by Max Monroe
“If Rocky really wants me there, why don’t we just camouflage me in the staff?” I suggest. “A handler. A PR assistant. Whatever. There’s bound to be a cloud of you guys following her and Ben around anyway. Just add me into the middle of it.”
Rocky’s look of dejection shifts faster than Jacob transforms into a werewolf in Twilight. I’ve never actually seen Twilight, but I’ve heard enough about it from the guys to know my reference is spot-on.
It’s Rocky’s smile, though, that makes me feel the most victorious. The idea resonates with her in a way that brings her a sense of comfort. I don’t even bother to look in Heidi’s direction because I know what I’ll find.
Evil, beady eyes just waiting to get an opportunity to chop off my head.
But I don’t need to bother with her anyway. Now that I’ve voiced the possibility, Rocky clings to it vigorously.
“Yes! He can be in the back. Just move with the crowd. You know there are always a million people with you at these things—I don’t usually even know them all. Nobody will so much as blink at a new face in that crowd.” She gets up on her knees on the couch and puts her hands together in a clench in front of her chest. “Please.”
“Why do you want him there so badly? You’re not going to be able to speak to him.”
“I know. I just…” Rocky turns to me, searching my face for a reason to support her case. I smile supportively. I know it’s what she needs right now, and she sighs with relief. “I want him there. It’ll make me feel better to know he’s there, even though I know I’m forbidden from talking to him.”
Heidi releases a sigh of her own; it could not be more opposite from Rocky’s. She turns to face me and holds up an angry finger. I don’t let it bother me. “You. You’ll stay where I put you, do what I say, and if you’re going to be there, you’re going to have to work—without pay.”
I almost laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I plant my feet and cross my arms over my chest to listen to the rest of her tirade.
“This isn’t a social hour. You don’t talk to any of the other celebs or ask any questions or hint that you know Raquel in any way. You move when I say and stay put when I don’t.”
I get it. But I don’t give her the satisfaction of verbalizing that fact.
“And you sure as hell don’t go calling your mom and dad, telling them you’re going to be at an awards show and to look for you on TV.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I say. “They’re both dead, and their cell phone plan doesn’t have a rate for calls from the grave.”
I smile as Heidi’s face stutters for the first time ever. I never imagined I’d use the death of my parents in a twisted, humorous exchange for revenge, but I don’t regret it. I’ll forever remember this as the time that Heidi half looked at me like a human, instead of an enemy to crush.
And look at that…it lasted a record-breaking five seconds.
Raquel
Walking the SAG Awards red carpet next to Ben Huddleson is a little bit like trying to run a marathon with a pebble in your shoe.
Sure, maybe not for most people—he is, in fact, one of America’s biggest heartthrobs—but for me, tonight, I am a helpless, five-and-a-half-months preggo fish in a shallow puddle of misery. It’s deep enough that I can breathe but comes to an abrupt and uncomfortable end every time I try to swish my fishy tale and escape.
The roar of questions from paparazzi and reporters is louder than it’s ever been—even louder than it was at the Golden Globes—with every second question being about the timing and logistics of our “hot and heavy” relationship. I thought the intensity of their scrutiny would have toned down by now. Obviously, I thought wrong.
My smile feels brittle, like it’s cracking under the surface of my skin and breaking down into a bottomless abyss.
“Ben, I know how seriously you took your role in Galileo earlier this year, but I think I speak for everyone when I say the role we’re dying to hear about now is what it’s like to be the one to land Raquel Weaver,” Hank Billits, one of True Hollywood’s most salacious reporters says with an annoyingly amused chuckle and inappropriate waggle of his brows. “Does she live up to the fantasy we’ve all been playing on repeat from the inside of our bedrooms?”
Ben leans into the microphone dramatically, even opens his mouth to speak, and then winks without saying a word.
I wish I could say that meant he didn’t answer the question, but his wink said a million things that a straightforward, classy answer never could.
