Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

“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 that. 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.

There isn’t even a demon’s breath in hell chance that I would have gotten them down my legs in time if I’d had them on.

Oh my Godddd, that feels good. Sweet Jesus, I’ve never felt that kind of urgency to relieve myself in my entire life, and I honestly don’t care if Helena had to set fire to the whole fucking place to excuse why I ran off from her in such a rush. I’m just glad I can now continue living a life outside of this bathroom.

Business finished, I take a deep sigh, do my thang with the toilet paper, and then try to straighten myself into some kind of respectable state before exiting the stall.

When I do, another woman I don’t recognize is applying makeup touch-ups in front of one sink, so I head to the other to wash my hands.