Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

I may be the father of the baby growing inside Rocky’s belly, but I know I don’t get a vote in any of this. It doesn’t matter that I think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. We are not in a relationship. I haven’t earned any sort of say in her decisions or her life. Plus, running someone else’s life has never been my style, not even with someone I’m in an actual relationship with.

Still, though, it doesn’t negate the fact that hearing another man’s name—whether he’s a fake fiancé publicity stunt or not—feels like a knife to my fucking chest.

Raquel

I’m certain Beyoncé wasn’t talking about my situation when she wrote the song “Single Ladies.”

Yesterday, I was a single woman with an uncertain future.

Today, I’m an engaged expectant mother with her future laid out in a very carefully crafted ten-point plan.

Shortly after hearing from Ben’s people that he was on board with the sham romance turned parenthood, Heidi and the rest of my team got to work. They camped out in my living room—probably in some futile effort to make it seem like I was involved—and shamelessly picked out all the details of my future.

They charted a course for the award season and made appointments for appearances on all the talk shows as a loved-up duo and schemed all the different stings they could set up with the paparazzi to really sell it and pick up a few extra bucks in the process.

All the while, Harrison and I sat in my eat-in kitchen, searching for words to break the silence.

It was awkward and forced, and the more the team planned for me to do with Ben, the more agitated Harrison seemed to become.

Of course, agitated or not, he never broke tone. He was polite and patient, and he never raised his voice. He never even gave me anything other than a smile. It was just…forced.

Which is why I guess it shouldn’t be all that surprising that I found a note from him under my front door this morning.

Rocky,

Sorry to slip this note under your door like a phantom of the night, but it occurred to me after I’d already gone that I still don’t have your phone number.

I can understand why you guard it closely, but for the sake of expediency and the future of our child, I figured a note was better than spending another million to arrange a meeting. I wanted to wait around to talk to you in person, but I understand how busy you are.

I have to head back to New York today to get some of my affairs in order. I’m not entirely sure when I’ll be back, but if you’ll reach out to me (212-555-6789), I’ll let you know as I know.

Call if you need anything. (Anything at all.) I’m only a plane ride away.

-Harrison

The first thing I did when I read the note was program his number into my phone.

And then the reality of my situation hit me like a hammer.

The father of my child paid one million dollars to talk to me, spent twenty-four hours in my crazy life, and now, he’s gone. I’m not sure what “affairs” he had to tie up in New York, but the open-ended way he promised a return fell flat like a damn pancake. And, truthfully, I can’t entirely blame him.

My life isn’t for the faint of heart. Hell, in some ways, it’s probably not even for people equipped with a heart at all. It’s often cold and calculating, and it moves at a blistering pace.

I have nothing to offer him aside from a life on the sidelines and a baby he didn’t plan.

A baby that my lie made possible.

God, I can only imagine how badly he’d hate me if he knew the very specific lie that led to all of this. I shake my head to clear it. I can’t think about that now. All I can think about is what I can control.

The here and now.

He’s gone, but it’s for the best. Of course, I’ll make sure to include him in the baby’s life as much as he’d like, but he won’t have to face any of the public scrutiny and ridicule. He deserves at least that much from me.

I repeat my mantra again, just to emphasize the point to myself in a way my sad and hurting heart can understand.

This is for the best.

“Ben will be here in half an hour,” Heidi says, strolling in from my kitchen without warning and standing over me in my spot on the couch. I nod, but the rest of me, for all intents and purposes, is numb.

“Listen, I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this, but take it from me,” Heidi says, picking up a bottle of water, pouring its contents into a glass and handing it to me. “Some men cannot handle being second fiddle. They can be sexy and mysterious and funny, but then you go and get more successful than they are or choose something over them, and they turn into tantruming toddlers.”