There’s no regard for the consequences on my emotions. This is all a stage, and he is more than happy to fill the time with a performance.
He’s enjoying the role, downright dawdling in the areas I most want to hurry through. At least if I were on my own, I’d be able to steer the conversation where I wanted and make an exit with swift and exacting precision. But Ben is too busy yukking it up to help me with my plan.
He is the pebble, and I can’t get him out of this damn shoe.
I glance to my right again while Ben flaps his gums, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man I’m supposed to be ignoring. He’s easy enough for me to find in a sea of other people, thanks to his height. At six foot three, Harrison is just tall enough to tower over the other lackeys and assistants. Not to mention, with his sculpted jaw, perfectly coiffed hair, and bright-green eyes, he’s got undeniably large star quality for someone who’s supposed to be blending in. It’s not his fault, though. He’s dutifully stayed in the back of the group for the entirety of the night, but his good looks are overpowering.
I’m thankful Heidi hasn’t shuffled him to a janitorial closet somewhere in the dregs of the Shrine Auditorium yet. It’s reassuring to catch a glimpse of his face every once in a while. Probably because every time I do, he gifts me with a smile of comfort. Apparently, unlike everyone else, he can sense my irritation.
He’s almost intrinsically in tune with me, and I have to wonder if it has something to do with the scientific fact that I’m carrying an actual human being with half of his DNA inside me. I doubt the baby, like, shoots its father’s pheromones into my bloodstream or whatever, but it feels like it’s connected somehow.
Whatever the case, I’m glad to have him here. And I’m really glad he vocalized a suggestion that made it happen. I know I probably should have done it myself, but I have years and years of experience letting Heidi take the reins and getting the results I want. It seems counterproductive to challenge that. But for this—for both Harrison’s and my comfort—I should have engaged my backbone.
Regardless, I’m glad and grateful he did it for me.
I step and repeat in front of the main sponsorship logo for the Screen Actors Guild and push my tongue to the roof of my mouth to make my face look as slender and tight-skinned as possible. I cock my leg at an angle that showcases the split in the gown Gallevero custom made for me and turn to the side to show off my bump when prompted.
I get lost in the excitement of the pregnancy and allow myself the escape of pretending it’s all far less complicated. Like it isn’t Ben on my arm, but Harrison. And we’re the couple Hollywood is crazy for. I let myself believe that this baby wasn’t the result of one night in New York, but instead, the culmination of an epic love story we’ll tell our grandkids and they’ll pass down for generations.
I smile, cradling the bump with a gentle hand and freeze as what feels like a million and one cameras go off. Ben takes notice of the flurry and steps in to get his piece of the moment.
Of course, the feel of his body fitting to mine as his hands find my stomach ruins it all for me.
Just like that. Fantasy revoked.
An unexpected swing in hormones brings tears to my eyes, and I have to blink rapidly to stop them from falling. The very last thing I need is to fall apart on the red carpet—not with this many sets of eyes and endless technology pointed at me.
I turn my head slightly, craning my neck and searching for my ever-growing comfort zone. It doesn’t take long to find
it in Harrison’s plush green eyes. He holds mine, a single line of connection through the chaos of way too many people, and the focus brings me back from the brink of disaster.
It’s almost as if his presence somehow grounds me in my life. He was around before any of this existed. Before my parents turned fame-obsessed, and my brother turned to drugs and alcohol, and before he finally hit rock bottom and took off for the middle of God knows where. Harrison was around before I was Raquel Weaver, famed virgin turned publicly deflowered—before all the bullshit and makeup and pretending.
Harrison Hughes saw me before anyone else did, and somehow, when he looks at me now, it’s as if he can still see that girl he used to know underneath all the layers and layers of Hollywood.
Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to lock eyes with him for long. An angry Heidi steps between us pointedly and grinds a heated jaw. I can’t blame her entirely; I am making her job a whole lot harder. But I don’t have the hormonal capacity to be completely rational right now. If I did, I wouldn’t have eaten a full bag of Cheetos in my closet before we left to come here and stuffed the evidence in the slouchy pocket of a $4,500 white blazer. I’ll probably never get the neon dust off of it, and a whole sector of my fashion-influencer following would be horrified if they ever found out, but man, they tasted so damn good.
Turning my attention back to the wall of reporters in front of us, I scan their faces for shreds of humanity. I’m willing to talk to them—it’s a large part of my job—but I’m not in the mood to end up face-to-face with the snakes of the media-driven bunch. I’m nowhere near fast enough on my six-inch-heel-clad feet to avoid getting bitten these days.
Down the line, an excited young woman with the Beth Cartwright Show waves her microphone to get my attention. I don’t recognize her as one of the regulars, and I take that as a good sign. Beth is sort of known for pulling ordinary people from the real world into these things and giving them a chance to bring some joy to an otherwise cog-filled wheel.
Her whole motto is kindness, and that’s really the sort of thing I could use today, so I tap Ben on the elbow—just enough to let him know I’m about to leave his ass behind—and make a straight beeline for the friendly looking woman in blue.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice that Harrison has used the opportunity to follow me from a respectable distance rather than staying behind in the group.
I’m sure Heidi wouldn’t appreciate his go-get-’em attitude, but I sure do.
“Oh my God,” the sweet reporter with medium brown hair and bright blue eyes says as I stop in front of her and smile. “You’re…you’re Raquel Weaver.”
I nod and giggle. “I am. What’s your name?”
“Helena Veroma. Oh my gosh! I’m such a big fan of yours! You have no idea! Gah! I swear, I watched every episode of Home Sweet Home when I was growing up.”
My smile deepens without effort as soft, warm memories of my time on a wholesome show fill my mind. It was a great time—a time before life got messy and complicated and lonely. And I was just a kid—too young and too innocent to be asked on the daily about my sex life.
Having someone recognize me for that rather than a steamy collection of sexy roles feels good. Really good.
“Aw! Thank you so much! The time I spent on that show was honestly some of the best in my life.” In the early years of Home Sweet Home, when Luca and I had just started out, our little family of four was still an actual family.
Helena smiles so big I can almost see all of her teeth. “And now you’re starting a family of your own! That must be so exciting! I know you’ve had some speed bumps with it, but I just have to tell you that we—the world,” she says with a self-conscious laugh, “if I can speak for us as a whole—we’re so happy for you!”
The genuine desire to speak with me instead of at me feels palpable—real—and it’s almost like a Venus flytrap. I don’t want to move on to speak with anyone else, though Heidi is now in front of me, waving me forward. I want to stay right here and become friends with this woman who cares enough to treat me like a human being.
“I can’t tell you what that means to me,” I say, instead of pulling her into the bone-crushing hug I’d like to. I can only imagine how the rest of the press would react, and I really don’t want to drag her into that kind of a mess.
But I’ll remember her for a long time, and I don’t hesitate to tell her so. “I’m so glad Beth sent you out here and that I’ve had the chance to meet you. I hope I get to see you again sometime, Helena.”
“Really? I did okay? I didn’t mess it up too bad?” she asks with a self-conscious smile.
“Are you kidding? You killed it. Easily the best, most enjoyable interview I’ve ever done at one of these things. And trust me,” I say with a little wink, “I’ve done a lot.”
She drops her face into her hands and squeals. “Thank God! I’m just a mom from Idaho. I don’t know anything about interviewing celebrities, really.”
“I think you know better than most,” I say, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “You’re real and genuine and sweet and fun. I wish more of the reporters here were. For example, I’m pretty sure you’ll understand when I tell you that I really have to pee.”
Her head jerks up and her eyebrows climb to her hairline, but her smile is still friendly. I shift from one foot to the other as a raging burn makes its way from the top of my bladder to the very apex of my vagina. The urge to go is so bad, it’s like I’ve been holding it for nine straight hours. In reality, I went right before I got in the car and largely rationed fluids. Yet, I currently feel like a water balloon that’s stretched to max capacity.
