by Evie Claire
“I don’t see why. You seem like a clever girl—gloves, long sleeves, a bigger bracelet. It isn’t that hard. Do your job. The bracelet stays.” I snap my head and suck air through my teeth like a diva. Conversation over. The two exchange looks over my head, but say nothing more.
“What in the world is going on with your skin?” the makeup artist asks. “I’ve never seen you break out like this.”
“Stress,” I say with zero emotion. Squeezing six days of shoots into three, even if the awful weather and flooding was technically an act of God, is enough to rattle anyone. I’ve never had so many zits on my face. Ever. Acne is so not fabulous. It’s disgusting.
Three days, I keep telling myself. Three days and we’ll be back in L.A. Three days and Mr. Moretti will finally have some dirt on Heather. Three days and Devon will have a bargaining chip that will force Heather to settle for less. I know this is our answer. I can feel it.
“Sweetheart, this is on your jawline. That’s hormonal. Are you about to start your period?” She slathers on a citrus-scented mask like it may help the situation.
“Pfft. I’m on Depo. I don’t have a clue when it comes. Jane, am I about to start my period?” Jane sits on a couch, script spread over her lap, prepping to run lines with me before call time.
“I’ll check that in just a minute.” She holds up a finger without looking away from the page.
“You seriously don’t keep up with your own period?” the stylist teases. Normally I’d laugh. It’s ridiculous to be so uninformed about one’s own life. But that’s the way things go when you’ve got a personal assistant. And I don’t like her tone.
“No, I don’t,” I snap, and give her a you-don’t-want-to-go-there-with-me scowl that puts her in her place.
“Right.” She shrugs an apology and looks away. “This mask needs to sit for fifteen minutes.” Without another word or a goodbye, she leaves the trailer. I facepalm at what a bitch I am. She’s one of the few assistants I like, but I honestly cannot help it. My nerves are like ten-thousand-volt live wires right now. I don’t feel prepared for my scenes. Production has to run like a well-oiled machine these next three days in order to keep the execs off Devon’s back. He’s really worried about the delayed schedule. So, of course, I am too. I have to be perfect, and I’ve never felt further from it.
I exit the chair to go run scenes with Jane, too quickly. The room spins. My stomach flips over on itself. The smoothie I had for breakfast threatens to reenter the world. I slap a hand over my mouth and stumble to the couch. Lying on my side, the room continues to spin, but I coax breakfast back down my throat. I’m left swallowing pre-vomit spit and breathing deeply to stop the twirls. Jane drops the script and appears at my side with a cup of water.
“Are you okay, Carly?” She rests a hand on my forehead.
“It’s just nerves,” I answer weakly, taking the cup from her hand.
* * *
Only, it’s not nerves.
I’m home alone. Well, alone with Jane. Devon’s still shooting, but according to SAG regulations, I’m done for the day—too many hours on set. Normally, I love the union lightening my workload. Today, it is one more problem piled on the production’s—and Devon’s—plate. I was pissed, until karma decided it wasn’t done fucking with me.
I thought Jane was insane when she handed me a brown paper bag from the pharmacy. She told me the math didn’t add up on her calendar and shoved about a million pregnancy tests in my hand. Then I knew she was insane. But I agreed.
Eleven plastic sticks sit on the bathroom counter. Eight of them have double lines. Two have smiley faces. Fucking assholes. How can they smile about ruining my life? What did I ever do to them? Sure, I realize most women have some degree of happiness when they learn they’re pregnant. But what about people like me? Shouldn’t they have a test that reads “Sorry, you’re fucked” when it’s positive? Or maybe just a good old-fashioned middle-finger emoji? That would be much easier to digest than a damned smiley face.
I sit on the floor, back against the bathtub, hitting my head on the cold porcelain like it’s going to change something. Please. There’s no fairy godmother in my tale. Never has been. What the hell am I going to do? I cannot have a baby. I can’t have his baby. Period. End of discussion.
I stand and stare at the line of pee sticks. Every single one of them mocks me, except for the one I made Jane take, certain something was wrong.
