Page 9 of If the World Was Ending

She sighed heavily. “What about landscape architecture then? I bet there isn’t a lot of math in that. You like plants. You’re always helping Bob with his, and you saved Mrs. Yoon’s lime tree last year.”

“What the fuck is landscape architecture?”

“A course offered at UCLA Extension.”

“I already have a diploma from UCLA Extension. In acting.” Hunter clocked that his tone was slightly harsh, but he didn’t even want to change it, which said a lot because he was never one to show anger. He kept it bottled up and tamped down, usually telling himself he was wrong.

“Right. Yeah.” She exhales again. “Night.”

“Night.” Hunter swallowed down all the uncomfortable feelings.

He didn’t ask her what happened to coming home early or what the fuck she and Cass were doing until four in the morning or why she suddenly hated his career. She knew his parents weren’t really behind him and that he hated it. She also knew Hunter was serious about acting. Always had been and always would be. She came to the small play Hunter was doing when they met and raved about how good he was. She used to ask about the roles he was auditioning for, and even helped him run lines for auditions, but now she never asked, and even when Hunter told her, she seemed bored.

He closed his eyes and rolled away from her. Not that she would notice. He told himself they’d both feel better in the morning. And it was nice of her not to freak out over Colby. It would all be fine. It had to be fine. He really didn’t want to look for a new place or a new set of friends. He’d lost touch with a lot of the people he’d met in LA pre-Leandra, and he didn’t like the people at his serving job enough to hang with them outside of work. Oh, and he liked Leandra. He loved her, probably. Yeah. He did.

So it had to work out.

The next morning, Colby woke up a little after seven and stretched. His feet bumped the arm of the couch, and so did his hands as he lifted them over his head, and reality crashed down on him. His hand went to his forehead, and he winced. And then his eyes fluttered open, and he saw the pretty dark-haired woman standing in the corner of the dining room, at the other end of the long shared space, texting.

She was Hunter’s girlfriend, Leandra. Colby hoped he was remembering that right. She had her head tipped toward her phone, her long hair up in a messy bun, and was biting her bottom lip as she stared at her screen. A smile bloomed a second before Colby let out a weak, gravelly “Morning.”

She jumped and shoved her phone behind her back. Her wide brown eyes found him. Colby could see the corners of her mouth twist downward for a second, like she was fighting the urge to frown. “Hi. Forgot you were here. How are you?”

“My head hurts,” Colby said and didn’t challenge her claim she forgot he was there. He had made enough noise before he spoke, with his wincing and stretching, that she should have heard him. “Thanks again. I’ll take off in a couple minutes. Just got to throw on clothes.”

He was still just in his underwear. There was a ridiculous tiger-print fleece blanket over him, which was good because Leandra was still staring at him. Although Colby noted that she was fully dressed, it was revealing in its own way. Tight leggings and a painted-on crop top with a keyhole cut out where her cleavage showed. Both the leggings and the top were butter yellow and looked fabulous on her. “Surprised you’re up so early. You had a late night.”

“Yeah. But I have to go teach yoga,” she said tersely. “Let me look at that head of yours first.”

Colby wanted to argue for some reason, but he didn’t because she was a nurse. He peeled back the medical tape holding the gauze in place on his forehead. Leandra tucked her phone into a pocket on the side of her leggings and leaned over him. She squinted as she looked at his cut. “Clean it incredibly gently with a little bit of soap and water and then use the scar cream on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet. A very thin coat. And let it air dry. Keep the butterfly bandages but lose the gauze.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Mmm hmm,” she hummed dismissively, righted herself, and walked toward the front door. “Good luck with the van thing.”

“Thanks,” Colby said again as she grabbed her bag hanging on a thin coat rack and her set of keys off the wall hook before shoving her sunglasses into her wild hair. “Also really appreciate the hospitality.”

“Sure. No worries.” She paused and actually hit him with a genuine smile. Suddenly, he understood why Hunter liked her. She was gorgeous, and the smile made her look soft and kind. Maybe she really was… “What kind of music do you play?”

“Death metal.” Her eyes widened, and her jaw went slack. Colby grinned. “Nah. Kidding. It’s like Southern California rock.”

She smiled again. “Is that more like pop or rock?”

“Like the Eagles or Neil Young or Joni Mitchell or…” Colby struggled to find a modern-day comparison.

“Those bands are all like a hundred years old.”

“Which is why I’m bringing the sound back. We need new life in the genre.”

“Neil Young is Canadian.”

“I know.”

She fought a frown again. “So do I because Hunter will be the first to tell you when someone famous is Canadian. It’s like they’re legally required to announce a compatriot.”

“Who is legally required?”

“Canadians. Hunter is Canadian,” she replied and paused, a smirk playing on her lips. “I see you guys are close.”