Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

True Love Waits

“Oh, holy shit,” I mutter, the shock of it all tightening my vocal cords.

“Harrison, I gotta tell you, man, this is the weirdest fucking phone conversation I’ve ever had with anyone…”

Christ. Why is he still on the phone?

I stare at Rocky’s purity ring clutched in my hand and think about how one night has altered the course of my entire fucking life.

One night. Four months ago. And now there’s a woman out there carrying my baby?

Lord Almighty. What is happening right now?

“Between the heavy breathing and shit”—Cap keeps fucking chattering, but I couldn’t give two shits what he’s saying—“I’m a little weirded out, but I shall forgive everything once you give your favorite best friend in the whole world some quarterly investment advice.”

Visions of everything related to babies start to fill my head.

Bottles and pacifiers and…

“A stroller,” I mutter. “A goddamn stroller.”

“A. Stroller?” Cap questions. “Is that a new tech company?”

Jesus Christ. I sigh and run a hand through my hair.

“Calm down, bro. Don’t get frustrated with me. What’s their ticker?”

And diapers. Fucking hell. I’m so out of my league here.

“Diapers?” Cap asks. “Like for babies?”

“Yeah, like for babies, you fuck.”

“Good God, chill out, man. It was just a question,” he mutters. “But there’s a ton of companies that make diapers. Huggies…Pampers…Fucking Luvs… How do I know which one is the best?”

“Fuck if I know,” I retort. I’ve never had a baby before. Never really been around babies. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I actually held a baby…if ever.

Christ, this is not good.

“This feels like a fucking stock ticker scavenger hunt, you bastard. I think—”

Overwhelmed and terrified and pretty damn close to puking up the cereal I just ate, I abruptly end the call with a simple “Gotta go, Cap,” toss my phone onto my bed, and put both hands behind my head.

Forcing deep breaths in and out of my lungs, I struggle to calm myself enough to find my center again, but when I finally do, I relay what I know.

One, we’re all in charge of our own destiny—we are. And apparently, Rocky made a huge decision to change the course of hers that night without telling me.

Two, I somehow managed to impregnate the most famous virgin in Hollywood in one, unplanned night—and I didn’t even know I was doing it.

Three, Raquel Weaver was anything but famous when I left California at ten years old. She was knobby-kneed, cute as a button, and five or six years old. She had the sweetest gapped baby teeth, and she was tougher than half the boys I knew. Her purplish-blue eyes always held something special, but I never imagined she’d charmed anyone other than the people she came into direct contact with. Now, she and her baby—wait, scratch that—she and my baby are the only things anyone can seem to talk about.

All this time, I was fucking oblivious. A contemptuous laugh escapes my throat with dramatic flair. Frankly, Harrison, you couldn’t have been less in the know if you’d spent the last twenty years in a medically induced coma.

How could she have kept the fact of her virginity from me that night?

Why would she have kept it from me?

God. If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have even gone there. I wouldn’t have—

I jerk my internal monologue to a sudden halt as it all comes into focus. That’s why she didn’t tell me. It might have been years since we’d seen each other, but she knew me well enough to know I wasn’t cavalier enough to go around devirginizing women with one-night stands.

I reserve drive-by behavior for women who know the score—women who are looking for the same from me.

At least, I did.

I lift my hands to my head and scrub at my face.

What am I going to do?

How in the hell am I going to handle this?

How do I take the right steps, plan the right path—do the right thing?

My mom’s voice sounds in my head like an old, beloved record—Never cry over spilled milk. And then, shortly after, a single word said with the glee of a woman who lived her whole life with laughter—Grandkids!

The image of how my mother would have celebrated the news makes a small smile settle into the dimple in my cheek, but the mental picture of her contrast in every way—her nearly lifelong companion—is too strong to let it last.

My dad.

The image of him, of course, begs an entirely different question altogether.

How do I find the way to being a father—a good father—when my revelry on the day I buried my dad is the thing that got me here in the first place?

The day of August 15th, 11:30 a.m.

Harrison

It’s the perfect day to bury a villain.

Honestly. If I were a writer, that’s exactly how I’d start this story.

Rain soaks my clothes and bleeds into the bottom of my socks from the soles of my shoes, and a general feeling of gloom blankets the city—a parting tribute to the personality of my dad.