A wave of nausea hits me, but this time it’s not morning sickness. It’s the kind of dread one experiences when you see your life flash before your eyes. If this story leaks, life as I know it will be over. Devon and I are so close to getting what we want I can taste it. Mr. Moretti is going to find a way for us to get rid of Heather for good. But if this breaks, it’s all over. People aren’t stupid. Unlike me, they can do the math. Even with Heather out of the picture, our love child would create a scandal of epic proportions. And Devon loves kids so much he’d probably insist we keep it.
If he knew.
No, there’s only one thing to do.
Dread quickly turns to blind anger. I ball my fists and punch a towel hanging on a nearby wall. My knuckles whack the plaster so hard they crack.
“Ouch!” I howl, clutching my hand to my chest, hopping around in a circle on one foot while I squeeze the pain away.
“Carly?” Jane bursts into the bathroom, fear pinching her face. “What’s wrong?” She rushes to me and lays her hands on my shoulders to calm me.
But nothing can calm me. I’m way too screwed to ever be okay again. Tears puddle on my lower lids. Tears for me. Tears for us. Tears for what this baby would take from us. They piss me off. Everything pisses me off. How could this happen? I’m on the fucking Depo shot. That’s birth control even I can’t fuck up. So why am I facing a countertop full of yeses when all I want is one damn no?
I want to hit something. I need to hit something. Jane stands in front of me, but I can’t hit her. Instead, I grab the damn tests in my hands and throw them against the same wall that just crushed my hand. Fuck ‘em! Fuck ’em all! The plastic strips hit the wall and fly into the air like pee-soaked confetti. But it doesn’t work to calm me. I’m in a blind kind of rage I can’t see my way out of.
My fists ball and fly from my face to my sides and back again. I’m turning in useless circles. The room grows blurry. Breath is hard to come by. My chest heaves. My mind races. I’m so jerky I can’t find center. I need to feel something. Something real.
“Hit me!” Jane screams, sensing I need a release. I shake my head without even looking at her. I close my eyes, still shaking my head like I have Tourette’s. “I said hit me,” Jane growls. She’s insane, but she’s fucking asking for it. I don’t tell her no again. With all my anger flowing into my fist, I rear back and let it fly in her direction.
In some FBI Quantico-type takedown maneuver, she diverts my swing with her hand and twists me into a bear hug, immobilizing me. I fight her with all I’ve got. Using every bit of rage, I kick, punch and scream. It feels awesome. We tumble from the bathroom into the bedroom and fall to the carpeted floor. It doesn’t stop my blind rage. I somehow work my body to the top of the pile. I’m getting the best of her when she turns on her full strength. In one motion, easy as shooing a fly, she pins my arms and holds me to the ground. Arms behind my back. Cheek pressed to the carpet. I cannot move.
“You give up?” she asks breathlessly. I lurch, trying to get away. No such luck. “Do you give up?” she asks again, tightening her grip to show me she can.
“Yes,” I pant through clenched teeth. She releases me and I shoot up. We’re both on our knees, breathing like marathoners, staring at each with vicious glares. What the hell started all this? Why am I pissed at Jane? And then I remember. It’s not her I’m mad at. It’s me. I lean back against the bed and crook my knees. I brush the carpet lint off my jeans and then res
t my arms over my legs. “I’m fucked.”
“Yeah. You are.” Jane sits beside me, automatically knowing the situation in my belly isn’t the kind a girl gets giddy about. It’s the kind she gets rid of.
“He can’t know.” I swallow hard against the lie I’m about to tell. He can’t know. He can never know. She nods. We sit in silence. The rage dissipates. My body is restored to its new un-normal state of queasy ill-temper. Jane just kicked my ass. Like seriously kicked my ass. Hell, she could probably take down Tiny if she wanted to. I’ve never in my life seen a woman move like that. I’m talking Ronda Rousey MMA-type shit. I start to giggle at the absurdity of our wrestling match. “How’d you know I needed to hit something?” I ask.
She shrugs. “My dad was a welterweight champ. He taught me some stuff. I know when shit needs hitting.” She rises to her knees to straighten a chair we knocked over.
