Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl
I smile. Looks like she’s finally had a break between filming to read my message.
Me: Yeah. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.
A week of no private time with her at all feels like a lifetime. Plus, all the time we’ve spent together since that night in August has either been devoted to her job or the baby, and I have big, big plans to pay attention to something else entirely tonight.
Rocky: That’s sweet, Harrison, but what are we going to do? It’s not like we can go out somewhere. We’d be mobbed. It’d be too crazy.
I smirk down at her response.
Oh, how little does she know what I have planned…
Me: Don’t you worry about that, Rock. I have something up my sleeve, and I know just where to take you.
Rocky: It’s not, like, an underground bunker with the skeletons of women past, is it?
Me: That was my second choice if my first didn’t work out, but you’re in luck. No bunkers this time.
Rocky: All right, all right. Where and when?
Me: Tonight. When are you going to be done filming today?
Rocky: Probably not until 6.
Me: Okay. Meet me at my apartment at 7:30. I’ll take care of the rest, and yes, I promise, there will be food. Lots of it.
Rocky: Geez, am I that predictable?
Me: Not you, the baby, remember? ;)
My baby.
God. It’s crazy how quickly life can change.
Funny thing is, now that I’m here, I can’t imagine going back.
Harrison
If I were a magician, they’d have to call me Mr. Romantic because I have all sorts of what Thatch’s favorite books would call “swoony” up my sleeves.
Sunset- and beach-scapes taped to the appropriate walls, tropical candles lit, comfortable blanket on the “sand,” a cold bucket of refreshments and the biggest picnic basket of food California’s ever seen all set up and waiting, I’m ready when Rocky knocks on my apartment door at just after seven thirty.
Dressed in a white tank top, denim maternity shorts, what I’ve lovingly designated as her Mr. Rogers sweater, and no makeup on her face, she’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hi,” she says sweetly.
“Hi.” I smile. “I see it’s a good day in the neighborhood.”
She glances down at her sweater and laughs. “It’s comfortable!”
“I know. I love it.”
“Yeah, sure,” she snarks back as she steps farther into the room and turns from looking over her shoulder at me to the inside of my LA apartment. “That’s why you—”
A gasp jumps from her mouth, and one petite hand pops up to cover it. Scanning desperately around the room, she looks at the scenes on the walls, the rolling ocean track I have on the TV, the candles on the counters, until she stops on the setup in the center of the room. Her hand falls from her mouth, but it takes a while before anything finds its way out of the newly created opening.
“What is this?” she finally whispers, spinning on her heels and looking up at me with the most painfully earnest violet eyes I’ve ever seen.
“It’s a beach picnic.”
“A beach picnic,” she repeats reverently. “For me. In your living room.”
I nod. “Like you said, we can’t go out. This is the next best thing. I tried to think of everything to make it the most authentic beach picnic experience I could manage, but I’m sorry if I forgot anything.”
“Are you kidding?” she cries, jumping up to wrap her small arms around my shoulders. I take her weight and lean into her hair as she speaks directly into my ear. “This is the sweetest, best, most thoughtful, amazing thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“I know it’s not quite like the real thing—”
She shakes her head, stopping my words. “This is better than any and every tropical island I’ve ever been to.”
It pains me to separate her body from mine. I’ve been desperate for this connection since last week—and a hell of a lot longer, if I’m honest—but I know she has to be starving, and no matter my wants, taking care of her needs is my number one priority.
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand and helping her down to the floor onto a giant, cozy pillow. “There’s tons of food.”
“Thank God,” she replies, confirming her hunger. “I haven’t eaten in about six hours, and this baby of ours finds that entirely unacceptable. Another twenty minutes of making it wait and I’m pretty sure it’d be using its wittle tiny womb phone to call CPS.”
“Wittle tiny womb phone?” I ask with a laugh before shaking my head. “Which one of my demented friends came up with that one?”
She frowns almost comically. “How do you know that’s not my original material?”
“Is it?” I say, lifting one eyebrow.
She huffs. “No.”
I chuckle again. “Don’t fret. I just know Thatch and Cap. In fact, I know them even better than I ever thought I’d want to. And the word “wittle” with a w could only come from one of them using their imaginary baby voices.”