by Max Monroe
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
“Okay.” Rocky’s responding smile rocks my world. “Boy, I sure hope you’re ready.”
When it comes to her, I think I just might be ready for anything that’s tossed my way.
Raquel
Round and round the merry-go-round of show business goes. Scandalous articles, magazine covers, online fodder—it’s freaking everywhere and has been for the last three weeks nonstop.
From Virgin to Magdalene, the headlines read. Suddenly there are two fathers? another article questions. We guess Raquel Weaver isn’t really the good girl everyone thought.
But the show must eventually go on. It doesn’t matter that my ankles feel like sausages or that I’m hanging on by a microscopic mental thread or that I’d definitely prefer to bury my head in the sand and stay there forever. All that matters are the appearances we’ve promised and the damage control we can manage.
At least, that’s what I’ve been told.
Heidi says showing my face is the only thing that’ll save me at this point. Getting out there, smiling like I always do, and telling the world that everything they’ve read is trumped-up garbage. I’ve apparently had long enough to lick my wounds while the press frenzies around me, and any more silence would be worse than another faux pas.
But the strategy to get out there and interact with the sharks feels remarkably thin now that I’m here, on the red leather sofa of the Gary Bull Show with no steel cage to save me. I know the questions won’t stop at a simple denial of contempt. Gary is going to want gory details about my twisted affair with two different men, and he’s going to put me on the spot to give them.
My phone buzzes from its spot tucked under my leg, and I almost jump through the roof of the studio, it comes as such a surprise. Without any real friends or family, I hardly even carried the phone anywhere with me before our trip to New York last week.
But after spending time with Harrison’s wildly endearing friends, Lord Almighty, things have changed. For one, I’m far, far more versed in the world of euphemisms than I ever expected to be. If I’m ever given a popquiz on the many fantastical names for human genitals, there’s no way I can lose.
In addition to an expansion in my vocabulary, I’ve also experienced an expansion in my circle of friends, just as Harrison said I would.
I’ve gotten dozens of cute baby gear suggestions via both email and text from the ladies, and Caplin and Thatcher, two of the most boisterous of the group, have taken to sending me messages…as the baby. Advice, jokes, a simple hello, how ya doing?—all of it is said in the supposed voice of my unborn child.
It’s kind of creepy and a lot weird, but I have to admit, it’s also the funniest thing I’ve ever read in my life and the most part of something special I’ve felt in a long time. For all the A-list events and needless groveling, I’m really starting to realize I’ve been horrendously lonely for the majority of my life.
And now, I’m getting texts from a fetus—sort of, anyway. Honestly, I’m kind of hoping it never stops.
Cap: Ooo, mama! You looks so pretties ons the teebee. Goo goo GAH GAH!
I’m about to tuck the phone away when another message rolls in immediately. It’s like they coordinated with each other or something.
Thatch: Mummy! We’s on teevee! I wuv woo, and I pwomise not to kicks too hawd while yous busy feedsing dumdum Gawy his bawls for dindin!
My God. I can’t with these guys.
A genuine smile kisses my lips as the intro music starts back up with a rat-a-tat on the drums, and I quickly tuck my phone back underneath my leg. A glance to the side of the stage shows Heidi’s Botox stretched tightly into a glare, but I don’t bother worrying about it. She’s mad at me more than she’s not these days anyway.
Harrison, however, is smiling and shaking his head. He must know the nature of the message, even without seeing it for himself. At first, I thought he might be upset about me talking to his friends without including him, but he didn’t even blink. Instead, he just told me to prepare myself for the strange and unusual, and let me tell you, he was right.
Gary looks right into the camera and changes his voice from the grumpy, grumbly sort he used with his crew during the break to the upbeat entertainer he portrays himself as on TV. I’d like to say I can somehow blame him for being disingenuous, but that would be the height of the pot calling the kettle black.
“We’re back again with Raquel Weaver…plus one,” he says with a wink. “And we’re talking about anything and everything Hollywood starlet.”
