Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

I try to keep my mind on the show and my focus on my lines, but with the way the day has gone, it feels next to impossible. It all started this morning, at the crack of freaking dawn, when I was woken up out of bed to the news that filming had been bumped up to start at seven a.m. That, of course, meant getting to the set at four to start hair and makeup, and while waking up isn’t normally a problem for me, waking up when my sleeping pregnant body was not ready to wake up from an emotional night of stupid fights and surging hormones, I’m a walking, talking zombie.

By the time I woke up enough to realize I hadn’t even seen my phone, it was too late to go back to get it. At least, too late to get it myself.

Freddie went immediately—I think he could see the panic in my eyes—but by the time he made it back, we were already deep in the throes of shooting this scene. And I’ve had Heidi trying to get ahold of Harrison to tell him to come here for the last hour and a half, but still, it doesn’t seem like enough.

Especially not when we left it on the awful note we did last night.

Unsettled, hurt, needlessly upset with each other.

I haven’t been truly nauseated in a couple months, but trust me when I tell you, this morning, I could blow some serious chunks.

When Heidi looks down at my phone and hustles out the back door to answer it, I can’t help but follow her with my eyes until I can’t see her anymore.

Colin says lines I know I should be listening to, but I’m severely frustrated by the fact that my X-ray vision isn’t working properly. They say moms are superheroes. You’d think they’d consider giving us actual powers, for shit’s sake.

The director, Max Sulhoffer, calls cut—likely because of my attention deficit—and I peer back out into the crowd of cameras and set crew and extras as Heidi steps back inside.

She meets my eyes and shakes her head.

He isn’t coming.

Instantly, my whole demeanor deflates, but when the director’s eyes settle squarely on me, I know I have no time to dwell.

“Are we all ready this time?” the director asks me pointedly.

Fuck. I have to get my shit together. This is my job, and as much as I hate it, I’m going to have to wait to find out about Harrison until I get back to my apartment tonight.

I just need to get through the rest of today’s scenes, and then I can get everything figured out with Harrison.

It’s fine. By tonight, everything will be just fine. We’ll be fine.

God, I hope so.

Harrison

I’m turning into the world’s most impatient man.

I left work at four, which is pretty fucking early by my usual workaholic standards, and ever since I arrived at my apartment, time has been a vortex. Hell, it’s been a fucking vortex all damn day.

A story about the Mavericks plays on ESPN in the background of my living room, but I hear nothing.

I’ve been home for all of an hour, yet it feels like an eternity. My acute focus is stuck almost comically on my phone as I grip it in my hand, waiting desperately for it to ring or ping or fucking anything. My pep talks to myself about Rocky working and being busy and not blowing me off in any way are starting to wear thinner and thinner.

“Ring!” I exclaim, shaking my phone in my hand as though it can understand me. “Talk to me!”

I shake my head at myself, a scornful laugh making me sound a little too much like the Joker for my liking.

Finally, I drop the phone on the cushion of the sofa and stand up.

I start to walk away but turn back to check that the ringer is on, and then finally, turn and walk away again. I need a cup of coffee…whiskey…something.

I open cabinets in the kitchen and then close them without getting anything out for what feels like forty years but is only actually a minute according to the mocking clock on the microwave.

When my phone goes off suddenly, I take off at a run and dive over the back of my sofa as if I’m taking heavy fire under combat.

“Ow,” I say with a hobble after overshooting my target slightly and hitting my elbow with a little too much zeal on the coffee table. “Fuck, fuck,” I whine. “That bone is not funny at all.”

Still, I don’t give a fuck. I reach for my phone and grab it swiftly, just like I would even if my arm needed to be amputated at this point.

A text from Rocky shines like a beacon, and I can’t click to open it fast enough.