Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

Bright-red and satin, her dress molds to the new shape of her body and then explodes in a giant train of gathered red fabric behind her.

It’s a beast of a dress to carry around—anytime, not just when pregnant—but I have to admit she looks downright stunning.

Her star quality is undeniable. It’s no wonder she took the world by storm and then held them captive for most of her life. It’s also the reason they feel so entitled when it comes to her—they’ve never known a time when she wasn’t in the limelight.

I, of course, have known that time. I knew it well when we were kids, and then because I was totally clueless, I still had no idea, even as the buzz around her grew to deafening levels.

I’d like to have her to myself every once in a while, but her lifestyle doesn’t condone it. Frankly, I should be ecstatic we somehow managed the night we had when we made the baby.

Now, in the middle of all this, it kind of feels like a dream.

I turn my attention back to the chaos at the entrance, where fans and paparazzi alike shout for the attention of Hollywood’s new favorite—fake—couple. And I cringe as I watch just how un-dreamy one half of the fucking couple really is.

Ben struts up the steps in front of Rocky with no regard for helping her. The cameras flash and people shout questions, and the rest of the world disappears—including the mother of my unborn child.

I watch with frustration as she struggles with the train of her dress on the long, deep-treaded steps, and it’s all I can do to keep my place in the back of the crowd instead of helping her.

But I silently remind myself that things are good between her and me.

Sure, it’s not exactly what I may have wanted in the beginning, but I’m enjoying being around her, and she seems equally pleased to have me around. I don’t want to get so caught up in what I’m not a part of that I forget all the amazing things I am a part of.

Her secret text messages about food cravings.

Shopping online together for furniture for the baby’s room.

Putting my hands to Rocky’s skin to feel the baby kick and dance inside her belly.

Our cute, ongoing arguments about whether our baby is a boy or a girl.

Talking about a list of names, and then shooting them all down the next day when we come to our senses.

It’s all stuff I never anticipated at this point in my life, but now that I have it, I don’t want to give it up.

Ben and Rocky step up to the first reporter in a line of what must be seventy-five and smile wide. I’m not close enough to hear the questions Hannah Harding of Entertainment magazine is asking them, but I can tell that it’s at least not offensive. Rocky smiles genuinely, and her body language says she’s as close to enjoying herself as a trussed-up six-months-pregnant woman is going to get. And if I had any doubts, Ben looks just bored enough to confirm.

I watch anyway, focusing on the way Rocky’s lips move as she chats with Hannah. They’re captivating. She’s captivating. I could spend all day here, just watching her in action. And I know this, because lately, when it comes to events and awards shows like this, it’s exactly what I do.

Toby turns around suddenly and shoves a bejeweled rectangle purse into my stomach. I take it like a running back would a football even though it’s unexpected.

My eyebrows pull together, and Toby smirks. “Carry this.”

I nod to stay within the rules laid out for me about not talking and give the bag a once-over. It doesn’t take me long to realize it’s the purse Rocky had way back before we left her apartment on the other side of the city.

It’s a weird little ping of excitement, but a buzz takes up in my stomach at the chance to actually do something semi-normal for the woman I…well, for the mother of my child.

It’s a tale as old as time, the holding of the purse. Men do it in malls across America with enough frequency that I can almost believe that’s where I am right now. In a very, very crowded mall, holding my woman’s very, very expensive purse while she shops in a very, very fancy, chaotic store.

If only I were that lucky to be shopping alone with Rocky, holding her purse while she gabs about all the things she wants to buy. The mere thought turns my chest into a tightrope war, happiness on one side and melancholy on the other.

But I’m quickly distracted from my thoughts when Wilson and Toby move to the right, so I do the same, and Ben and Rocky step up to yet another interviewer—a man with some media thing called Muscle. This time, I’m within hearing distance, and the tone of questioning is entirely different.