by Max Monroe
“You are royalty, Raquel—Hollywood royalty. You may not have a crown, but I can assure you, your position isn’t all that different.”
I could give two shits about my position or crowns or whatever. There is no way I can let my sweet, innocent baby be used for publicity. The mere thought of it makes me want to puke.
“I’m not doing it.” End of fucking story.
Heidi sighs heavily. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this because you’ve been so happy. But I made a deal with them, Raquel. Two months ago. In exchange for them not running the picture of you screaming on the balcony like you’d lost your damn mind and coming up with their own story to go with it, they get an exclusive of you with the baby. We can’t go back on the deal.”
Panic sweeps over me. Pregnancy hormones have apparently only enhanced my struggles with claustrophobia because this tight little corner I’ve been backed into feels like it’s liable to choke the life right out of me.
Harrison’s sexy, sleepy voice surprises both Heidi and me when he speaks up from the mouth of the hall. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s no big deal.” I try to calm this situation down before it even has the chance to get out of hand, but Heidi talks right over me.
“She’s trying to back out of a deal that she can’t, that’s what.”
“Heidi,” I snap. “We’ll deal with this later—”
“What deal?” he asks then, shoving away from the wall while pulling his T-shirt down over his head.
“A tiny little spread of her and the baby in Glam magazine,” Heidi says before I can stop her.
Harrison’s eyebrows draw together immediately.
Three weeks ago, while talking about the baby and trying to figure out possible names over dinner in his apartment one night, we agreed that we didn’t want our child in the limelight. Not until he or she was old enough to understand and make a choice for themselves. I grew up in the business, and for as much success as I’ve had because of it, I would go back and choose a normal life if I could.
“Raquel was just saying she would do it,” Heidi challenges, and I nearly growl.
“No. I was not saying that.” I shake my head and look at Harrison. “I said I didn’t want to do it, but apparently, it’s complicated because Heidi already promised I would.”
“Well, she’s just going to have to unpromise, then,” Harrison snaps. Months and months of time spent together, and this is one of the only times I’ve ever seen him truly angry. “We’re not exploiting our newborn. Not for money, not for a career. Period.”
Heidi moves her eyes to me, a pointed brow to remind me of what’s at stake. In the name of keeping things calm inside my apartment, I do my best to walk the fine line between the two of them. “We’ll have to talk. Figure it out. See what Heidi can do—”
“No,” Harrison interrupts. “We’re not going to figure anything out. It’s figured out. Heidi is going to tell them we’re not going to do it, or we’re going to tell her she doesn’t work for us anymore.”
Already on edge, my hackles rise at the use of “us” and the fact that he so swiftly cut me off before I could finish. “Work for us?” I say, questioning it with a little more anger in my voice than I expect.
“Us, you, whatever,” he responds, his irritation more than apparent by the harsh tone of his voice. “Don’t try to justify this with semantics, Rock. We agreed that this wasn’t going to happen.”
“Can I talk to you privately?” I finally say, losing my temper as Heidi looks on with a smirk.
Harrison turns and walks back to the bedroom without saying a word, and I follow.
I step inside behind him and close the door, and he doesn’t hesitate to fire the first shot.
“I can’t believe you would even entertain that shit, Rock. For fuck’s sake, have some fucking backbone.”
My spine, called to arms, straightens on demand. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, baby. You let that woman walk all fucking over you. Spike heels, boots, the tread doesn’t matter. As long as you get your money and so does she.”
Get my money? Seriously?
“Hey!” I shout. “What the fuck?”
He turns to face the other side of the room and runs both his hands through his hair, and I turn him back with a jerk at his elbow. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” he says. “I thought we were beyond this, but apparently not. You’re still her little fucking puppet.”
“I think you need to leave,” I tell him, feeling like everything is crumbling around me and leaving me no way out. I don’t want to fight with him, but he doesn’t understand the position I’m in either. And no matter what, I don’t need him to speak for me. I don’t need anyone to speak for me but myself.
Christ, he’s the one who taught me that.
“Leave?”
I nod. “Maybe we both need a little distance and time. We should just take the day and try again tomorrow.”
“You really want me to leave?” he asks, clearly hurt.
“Yes,” I confirm. “So we don’t end up saying things we can’t take back. I don’t start shooting tomorrow morning until eleven. Come here beforehand, and we’ll talk everything over once we’ve had time to cool down.”
“Rocky—”
“Just…go,” I say, voice quiet. “You cool off. I’ll cool off. And we’ll talk tomorrow.”
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but words don’t come out, and I’m so close to giving in and telling him not to leave. But ultimately, he grabs his phone and wallet and keys from my nightstand and walks out of the room without looking back.
I swear, a little piece of me crumbles right there.
Tears threaten to fill my eyes, but I blink them back with a tight squeeze.
Ugh. This sucks so hard. But the conversation had already twisted down this awful, irrational path, and we need to wait until we’re calm to talk about this again.
I know I’m doing the right thing—forcing us to take a step back until cooler heads prevail—but watching him walk out of the room angry feels like I’m hacking off my own arm.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. It’s just one day. We’ll fix everything tomorrow.
Harrison
Sometimes, the best thing you can do is admit when you’re the asshole.
My eyes are bloodshot, and my chest feels like lead as I walk down the hall toward Rocky’s apartment. I slept like shit and I know I probably should’ve waited until it was at least eight in the morning to show up at her door, but when the clock struck seven, I couldn’t wait any longer. The way we left things yesterday doesn’t sit well with me at all, and I’ve been replaying it in my head all night, and now, all morning too.
