Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

I sink down behind her as gently as possible and try to make myself as unobtrusive but comforting as I can.

Unfortunately, my quiet for her benefit makes it all too easy to hear everyone else right outside.

“What about a fall from grace?” a prepubescent-looking PR lackey suggests outside the bathroom as I rub Rocky’s back and drop the cold washcloth on the back of her neck. I can just see him through the crack in the door at his perch on the arm on the couch. “Britney-style breakdown. We all know that brings big numbers.”

“Big numbers, sure,” another voice says. “Breakdowns bring publicity, but not work and paychecks. We need to try to keep this as positive as possible.”

“Should she take an oath of revirginization?” someone else asks, and a surge of anger tightens my chest. They’re talking about Rocky like she’s not even a person. I’m sure she’s used to it, but I don’t think I’ll ever see it as anything other than it is—fucking ludicrous.

“Gonna be kinda hard to spin the virgin tale as she gives birth, Wilson.”

“Right.” They all laugh a little, and I stand up with the help of the tub, my body volunteering to get in there and talk some sense into these motherfuckers. It’s been years since I’ve felt this kind of upset—the physical, nerve-scraping, blood-pumping, chest-tightening kind. As I’ve aged, I’ve matured by developing a much more practical sense of emotion.

But right now—standing behind the woman carrying my baby as she vomits everything she’s eaten into the toilet while other people talk about her life so callously—it’s like I’m nine years old all over again. Back then, though, the face I would have been ready to put a fist in would have been her brother Luca’s.

“So, what’s the best angle?” he asks. “We’ve already seen some of the fanbase shifting. They really don’t like the idea of sex out of wedlock, let alone a baby.”

“So why don’t we give them a wedding?” the lackey suggests again. “Find a good pairing for a fiancé and father figure, and when the smoke clears in a few years, we can get the divorce support. Single mother left behind. It works on both ends.”

“It could work,” her manager, Heidi, muses, her irritating, unforgettable voice coming from somewhere out of sight. “But we’ll have to find a good match. Somebody on the upsweep. Choir boy image.”

The lackey snaps. “Ben Huddleson.”

He smiles as he looks around the room and stands to pace along with his thinking. “They’ve been rumored to date before, he just put out American Gold to amazing reviews, he’s clean-cut, he’s career-building, and he hasn’t dated lately. He’s a perfect fit.”

“Get on the phone with his people. See if you can take the temperature on a scenario like this without making an actual pitch.” Heidi, Rocky’s callous manager, laughs. “Bonus points if you can somehow make them think it’s their idea.”

My feet move without thought, taking me slowly from the bathroom out into the living room where the crowd is gathered. They’ve all got their heads down, typing frantically on their phones and scribbling notes on tablets until Heidi catches my motion out of the corner of her eye and snaps her gaze up to meet mine.

“Is she about ready?” she asks without preamble. “We have to be out of here in ten minutes if we’re going to make her meeting.”

No inquiry into her health or happiness—not one inkling about how she’s handling all this or if she can keep a drink of water down.

“The meeting is going to have to wait,” I say. “She’s still not feeling well.”

Heidi’s face pinches with noticeable annoyance. “Going to have to wait? No, no. The producers of Homebound wait for no one. People wait for them. We’ve been trying for three months for this opportunity. There is no waiting.”

I’m about to tell her the producers can go fuck themselves when Rocky skirts around me and speaks. “It’s okay, I’m fine. I’m ready.”

Heidi’s eyebrows become one even as she nods. She snaps her fingers over her shoulder, and a couple people rush us. “Let’s do a little hair fluff, honey,” the woman says while the man reaches for some brushes that are in a holster at his side.

“Just a little touch-up, pumpkin,” he says, whipping out a case of something from the other side, dipping a brush in it, and swiping it across Rocky’s face without pause.

I watch intently as the woman I know disappears and someone else emerges. Heavy red lips, carved cheekbones, and startlingly perfect eyebrows, this is the Raquel Weaver the rest of the world knows—even expects, I guess.

I much prefer the other woman—the kid I used to know. Clean, natural face and a beautiful, genuine smile, the woman I see when I think of the night we spent together.