Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

I’m thankful Heidi hasn’t shuffled him to a janitorial closet somewhere in the dregs of the Shrine Auditorium yet. It’s reassuring to catch a glimpse of his face every once in a while. Probably because every time I do, he gifts me with a smile of comfort. Apparently, unlike everyone else, he can sense my irritation.

He’s almost intrinsically in tune with me, and I have to wonder if it has something to do with the scientific fact that I’m carrying an actual human being with half of his DNA inside me. I doubt the baby, like, shoots its father’s pheromones into my bloodstream or whatever, but it feels like it’s connected somehow.

Whatever the case, I’m glad to have him here. And I’m really glad he vocalized a suggestion that made it happen. I know I probably should have done it myself, but I have years and years of experience letting Heidi take the reins and getting the results I want. It seems counterproductive to challenge that. But for this—for both Harrison’s and my comfort—I should have engaged my backbone.

Regardless, I’m glad and grateful he did it for me.

I step and repeat in front of the main sponsorship logo for the Screen Actors Guild and push my tongue to the roof of my mouth to make my face look as slender and tight-skinned as possible. I cock my leg at an angle that showcases the split in the gown Gallevero custom made for me and turn to the side to show off my bump when prompted.

I get lost in the excitement of the pregnancy and allow myself the escape of pretending it’s all far less complicated. Like it isn’t Ben on my arm, but Harrison. And we’re the couple Hollywood is crazy for. I let myself believe that this baby wasn’t the result of one night in New York, but instead, the culmination of an epic love story we’ll tell our grandkids and they’ll pass down for generations.

I smile, cradling the bump with a gentle hand and freeze as what feels like a million and one cameras go off. Ben takes notice of the flurry and steps in to get his piece of the moment.

Of course, the feel of his body fitting to mine as his hands find my stomach ruins it all for me.

Just like that. Fantasy revoked.

An unexpected swing in hormones brings tears to my eyes, and I have to blink rapidly to stop them from falling. The very last thing I need is to fall apart on the red carpet—not with this many sets of eyes and endless technology pointed at me.

I turn my head slightly, craning my neck and searching for my ever-growing comfort zone. It doesn’t take long to find it in Harrison’s plush green eyes. He holds mine, a single line of connection through the chaos of way too many people, and the focus brings me back from the brink of disaster.

It’s almost as if his presence somehow grounds me in my life. He was around before any of this existed. Before my parents turned fame-obsessed, and my brother turned to drugs and alcohol, and before he finally hit rock bottom and took off for the middle of God knows where. Harrison was around before I was Raquel Weaver, famed virgin turned publicly deflowered—before all the bullshit and makeup and pretending.

Harrison Hughes saw me before anyone else did, and somehow, when he looks at me now, it’s as if he can still see that girl he used to know underneath all the layers and layers of Hollywood.

Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to lock eyes with him for long. An angry Heidi steps between us pointedly and grinds a heated jaw. I can’t blame her entirely; I am making her job a whole lot harder. But I don’t have the hormonal capacity to be completely rational right now. If I did, I wouldn’t have eaten a full bag of Cheetos in my closet before we left to come here and stuffed the evidence in the slouchy pocket of a $4,500 white blazer. I’ll probably never get the neon dust off of it, and a whole sector of my fashion-influencer following would be horrified if they ever found out, but man, they tasted so damn good.

Turning my attention back to the wall of reporters in front of us, I scan their faces for shreds of humanity. I’m willing to talk to them—it’s a large part of my job—but I’m not in the mood to end up face-to-face with the snakes of the media-driven bunch. I’m nowhere near fast enough on my six-inch-heel-clad feet to avoid getting bitten these days.

Down the line, an excited young woman with the Beth Cartwright Show waves her microphone to get my attention. I don’t recognize her as one of the regulars, and I take that as a good sign. Beth is sort of known for pulling ordinary people from the real world into these things and giving them a chance to bring some joy to an otherwise cog-filled wheel.