He turns to face me, and the secondary camera comes to life, a red light going live on the top. “You’ve been at the center of quite a bit of drama lately, huh, Raquel?”
I laugh a little, trying my best to look at ease with the shitshow I know must be coming, and nod.
“It’s been a little crazy lately, yes,” I confirm softly.
“And why is that? I mean, I think that’s what all of America really wants to know. How does all this messiness come to be? What really happened?”
“When the pregnancy first came about, I wasn’t really ready to handle the consequences,” I say, glossing over any and all fine details. Lies veiled in the truth always sound more genuine. “I mean, the last time I checked, most women aren’t on the Gary Bull Show talking about their pregnancies.”
Gary laughs. “Most women aren’t Raquel Weaver.”
I call up a blush as I look to my lap and then look Gary back in the eye. He doesn’t mean it to be a compliment—at least, not a real one. He’s actually using the backhanded statement to prove to me that I don’t deserve the grace and privacy of someone else. I am a plaything for Hollywood’s amusement—supposedly. It’s the message he wants to send, despite the innocent smoke show of his words—You signed up for this, Raquel. “Well, thank you. But it can be a lot for anyone to handle—even me.”
“Of course,” Gary agrees, since doing so is the only way to avoid ending up on the Am I the Asshole? (AITA) thread on Reddit. “So, where does Ben Huddleson come into all of this? Was it all an elaborate ruse?”
I take a deep gulp of air and try to calm my fluttering heart. It never, ever gets easier being under the gun like this, no matter how many years I’ve been doing it. Just imagine being called to rehash any of the one million questionable decisions you make in your lifetime. It always feels shitty—and I can promise it feels even shittier doing it on the world stage.
“Ben was just trying to do the right thing. He’s a good friend and didn’t want me to have to face all of it in the spotlight alone,” I lie. Ben Huddleson is the furthest thing from a good friend. Hell, I doubt it’s possible for him to be a friend to anyone but his ego. “And Harrison,” I start and then swallow, feeling like I need to explain his desire to be involved further with the broadest, most flattering brush. Out of everyone in this whole dang scenario, he is the one person who’s always been trying to do the right thing. “Well, he’s the father of this sweet little baby in my belly.” I place a hand to my stomach and smile. “And he’s wanted to be involved since the beginning, but I really didn’t want him to have to deal with being in the limelight. He didn’t ask for this.”
“What’s the matter? He can’t handle a little attention?” Gary jokes, jabbing his journalistic knife in all of my feel-good bullshit and twisting for good measure.
I bluster. “It was my decision.”
“Ah, of course. Just an innocent, spineless fish in your ocean.”
You asshole. I cringe.
“So, what’s his deal now? He’s ready to be your man? Ready to take on the challenge of standing up to us big, bad interviewers?”
As the audience laughs, I glance at Harrison, worried about what all of this shit is doing to him. I worry my teeth into my lip and try my best to calm my racing heart. The baby has got to be wondering why in the fuck I’ve decided to run a marathon at this point.
But when I find Harrison’s familiar eyes on the side of the set, it�
��s more than obvious that all he cares about is me. Calm, soothing, kind smile in place and a confident stance, he’s one hundred times the man Gary Bull could even dream of ever being.
Unfortunately, my attention on him is all Gary needs to take the cue and run with it.
“Why don’t we bring him up here now? Have a word with him ourselves? That is him over there, isn’t it?”
Before I can protest, the camera is turned in Harrison’s direction and aimed directly at his masculine stance.
He seems unaffected with his arms crossed over his chest as he looks to me for approval or denial. At this point, I don’t know how I’d deny having him come up and talk with us without creating a whole load of other shit, so I shrug just one shoulder in confirmation.
He uncrosses his arms, plants a smile on his face, and strides our direction, a walking, talking orgasm, if I’m honest.
I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy hormones or what, but I’m a raging case of Hornville. I want to bone him like a freaking archeologist.