“Like, really, really have to pee,” I whisper through a half giggle, half groan. “The baby is dancing on my bladder and this dress is tight, and I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to make it through the mess of getting to the bathroom and getting out of this thing in time.”
“I had three accidents when I was pregnant with my first,” she admits sweetly. “Just hike it up from the bottom, and go now. Don’t even pause to talk to anyone else.”
“I’m not really sure how I’m going to—”
“I’ll come up with something if I have to,” Helena says with a reassuring smile. “Just go, honey. I certainly didn’t like pissing myself when I was pregnant with my boys, and I didn’t have a hundred cameras pointed at me. I can only imagine it would be worse for you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper again, and with a smile and a nod, I clench my legs together, put a supportive hand under my weighty stomach, and move like my life depends on it.
Through the crowd of slowly wandering celebrities, past the lines and lines of reporters, beyond the fashion 360 cam that my designer would die if I didn’t utilize, and right into the building.
I am a pregnant woman on a urine mission, and no one can stop me!
The light is much more muted, and it takes my eyes a moment I just about don’t have to adjust. But I have no choice but to chance it. If I try to speed walk to the bathroom blind, I’m liable to cost myself a lot more than a public bathroom accident. No, I imagine that scenario would end with bloodshed.
The door swings open behind me and a gentle hand takes me at the elbow, but I don’t even have to look to know who it is. Harrison’s inviting smell surrounds me like a welcome cloud.
“Are you alright? I saw you take off.”
“I’m fine.”
He scoffs, and I laugh a little as I correct myself. “Okay, I’m not fine per se. But in the grand scheme, I’m fine. The baby is fine. But I’m about twenty seconds away from pissing so much, I’ll turn all of this red carpet to a lovely shade of orange.”
“Orange?” he questions with a laugh, all the while taking some of my weight into his side and guiding me toward the bathrooms.
“Yeah. Red and yellow mixed together make orange, don’t they?”
He laughs so loud a whole group of people looks over at us, but I don’t have time to worry about tha
t. I’m really too busy making sure I don’t unleash the dam that is my bladder right now.
“That they do. I’m a little concerned for your hydration if your pee is that yellow, though.”
“Don’t say pee!” I scold as a sensation cloaked in fear makes my legs tingle.
“Fluid output?” he questions with a teasing smirk, and I shake my head and glare. Just the mention of any moisture in the entire world right now is putting the fear of God in me.
I don’t want to know that water is even a thing. For the purpose of my bladder and its counterparts and compadres, the planet formerly known as Earth is now Venus.
Jesus. Is this the real reason Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus?
It’s got to be. I didn’t read the book, and probably won’t, but I will no longer accept any other explanation. A pregnant woman’s bladder rejects residence on any planet with water, and therefore, Venus is the origin of our subspecies. The end.
I careen around the corner of the entrance into the bathroom and check every stall I come across until one actually beckons my entry.
I slam the door shut and send home the lock before hopping helplessly from foot to foot while I try to get my dress high enough to open my urethra’s access to the toilet. The pee has started its journey now—there’s no turning back. I will either lift my dress in time and live to see the outside of this bathroom again, or I won’t, and it will be my fate to expire here. This, the first bathroom inside the entrance of the Shrine Auditorium, will hereafter be known as Raquel Weaver’s eternal resting place.
Knowing what I know about Hollywood and my manager, they’ll probably open up an exhibit for tourists to view my body. Most of my estate will probably go to preserving my corpse to ensure that everyone on my staff is able to collect their percentage in perpetuity.
Shimmying and shaking, I finally get the hem of my far too complicated dress in hand and rip it upward in a smooth, forceful motion. When it settles at my hips and a stream of pee a racehorse would envy hits the toilet, I’m grateful for the very first time that I wasn’t allowed to wear underwear with this outfit.