“Thanks,” I say with nod of appreciation.
“I can teach you how to spar if you want. It’s really good for stress.” She makes a small boxing gesture and lands it on my bicep. I look at her with eyes that are completely lost. She gives me a half smile. “It’s going to be okay, Carly. This isn’t the end of the world.”
I take a deep breath, nodding on the inhale and looking to the ceiling on the exhale. I’m not the first girl to find herself in this situation and I won’t be the last. At least this problem has an easy answer...if I don’t think about it too much. “Yeah.” Tires crunch up the gravel drive. “Shit!” I leap to my feet. “Will you clean all this up?” I’m wide-eyed, running around the room, fixing my hair and pulling my shirt back in place.
“Go!” Jane shoos me to the den on her way to the bathroom where our tussle started.
I make it to the couch, script in hand, the instant the door swings wide.
“Hey, handsome!” I enthuse like my world is all peachy-keen jelly bean. But I freeze when I see his face. He’s still in partial costume and his look is murderous. How could he know? No one knows. “What’s wrong?”
“Fucking studio is on my ass. We’re not going to finish.” He walks straight to his scotch bottle and pours a stiff drink. One he downs without ice or air. I remember those stiff boardroom suits. They’re the same ones who sat me down and played god with my life. All they care about is the almighty dollar, and going over on shooting, especially when we’re up against the final cut in a foreign country, is a financial tsunami in their eyes. “I need to shower. Can you wait on dinner?” he asks, pouring another drink and stalking to the hallway. I nod. He stops cold. He looks at me with a sideways scowl. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod away his concern. “Why?”
“You look a little flushed.”
“Oh, Jane taught me how to spar.” I mimic the punching motion she did earlier and smile. “Enjoy your shower.” He turns without another world.
“Oh, sorry, Jane.” He sucks against the wall, carefully holding his drink out of the way when they nearly collide.
Jane slinks by, a paper bag tucked behind her back. God, please don’t let him ask what’s in that bag. He doesn’t. He walks silently to the bedroom and shuts the door.
“Do you want me to make an appointment for you?”
I shake my head. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I get back to L.A.”
“Call me if you need anything. Dinner’s in the oven.”
I let my head fall back against the couch cushion the moment she’s gone. Rocking it back and forth like it somehow makes surrendering to all this taste less bitter. I’m not the first person to find myself in this situation. I’m certainly not the last. I repeat what is quickly becoming a mantra in my head. Yeah, it sucks big fat donkey balls. But what else can I do? I have to protect us.
Devon’s footsteps shuffle down the hallway. My back is to him. He says nothing and I assume he’s going for more scotch. But he doesn’t. He walks to me. His face is blank. Unreadable. Fuck. Is it something more than the production company? Is it something he didn’t want to say in front of Jane? I sit up straight, keeping a wary eye on him. He sits on the coffee table.
“We need to talk.” He rests his arms on his knees and crosses his fingers.
“O-kay.”
It’s his conversation. But he looks at me like I’m supposed to say something. I shake my head, look around the room and shrug. “What?”
Like some kind of damned magician he pulls a pee stick from his hand. My entire body goes rigid then slack, and I want to melt into the sofa. Hide beneath the cushions. Pretend I’m not here. How in the hell?
“Where’d you get that?”
“It was floating in the toilet. Do you want to tell me something?” The look on his face is still unreadable. So darkly unreadable that I think for a brief moment maybe he does realize how awful this is. Sweet relief washes over me. Okay, so I’m not going to have to lie to my quasi-husband. I sigh and rest my hand on his.
“Don’t worry.” I smile so big it breaks my face. “I’m taking care of the situation as soon as I get back to L.A. It’s not a situation you need to worry about.”
“Taking care of it?” he asks, his lips tightening around the words. Fuck.
“I’m going to the doctor. I’m sure there’s a pill they can give me.”
“We aren’t getting rid of it.” He leans further into me, his face frozen in shock.
“The hell we aren’t,” I shoot back indignantly. He takes a calming breath and tries again.