A chorus of music fires up and scrolls its rhythm as Harrison steps up onto the elevated set and takes a seat in the chair next to me that the crew has just scrambled to put there.
It’s all I can do to keep my emotions in check—i.e., off my face—as Gary Bull smiles in his direction and starts firing off questions.
“So, Harrison, is it?”
Harrison smiles, extending one long arm along the back of my chair and settling into his new spot on TV like he’s been here dozens of times before. “Yes, that’s right. My name is Harrison Hughes.”
Could he be any sexier? My inner monologue goes Chandler Bing as I hold my breath and wait for what will most likely be more invasive questions from the asshole host.
But Harrison… Well, he just takes it all in self-assured stride, sitting beside me with an easygoing smile etched across his perfect mouth.
“Harrison Hughes. That’s cute alliteration,” Gary says snidely, giving a shitty little wink to the audience in an effort to ruffle Harrison’s feathers. The problem is, unlike the rest of the brood that makes its way across Gary’s stage, Harrison is used to living in the real world. He doesn’t peacock his way through life—and as a result, he doesn’t have nearly the same number of feathers available to ruffle.
“Well, I can’t take credit for it, seeing as I wasn’t in charge of naming myself, but thank you. I’m sure my parents would appreciate your approval.”
Gary saws his lip with his teeth at Harrison’s easy dismissal. “That’s cute. Funny. I guess you’re a funny guy.”
Harrison smirks. “I’ve got experience with a joke or two, Jerry.”
“It’s Gary.”
“Oh,” Harrison says, his feigned surprise about the faux pas more than obvious to me. “My apologies, Gary. There’re so many vying to interview and chat with this lovely woman right here, it’s so hard to keep track of all of you.” He leans forward slightly and dramatically lowers his voice. “And if I’m being honest, I’ve never really been one to watch gossip talk shows.”
Gary’s eyes gleam in warning, but the gun is loaded, cocked, and fired before I can intervene. “So, Mr. Joke Man. You’re an expert in identifying the look of a joke, huh? Then I guess you were prepared to play the role of Mrs. Raquel Weaver.”
Harrison shrugs. “Mrs. Raquel Weaver doesn’t sound like much of a joke to me.”
“You must be missing the punch line,” Gary jabs with an obnoxious laugh. “See, you’re the Mrs.!”
“The Mrs.?”
“That’s right. You’re her arm candy,” Gary snickers.
“Wow.” Harrison shakes his head and leans in and crosses one relaxed ankle across the edge of his knee, and I swear to God it is so dang sexy, my vagina could cry. “Okay, Gare. Let’s pretend for a second that you didn’t just set us back a half a century by presuming that the primary role in any relationship should belong to a man, or that a man should in any way be a dominant gender…” The mostly female audience guffaws, and I almost have to cover my mouth. “Ignoring all of that, which is hard to do because it pretty grimly paints you as an archaic, lecherous tie to the outdated patriarchy…I am happy to play the backup role to Raquel. I’m proud. She’s a successful woman who’s worked unbelievably hard to get where she is, and any man who gets to stand in her vicinity should thank his lucky stars.”
Gary sneers. “Well, I guess it really is as we all suspected. Hollywood’s goodest girl must be really good at turning bad.”
Harrison’s patience is damn near saintly, but I can just barely tell it’s starting to thin as he snaps, “I’m dating the girl I knew when we were kids. Not a Hollywood caricature.”
“Well, how cute is that. You were childhood friends. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we had no clue about that.”
“Unless you hired a private investigator to dig into the trenches of our life,” Harrison retorts, “I wouldn’t expect you to know about it.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Harrison Hughes, but digging into the trenches of your life is kind of our job. You are in the spotlight now.”
“I’m not in the spotlight,” Harrison refutes. “Raquel is in the spotlight, and I’m in the shadows, ready to support her.”
“That’s the same thing, buddy.” Gary laughs, and Harrison shakes his head. “Oh no. Am I the first person to mention this to you?”
