down, he understood it.
He was mostly upset that his mother's dying was the only way this ended, no matter what path was chosen.
“Are we doing this?” Jack Byrne asked gruffly without even lifting his stupid blue eyes from his phone. “Or do we want to take more time?”
Hunter inhaled slowly and deeply and exhaled all the anger he could so that he didn’t take his rolled-up script and use it like a baseball bat over Jack’s head.
He handed it to Brendan, who had come along for the end of the movie because Hunter couldn’t function on his own anymore.
The world was blurry. Everyday tasks were overwhelming.
Andi squeezed his shoulder, and he nodded.
She let go and turned to Jack. “We’re ready.
Thanks so much for your patience and understanding, Jack. ”
He stood, dropped his phone onto the chair, and shot Andi a facetious smile.
He walked onto the set, which was a sectioned-off piece of roadway, and Andi tucked herself back in front of the monitor under a canopy.
Hunter walked to his mark. He closed his eyes and balled his fists.
She’d want you to do good. Do your best. She wants nothing more than for you to succeed.
Hunter squared his shoulders, inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth. He pulled up the character and shoved himself into a box in the back of his mind. Andi yelled action.
“This is fucking serious, Colby.” Burke’s brown eyes were pleading with Colby to do what? Be scared? Be embarrassed? Feel shame?
“I’ve seen the headlines. I get it,” Colby replied, sitting straighter in his chair across from Burke and Ford, who was leaning nonchalantly against a bookcase behind Burke’s desk. “But the media skews shit. Everyone knows that.”
“The endless Reddit threads and the fan fiction aren’t being written by reporters,” Ford added.
“There’s fan fiction?” Trevor interrupted, his bloodshot eyes wide. “Like Fifty Shades of Hunter and Colby?”
“Fifty Shades was fiction, fiction, not fan fiction,” Burke explained. “This is people writing pornographic love stories about Hunter and Colby because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other at the Oscars.”
“Actually, Fifty Shades started out as fan fiction based on another book,” Trevor interjected. “Granted, not real people. Who’s the top and who’s the bottom in the fics?”
“Trevor. I’m begging you. Shut the fuck up,” Kenner moaned, rubbing his forehead from where he sat beside Trevor on the couch.
“Fine. I’ll Google it,” Trevor muttered and folded his arms.
Burke shot him a withering stare and turned back to Colby with the same glare. “Look, we’re friends. Friends hug. You’ve never hugged a dude before, Burke? Sports stars pat each other’s asses, and nobody is accusing Patrick Mahomes of banging Travis Kelce.”
Ford let out a groan and shook his head.
“There’s fan fiction about them too,” Burke said.
“I mean, there’s that shit about everyone.
That can’t really be controlled. But the difference is, you know, that they’re both in very public hetero relationships.
So we, and by we I mean the label, are putting that thing with you and Hannah back on. ”
“No, they’re not.” Colby shook his head. He suddenly had a pounding headache. “I’m not fucking faking anything. And they don’t have to worry about Hunter. He’s off in Croatia.”
What Colby didn’t mention was that he’d already decided if Hunter’s mom died…
well, when Hunter’s mom died, because that’s imminent now, Colby was going to Montreal.
He would be there for him. He couldn’t live with himself if he wasn’t.
But no one needed to know that now. It would be something they could freak out about later.
Burke pinched the bridge of his nose. “The damage is already done, Colby. And if you think I’m being dramatic, count the articles written about your win versus your bromance.
All anyone is talking about is the bromance. ”
“It’s just a plain old romance, Burkie,” Trevor said, and everyone turned to glare at him. He looked pale and wrung out, so the sassy smirk on his face stood out even more. “What? We can stop pretending in this room, right? Colbs is gay. Hunter is his boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Colby barked in a tone that left no room for argument. “He’s my best friend and my ex-roommate. And that’s it. For real. That is it.”
Trevor laughed. Kenner tipped his head back in annoyance. Burke frowned. “You should stop being the peanut gallery, Bowerman, because your shit show of a girlfriend is the next topic of conversation.”
“She’s not his girlfriend,” Colby informed their beleaguered publicist. “And trust me, you don’t want to see how he reacts if you call her that.”
Trevor stood. “I’m out. I’ll see you all at four for the recording session.”
“Trevor!” Ford said warningly.
“I’m not done here,” Burke called out, but Trevor walked right out the door anyway.
“I think he has a drug problem,” Kenner announced.
“Don’t say that.” Burke stood, his eyes wide and his face pale. “Don’t say that to anyone.”
“Seriously. Don’t.” Ford added a stern expression to his weary face.
Colby thought of the day Marley passed out at their kitchen table, half naked, and the condition of her arms. “I think Marley has one, and if Trevor doesn’t, he will soon.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Burke aged before their eyes. “I’ll call a guy.”
“A guy?” Kenner echoed.
“We hired a drug counselor to work with musicians who are… struggling,” Burke explained and flipped on the laptop on his desk. “We call them a bodyguard to the press and everyone else, but he’s essentially a glorified babysitter with a side of psychiatrist and a dash of MD.”
“Oh. Okay. Does it work? Do the musicians sober up?” Kenner wants to know.
“We have an album to finish and a new tour to plan, so it will work,” Ford promised, but Colby was pretty sure just saying it wasn’t going to make it so.
“It’s hit or miss, honestly, but the kid isn’t going to go to an actual rehab willingly, and quite frankly, we need him working,” Burke replied, and this business flashed its ugly face again.
Colby would be very willing to take a break from the band if Trevor agreed to go to rehab.
Apparently, even if he did, the label would consider that problematic.
Colby stood because Burke seemed to be on to the new crisis.
Kenner followed as he made his way to the door, but Burke lifted his hand and snapped.
He pointed at Colby. “I’m going to send you some stuff to read, and you'd better read it. The fan fiction is shits and giggles compared to this. Because at least those people are tolerant of your little… romance. But there’s a very loud side that isn’t, and they ain’t small, Colby.
No one is pouring money into a debut solo album for a guy who has lost half his fan base. Remember that.”
Colby’s guts twisted, and a nauseating nervous flutter took flight in his belly. “I don’t have a solo album.”
“And you won’t at this rate.”
Colby didn’t respond. He also didn’t make contact with Ford because he knew he’d find an I told you so expression on his face.
Instead ,he just walked out of Burke’s office and straight to the elevator.
Kenner went right along with him, silent until they were in the parking lot attached to Revolution Records, waiting for the valet to bring their cars. “Do you love him?”
“Yeah.” It fell out of Colby’s mouth much more easily than he wished. Because it was so incredibly, sadly, wholeheartedly true. “But that doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah. I know.” Kenner shot him a soft smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”