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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.
Rocky: I can’t talk right now. I’m in a meeting, and I really shouldn’t be texting either, but I couldn’t let this wait.
Me: I understand. Maybe we should just talk when you’re done today.
Rocky: No. I need to get it out now.
I wait as she types more, but never in a million years would I have expected the message that comes. If I’d been able to, I would have coated myself in Teflon and shatterproof glass.
Rocky: You should go back to New York. To your life. To your friends. Things are just too complicated here, and as much as I respect you and care about you as a person, I just don’t think we’ve thought all of this through enough. I think we had the right idea when we were just trying to be dedicated co-parents.
What? No. That doesn’t even make sense.
My hands shake as I type out another message.
Me: You can’t just decide this without us really talking, Rocky. I want a say in this. A chance to prove to you how good we are together.
But her far-too-quick response does nothing for the deep-rooted ache in my chest and gnawing pit in my stomach.
Rocky: I don’t want you to stay in LA anymore, Harrison. We had a good time while it lasted, but your being here just makes everything more stressful. I can’t handle another person trying to make decisions in my life. You told me to stand up for myself, and that’s what I’m doing. Go back to New York. I promise to keep you involved in the baby’s life.
Go back to New York? My being here makes everything more stressful?
It’s all such bullshit.
You know what? Fuck that! All this time together, and all I’m supposed to get is a text message goodbye? There’s no way in hell I’m going to let that happen.
Me: I’m not leaving until I talk to you in person.
I stare down at my phone, waiting for another response, but it doesn’t come.
One minute. Two minutes. Ten fucking minutes go by and nothing.
What the fuck.
I check the time and see it’s quarter till six, and I start to create a plan in my head.
Rocky had to go to set early today, and being well acquainted with her normal shooting schedule, I know she should be back home by nine, ten at the very latest.
I’m just going to have to wait this out for a few more hours because no fucking way will I let shit end like this.
Raquel
Even food isn’t bringing me joy today.
“Raquel, honey, it’s Toby. Are you okay?” a voice calls from the other side of my trailer, and I sigh.
“I’m fine,” I say and swipe at the tears slipping down my cheeks. “Just need a moment.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Nope. I’m good. Thanks.”
Footsteps shuffle away from the outside of my trailer, and my shoulders sag farther into the couch.
What should be a glorious dinnertime experience is me, locked inside my trailer, wishing I would’ve snagged my phone from Heidi before I snuck off on my own for a few blessed moments of alone time between takes. Well, I didn’t so much as sneak off on my own… More like I shouted at my manager, the crew, pretty much everyone on set that I would be taking my dinner break alone, without any interruptions.
Call me a diva; I don’t care. Between all these freaking hormones flowing around inside my blood and the extended work hours my director added to the schedule and the whole messy argument with Harrison that has yet to be solved, and I am done with this fucking day.
I just want to go home.
I just want to see him.
The stupid plate of food that sits on the small table in front of me holds no appeal, which says a lot. Generally speaking, breakfast, lunch, dinner, snack time, any-freaking-meal time, usually has my big, preggo self damn near drooling with excitement.