“Carly, this isn’t a situation. This is a baby.”
“Are you an idiot? We—me and you—cannot have a baby. You’re still with Heather, remember?” Sitting on the couch is impossible. I jump up and knock him from his seat on the coffee table in the process. That does it. He stumbles to his feet. Me, I reach for a smoke and fire it up.
“It’s our baby. End of story. There are ways to make this work.” He looks at the smoke in my hand and I can tell he wants to take it from me. He thinks better of it.
“No. This is not negotiable. My body. My decision.” I shrug and turn away. This cigarette tastes awful. So awful I don’t even want it, but I refuse to put it out. That shows weakness. I take another drag and try not to gag.
“This baby is just as much mine as it is yours.” His look is wild. He’s losing his calm and collected manner.
“Pfft!” I roll my eyes and march to the kitchen. Not because I want it, but because I want to show him how little control he has over my body, I grab his bottle of scotch and take a huge swig. It sits on my tongue, burning a hole through it. I have lost the ability to swallow. Not because I can’t, but because I realize drinking solves nothing. The scotch spews from my mouth like a fire hydrant, soaking the countertop and cabinets. Only, it doesn’t stop. The smell triggers that deep-seated nausea and my stomach decides to get in on the action. I double over the sink, heaving and spitting and cussing. Devon appears at my side, holding my hair and rubbing my back. He thinks it’s soothing. It’s unnerving.
“I can’t have your baby, Devon,” I say with my head in the sink.
“Yes, you can. There are ways to do this so the press will never know. I promise.” The softness of his voice tells me he thinks he’s won.
“You can’t even take care of Heather. How the fuck are you going to take care of this?” I slap my belly. He grabs my hand to stop me.
“Don’t do that, Carly,” he warns with a horrified look.
“It’s nothing but a bunch of cells right now, anyway,” I shoot back, flinging his hands off me. His switch flips. Rage to match mine unleashes from his eyes. Oh, he wants to fight about this? Good. I need the release.
“It’s a baby, goddammit! It’s our baby. How can you even think of destroying something our love created?” The look he lays on me is most repulsive thing I’ve ever felt. For the first time he’s seeing me like the rest o
f the world always has. Like I’m the most vile, awful, insensitive waste of human space ever put on the planet. It’s enough to break me into a million scattered pieces in an instant. It makes me hate me, too. Sobs claim my body.
Tears burst from my eyes. He can’t look at me like this. He can’t think about me like this. Anyone but him. I hide my face in my hands because I can’t look at him looking at me like this. What have I done? I cower against the kitchen cabinets, a scared little girl who is so far out of her element she can’t see a way forward. What the fuck am I going to do?
“Don’t hate me,” I manage to whimper between my sobs. “I’m doing this for us.”
“No...” He tries to soothe me again. “I love you and I love our baby. How could you ever think I wouldn’t want to share this with you?” His arms embrace me. He pulls me against him, holding so tightly my feet lift off the ground and he completely holds me. “I love you so much. This will all work out. You’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You are breathtaking,” Spence says with the kind of charm only he can. I take his hand to step from the chauffeured SUV into the bright paparazzi lights. The cameras go wild. They obviously think there’s something more than friendship going on here. Idiots. Iliad’s tyrannical PR woman is at it again, insisting Spence and I have dinner at Hollywood’s hottest hangout the night I arrive home. It’s good for the film and since Devon’s ass is already on the line, how could I say no?
“You’re a liar.” I smile sweetly for the cameras, feeling every pimple on my face glare under the harsh lights. He chuckles low and mischievously, and places his hand on the small of my back to lead me forward. Walking beside me, with his body turned into me, he blocks as many photos as he can. God bless Spence. What would I do without him?
We make it through the line of flashes, under the taupe canopy and into a warm waiting atmosphere accented with tumbled brick and comfy circular booths. The smells are so amazing my mouth waters. I swallow hard, hoping a scant mouthful of spit will be enough to make my stomach behave until we can sit. Food always makes me vomit these days—either because I can’t stand the smell of it or because I need it in my belly. Right. Now.
