Makes sense since you’re currently in denial about what you think of yourself and this goddamn Hollywood circus in this moment.
Ugh. I blink my eyes to clear the thoughts out of my head, the ones that would hold the power to make me spiral.
Harrison stands as Wilson approaches him from behind, taps him on the shoulder, and jerks his head toward the door. I take a step in his direction, intent to apologize before he spends the next God knows how many hours waiting for me in some medical supply closet, but Heidi puts a hand to my shoulder and pulls me back.
“Alejo and Roberta need to fix your hair and makeup before we go to costume fittings, Raquel. Why don’t you go shower now? They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
When she finally finishes her spiel and I look back at the door, Harrison and Wilson are gone.
Son of a bitch.
By the time I make it to Beverly Hills Obstetrics six hours later, the day feels like it’s lasted a million hours. Between my constant internal monologue about Harrison and what he’s doing and what he’s thinking and whether or not he’s getting angry about waiting and why he’d want to stick around for someone like me, I’ve been primped and fitted and interviewed. Not to mention, I’ve done it all in heels much too tall for a woman with a messed-up center of gravity.
And beyond all of that, I’ve been privy to the life and times of Ben Douchebag Huddleson. To say I’m tired of this dude’s complete lack of self-awareness is an understatement.
I am complicated and spoiled and many, many things. But Ben Huddleson is a diva—and not the good kind that Beyoncé sings about. If he tells me to smile one more time, I swear I’m going to go full-on Halsey “Nightmare” on his ass.
Lucky for me, he’s also signed on to be my accessory for the next one-to-three years. Yay. I really should have invested in a purse instead. Or a scarf. I don’t really wear scarves, but compared with Ben Huddleson, it’s suddenly feeling really useful.
Ben steps out of the car first when we pull up to the building, reaching back to help me out as photographers go crazy snapping as many shots as they can.
I shield my face like I would from the sun and carefully put one foot in front of the other until we reach the entrance of the building. Once inside, we’re protected by the sanctions of medical privacy, and Ben pretty quickly forgets what it’s like to help a woman do anything.
He lets go of my hand and immediately takes out his phone to scroll through something. God forbid he doesn’t keep his Instagram followers happy with another moody selfie.
I head for the elevators, and when I look back, he’s trailing slowly behind.
I hold the doors for him—who even knows why—but he doesn’t offer a thank-you. In fact, he doesn’t even look in my direction as we ride the six floors up to the office of Dr. Sabrina Simpson.
According to Heidi, she’s the go-to OB-GYN for celebrities, and everybody who’s anybody has their baby delivered by Dr. Simpson in the private wing of Cedars-Sinai. Of course, never missing an extravagant, putting out the perfect image beat, Heidi already booked my suite for the delivery, a three-bedroom luxury accommodation with a private delivery room and room service for any food imaginable—after the birth, of course. That’s the funny thing about medicine—you can get a whole bunch of fancy shit, but at the end of the day, you’re still going to be stuck eating ice chips before the blessed debut, no matter who you freaking are.
When the elevator opens, I grab Ben’s elbow and force him out quickly. He startles, snapping an offended “Hey!” but I’m done waiting for him to dawdle.
Harrison’s been at the office all day—literally. I’m getting in that freaking place and ditching my fake fiancé beard as fast as humanly possible so I can finally see the only two people I’ve wanted to all day—Harrison and the baby.
When we step inside the waiting room, Heidi’s clearly already done her work because it’s empty aside from the receptionist.
I step up to the window, but I don’t have to say anything before the girl at the desk smiles and jumps up from her chair.
“Right this way, Ms. Weaver.”
I nod my thanks just as Ben turns on his most charming smile. Flirting with the receptionist at my obstetrician’s office should probably be off-limits for my phony fiancé, but that doesn’t seem to occur to him and I’m too tired to suggest it. Truthfully, I don’t really care all that much either. The less time I have to spend talking to Bimbo Ben, the better.
Instead, I roll my eyes and follow the perky blonde down the hall to patient room eight.