Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

And it’s about time I stopped fucking acting like I am.

“Harrison,” Rocky whispers.

I shake my head and squeeze her fingers.

“Does it feel good?” I ask, lowering my voice enough to ensure I’m not speaking to anyone but her. I lift our joined hands up between us for emphasis, and after a few seconds of staring at them in wonder while doing her best not to trip on her own feet, she nods.

I shrug. “Then I’m not letting go.”

Tiny fingers clenching in mine, Rocky smiles a little to herself and looks down at her feet to make sure she doesn’t trip over them. I smirk to myself. The thrill of affection that runs through me at the continued contact is bigger than I expect. It’s like I’ve been dying of thirst, stumbling through the desert weakly, and putting my hand in hers is the first drink of clean, fresh water.

It’s right. It’s gratifying. It’s the sustenance I’ve been missing since the moment I set foot in California.

I don’t pay attention to anything other than the arm connected to mine and the ground beneath my feet as we come to the end of the back hall and stop at the studio door.

I’m all but certain Heidi is noticing the hold I have on Rocky’s hand now, but I won’t even give her the pleasure of a place to put her anger. If my eyes don’t meet hers, I keep my own power—my own happiness—to myself.

I hear a deep sigh as I look to the side of Rocky’s glowing face and smile. God, she really is gorgeous. Dolled up, dressed down, soaked to the bone from a freakishly torrential rainstorm on an August New York day…

She’s the woman I never knew I was looking for. The one to tick all the goddamn boxes.

A burst of flashing lights and yells overwhelms the silence and closes it out as Heidi shoves open the door and clears a path for us to the waiting black SUV. The door swings open courtesy of Rocky’s driver, and Freddie Bones brings up the rear behind us to keep the jostling crowd from closing in on us.

All sorts of questions come from every direction, but I tune them out and focus on helping Rocky into the car. I take her hand and weight in my own and lift with the other, placing light pressure at her hip. As she scoots across the seat, I follow, and the door closes with a dramatic bang as soon as I clear the threshold.

The crowd still rages outside, like a tornado above a storm shelter, but I don’t let it confuse my objective.

With a gentle hand, I reach out and squeeze Rocky’s knee. When she meets my gaze, I slide my fingers down to interlace with hers once again.

I want her to know it’s a conscious move—not one made of convenience. I want to hold her hand. Truthfully, I want to do so goddamn much more. And I’m tired of hiding it.

The ride to our apartment building is quiet but bold. It stands out with a vibrancy none of the days before have stood out because today, no matter the consequences, I made a gesture and stood by it.

And Rocky accepted.

Together in that quiet ride from Point A to B, we hold hands like two people who have more to offer than civility and co-parenting.

We hold hands like people with hope.

When the door to the apartment closes behind us, and the rest of Rocky’s entourage excuses themselves to get to impending tasks, Heidi stands pointedly at the front of the coffee table, her arms crossed over her chest.

Rocky takes a seat on one end of the sofa, exhausted, but I keep to my feet and meet my opponent head on—ready for battle.

“Jesus Christ, I knew we’d have to worry about you going rogue all the time,” Heidi finally declares, a steely, menacing whisper making far more noise than a yell ever could.

I laugh in Heidi’s face. “Go rogue? What is this, special ops? A government agency? I didn’t do anything Rocky didn’t want me to do, and I didn’t say anything you should be this upset about.”

“That’s what you think!” Heidi yells. “But you have no idea the ways they can twist these things around.”

“Yes, I do. So, let them twist them. It’s not like any of this has lessened Rocky’s clout. If anything, she’s more popular than ever.”

She fucking sneers. “How in the hell would you, of all fucking people, know?”

“Because I’m not blind,” I answer without hesitation. “The people love her. They can tell, despite the seventy-five layers of makeup you insist on burying her under, that she’s a genuine and lovable person. Especially now that she’s not living behind some fake, insane life you’ve concocted. She gets to live the truth, and people can tell the difference.”