Before me, she was the most popular virgin actress in Hollywood.
She’s still got all the same pressures, except now, she’s knocked up.
I watch her closely as she steps into the main frame of the camera and poses while photographers take endless pictures of her, the flashes like lightning in an otherwise clear sky.
Her rich, dark brown hair is pulled loosely off her face in big, stylized waves, and her makeup is dramatic as always. With a cat-like eye and deep red lips, she doesn’t look anything like the woman I know intimately, but there’s no denying she looks beautiful.
“I have to admit, Tom, for as much as the world was expecting Raquel Weaver to be a virgin forever, she sure looks beautiful with a glow.”
“I have to agree, Katarina. Can you even imagine the beauty of a HuddleWeaver baby?”
Katarina, the female commentator on the channel I’m watching, laughs charmingly at her co-host. “The world isn’t ready, Tom.”
“Katarina and Tom,” I mock softly. “A HuddleWeaver baby, my asshole. Huddleson can blow me.”
Decked out in a navy velvet jacket, Ben steps up next to Rocky and poses for the camera. He pays little attention to Rocky next to him, until the photographers start to call out feverishly about their unexpected love match.
He turns to Rock then, wrapping an arm around her waist and using his other hand to make a dramatic statement by putting it lovingly to her stomach.
I take another pull of whiskey and grit my teeth, shaking my head. And I thought there was no way I could hate this Hollywood awards show bullshit more.
Watching Rocky with this guy is pure torture, and I’m not even entirely sure why. We’re not a couple. We don’t have plans to be a couple. We never were a couple.
But that is my baby inside her stomach, masquerading as someone else’s. And not just anyone else—a dicknoodle like Ben Huddleson.
His cheesy smile looks like he smells something foul.
Fucking jackass.
I flip the channel quickly, scrolling through the guide to ESPN and putting on highlights from the Mavericks play-off game to try to distract myself from the bullshit. Maybe watching a team I love, that’s owned by one of my best friends, Wes Lancaster, will put me in a better mood.
Unfortunately, I only make it through a minute and a half of postgame commentary before clicking back over. Evidently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
I probably should have gone to kickboxing today, just let someone kick the shit out of me until I passed out so I didn’t have to watch this shit.
Sure, it’s extreme, but I can almost guarantee it would feel better than this does.
“So, Ben, how’s it feel to be an expectant father?” the red-carpet reporter asks annoyingly.
Ben’s smile turns irksomely horseshitty. “It’s great. I’m excited for the future and can’t wait to see where it takes my little one.”
His little one. The fucker.
The interviewer swoons, and I chuck a pillow at the TV. My smartphone goes off like a warning bell designed to remind me to calm down, but the truth is, it’s not that smart. It’s just a text message.
I pick it up and click open the bubble.
I don’t bother to go after the pillow. Fuck that pillow.
Cap: Yo, son, you watching the game recap?
Me: I’m watching the Golden Globes.
Cap: I’m sorry, what?
Even in my despair, I realize pretty quickly how stupid it is to even consider telling Caplin Hawkins about all this shit right now. Before I know it, he and the whole fucking gang would be at my door, and I’m not ready for that just yet.
Quickly, I come up with an excuse to cover my ass.
Me: I’m kidding. Of course, I’m watching. Mitchell is looking good.
Thankfully, the Mavericks make it relatively easy to lie. Cam Mitchell always looks good, so I know I can’t go wrong there, and when I get done talking about him, it’ll be easy enough to make stuff up about Leo Landry, Quinn Bailey, and Sean Phillips too. They’ve been playing together for years, and they have a very distinct rhythm.
Cap: HAH. You had me worried for a second, Whore-i-son. Thought maybe the California air was getting to you.
Me: Oh yeah. Totally drugged. Meanwhile, I’m in New York.
Cap: What the fuck? And you just…weren’t gonna tell us? Are you trying to hide shit from me?
Me: What are you, my wife?
Cap: Yes. I’m your male life partner, obviously. Now, tell your lovie what the hell you’re doing in New York?
Me: I’m getting my shit.
Cap: You’re really going??
Me: We’ll talk at book club.
Cap: You’re coming to poker night?
I roll my eyes and type out a response.
Me: Why does this suddenly feel like a riddle? Yes. I’m coming to whatever the fuck it is that we do at Thatch’s apartment.
Cap: Don’t be so high-maintenance, bro. Just go with the flow.