The audience laughs, and I shift in my seat, ready to go full-on pregnant mama bear on Gary’s ass, but Harrison handles it all with class and grace. His smile never breaks, and honestly, it’s kind of like he’s been taking Hollywood classes behind my back for the last six weeks.
Frankly, he might be better at this than I am.
“Oh, you know what? You are the first person to break the news. And in the most distasteful, bordering on anti-feminism way, I might add,” Harrison says with a laugh before taking my hand in his, clearly done with the conversation. Lucky for Gary, the show is out of time. A little while longer and I have a feeling Harrison would have turned Gary’s own audience against him.
Gary turns to the camera and pastes on a smarmy smile for his parting line. “Men all over the world are crying tonight about the loss of the single, luscious Raquel Weaver.”
I roll my eyes as he glances over to me, and then he narrows his eyes on the man at my side.
“Actually, I’m thinking women all over the world are crying tonight too.”
Hmm…for once in my life, I might have to agree with the prick.
Harrison is quite the damn catch. Any woman would be fucking lucky to call him hers.
If only you could call him all yours…
Harrison
Hello, Bull. Meet horns.
I can’t deny that I still have a little thrill in my chest from being able to tell Gary Bull off in the nicest, most calculated way. I’m hoping tomorrow I’ll see news articles questioning the bastard’s view of women. Because, truthfully, from the way he was treating Rocky, his respect for the opposite sex is questionable.
But that bastard aside, now I’m certain I’m going to have to face another one of Heidi’s textbook wraths. A fucking broken record, that woman.
The walk back to the car through the halls of Gary Bull’s studio is long and silent. Heidi and her hounds lead the way, with Rocky and me in the middle, and Alejo and Roberta trail in the back. I can sense the overwhelming pressure that’s building in Heidi with each and every step she travels without speaking her mind, but we haven’t been in a room without being in close proximity to the press since the moment I stepped foot on that set and told Gary Bull—and the world—how it really is.
Heidi doesn’t like that she doesn’t have control over something—anything—even if it is a human with absolutely no obligation or responsibility to her. I have a responsibility to Rocky and our baby, and for Heidi, she sees those two things as synonymous. But they’re not.
As a matter of fact, the longer I’m around, the more I’m starting to wonder i
f the two are ever in tune.
Heidi’s agenda seems at odds with Rocky’s health and well-being, and as someone who cares a great deal about both of those things, that doesn’t sit all that well with me.
I reach out cautiously, skirting my hand into the empty space at the palm of Rocky’s. She looks up and stumbles in her stride, surprised by the action for a couple reasons. Not only was she lost in her own thoughts, but the action itself is, admittedly, a deviation from our normal public interactions.
Maybe it’s because she’s pregnant. Maybe it’s because she’s famous. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s because, whether I like to face it or not, I’ve been heavily invested in Rocky since the moment I stepped up next to her at that bar and realized who she was. The little girl from my past—a memory of a life that was uncomplicated.
But whatever the reason, I’ve been timid in a way that I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
I’m not normally the guy who sits on the sidelines and waits for things to come to him. I’m not the guy who gets pushed around and shoved to the back and replaced by some dickwad like Ben Huddleson.
And it’s about time I stopped fucking acting like I am.
“Harrison,” Rocky whispers.
I shake my head and squeeze her fingers.
“Does it feel good?” I ask, lowering my voice enough to ensure I’m not speaking to anyone but her. I lift our joined hands up between us for emphasis, and after a few seconds of staring at them in wonder while doing her best not to trip on her own feet, she nods.
I shrug. “Then I’m not letting go.”
Tiny fingers clenching in mine, Rocky smiles a little to herself and looks down at her feet to make sure she doesn’t trip over them. I smirk to myself. The thrill of affection that runs through me at the continued contact is bigger than I expect. It’s like I’ve been dying of thirst, stumbling through the desert weakly, and putting my hand in hers is the first drink of clean, fresh water.