I’m not comforted by the conclusion that I was an asshole, but I know acknowledging one’s faults is the best step. But dang, this one stings. Going an entire night with the weight of our argument on my heart was worse than any kind of injury I ever acquired while playing rugby or staying fit at Tommy John’s. And trust me, neither of the two is a gentle sport.
It took everything inside me not to call her or text her or just show up at her apartment last night, but she wanted us to take a day, and I wanted to respect that.
Still, I know Rocky and I know myself, and I’m sure after we talk it out this morning—and I apologize profusely for being a stupid, arrogant, asshole-ish man, we’ll put it behind us and move on to the next stage of our lives.
My eyebrows draw together as I knock on the door for the fourth time with no answer. Worry covers me like a blanket as a list of horrible worst-case scenarios flashes through my mind.
Rocky slipping and impaling herself on an unattended knife.
A stray bird making its way in an open window and startling Rocky just as she was about to get in the tub, making her slip and fall and hit her head, subsequently ending up underwater.
Rocky going out on her balcony to get a little air and leaning over a little t
oo far…
Obviously, my mind has absolutely no practical limitations when it comes to vivid, death-causing scenarios.
But I know better. I know that not only would none of those things be likely to happen at all, but when it comes to Rocky, the possibility is just about zero. She’s always surrounded by a group of people—fucking micromanaging, invasive people—who would never give her the space or time to let any of those visions even remotely take shape.
I’m just about to pull out my phone to get to the bottom of it when footsteps behind me grab my attention, and I glance over my shoulder to find Wilson walking down the hall, his head turned downward to focus on his tablet.
He notices me just after I notice him, and he frowns. “You forget something in there?”
That’s the weirdest fucking question. “No. I was supposed to meet up with Rocky here before they left for the set.”
Wilson scrolls around on his tablet frantically and then looks back up at me. “You must have gotten your wires crossed because they’re already there. Filming started an hour ago.”
“Really? She told me to meet her here now. Said filming wasn’t starting until later this morning.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t want you around, you know? Extra nerves or something.”
Extra nerves? Because of me? What the hell?
“Maybe I’ll just call her and see if she wants me to come down there now.”
Wilson frowns. “Sorry, man, but I don’t think she’ll have her phone if she’s on set.”
Frustrated with his meddling, I take out my phone and start dialing anyway. “I’ll just check.”
It only takes two rings for her to answer, but when the voice comes on the line, unfortunately, it’s not her at all.
“Raquel Weaver’s phone,” Heidi answers. She doesn’t say it’s her, but I’d recognize her voice anywhere. She certainly uses it enough. Not to mention, it’s not like she doesn’t know I’m the one calling.
“Heidi, I need to talk to Rocky.”
“Sorry, but she’s on set right now. She can’t come to the phone.”
I groan, but I bite my tongue against a smart response. Like it or not, she is the only messenger available to the woman I care about more than anyone else in the world.
Love, my mind taunts. Love is the word you’re looking for.
Shh, I say back. Now is not the time for those kinds of revelations.
“All right, I understand. But can you just tell her to call me when she gets a minute?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you,” I say earnestly. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful for this woman. It’s for thin reasoning, but it’s true, nonetheless.
“Listen…I know you and I don’t see eye to eye. But I feel like you deserve to know this, so when you get your chance to put in the effort, you’ll know how hard to try.”
“Okay,” I say. “What is it?”
“Raquel is really upset. Honestly, I’ve never seen her like this. She told me that she’s not ready to talk to you yet. That’s why she didn’t call you to tell you about the change to the shoot schedule this morning. Just…make sure you keep that in mind. I don’t think it’s going to be as easy to win her over as a quick apology.”
I swallow hard, and she sighs heavily to fill the space so I don’t have to say anything back.
“I’ll give her the message and tell her to call.”
“Thanks.”
“Goodbye, Harrison.”
When I pull the phone away from my ear, Wilson takes one look at me, pats me on the shoulder, and says, “Nice knowing ya, man,” before heading back off down the hall and toward the elevators.
And I’m just left standing there, outside of Rocky’s apartment.
What the fuck just happened?
My stomach churns, completely unsettled and unsure of how quickly it all turned so fucking sour.
I guess I’m going to have to try to busy myself with work for the next several hours until she’s done on set and I can actually get the opportunity to talk through this mess with her, in person.
Yeah. Fuck. Unfortunately for me and my wounded heart, all I can do now is wait.
Raquel
I should be cool, calm, and collected, but instead, I have the hot-as-the-sun body temperature of a very pregnant woman, and I’m worried, frustrated, and concerned.
“Have you heard from Harrison yet?” I ask for what has to be the fiftieth time since we started shooting a few hours ago, and Heidi shakes her head.
“Sorry, sweetie. Nothing.”
My frustration comes out in a low growl as the director calls us back to our places. I settle into my spot on the bed, a huge fur comforter covering any and all evidence of my pregnancy other than my puffy face, and shiver as my costar, Colin Maclin, takes his spot behind me.
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 blo
wing 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.
Rocky: I’m sorry for the confusion this morning, but we need to talk.
Me: Of course. Name the time and place, and I’m there.
The text bubbles populate, waving their little dots tauntingly while I wait for her to type. It is agonizing, and part of me has a mind to calling her and doing away with all the texting. I just want to hear her voice.
Rocky: I think we should just do it now. I’ve been thinking about this a lot since last night—all night.
Me: I’ve been thinking about it too, Rock. I’m sorry for the way I acted. I know I didn’t give you a real chance to speak your mind. And that’s something I always want you to be able to do, even if we don’t agree.
Impatience gets the best of me as I watch her type again, and I hit the button to try calling her. She doesn’t answer, but a text message pops up again almost immediately.