I . . . trusted her. I didn’t know why I trusted her so much, but I did. Which is ultimately why I’m here, isn’t it?
“But I don’t understand.” She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms as her gaze skated over me. “Why would you agree to this? With Harrison?”
“It made sense at the time. And it did help me get that part in Tabitha Tomorrow. Our ruse has definitely helped.” Furthering my career was why I’d agreed to do it in the first place and was the excuse I used—like a chant—whenever I felt shitty about the situation.
“You don’t need Harrison to get film parts. You’re hugely talented. And you’re stunning, I can’t think of anyone close to your age that looks like you. Maybe Eva Mendes? A little? You’re what would happen if Raquel Welch and Sophia Loren had a baby. And your eyes give me goose bumps. The pinnacle of Italian and Bolivian beauty.”
“My dad is Cuban.” I fiddled with the azabache bracelet on my wrist, a gift from my dad’s mother, and one of the only things I had from that side of my family.
“Oh. My mistake. I’m sorry. For some reason I thought your dad was Bolivian.”
“My grandparents were Cuban, both sets of great grandparents came over from Cuba.” I’d had a better relationship with my grandparents than I did with my father, especially with my grandmother. Every summer before they died, I would spend two weeks in Miami with them. He’d married someone else by the time I’d reached ten months, and they welcomed their first baby one year later.
I don’t know if his wife didn’t want me to visit them, or if my father resisted imposing his illegitimate daughter on his perfect family, but during all the visitation time he’d been given in the custody agreement I’d stayed with my grandparents.
“Why did I think your dad was Bolivian?”
“Raquel Welch is Bolivian—well, partially—and we share a name, so I think that’s why there’s confusion. And it’s okay. I don’t talk about my dad much. No biggie.” I shrugged, mentally sidestepping around the tenderness I felt about this subject, which was why I rarely talked about it.
It’s hard to talk about something you don’t even want to think about.
“My point is still valid. You’re brilliant. So I’m confused why you’d consent to this arrangement with Harrison.”
“Why are you confused?” I fingered the fourth and final shot of whiskey, glancing between her remaining three full glasses and my three empty ones. Was it too late to pace myself?
“Harrison cheated on you—for real—when you two were actually together. I know he hurt you.”
“That’s all in the past.” I waved her statement away. “And we’re—I’m not angry or hurt. I’m not at all angry with him about it anymore.” Finally, a truthful statement.
“This sounds complicated.” She sipped her second shot of whiskey, but actually sipped it. Not like me and my sudden insatiable thirst for lowering my inhibitions.
“It’s not that complicated.” I threw my hands in the air for some reason, the big movement feeling good. “We’re friends. We love each other as friends. The end.”
“Rae. He cheated on you, and now you’re friends? You came home early from shooting halfway around the world, found him in bed with two men, and you’re telling me you’re over that?”
Hmm. Maybe I trusted Sienna so much because she was the only other person—other than me, Harrison, and his two boy toys—who knew the truth about that night, and she hadn’t told anyone. His cheating being the reason for our split was well and widely known, who(m) he cheated with was still a secret. The debacle had happened when Sienna and I were shooting our one and only film together, and she had been the person I stayed with that night after walking in on the threesome.
“I am over it because, in retrospect, I can see now that I loved Harrison only as a friend. We were—are—friends.” God, it felt so good to discuss this with someone who wasn’t Harrison. I’d been keeping this secret for years, and it just felt good to talk about my ex, our non-relationship, and my thoughts on the subject.
“You think he prefers men?”
“Yes. I do. Sexual orientation is a spectrum of course, but I think he prefers peen and pecs, and I get it. I prefer peen and pecs. What do I want with boobs and beavers? So many parts, so many holes. Why do we have so many hills and holes? Women are basically golf courses.”
Sienna made a short snorting sound of both humor and surprise, her shoulders shaking with laughter, and she lowered her attention to the table. After a moment, no longer laughing, she cleared her throat and asked, “Okay, but you didn’t answer my question. Why do you think he prefers men?”
“Perhaps I’m wrong? Perhaps it’s just me? I do think he wasn’t super attracted to me. My breasts do nothing for him, they never did. It was actually one of the reasons we got together in the first place. He looked at my face when we spoke.” Despite our table being shaded by a mighty oak, I felt hot. I started to unbutton the linen shirt I wore over my tank top.
“You started dating him because he looked at your face when you spoke? That’s as high as you’ve set your bar?”
I gave her a flat look. “At the time, it made him special, unique. He was different than everyone else and seemed genuinely interested in me and my career. We shared the same goals, we wanted the same things. Plus, he’s Harrison. Funny, charming, sexy Harrison.”
“If tall, dark, and handsome do it for you.” Her admission sounded reluctant.
“Since we’re in a fake relationship there is no actual cheating anymore. I mean, other than sanctioned cheating, which I guess is what he does now. But it’s my turn to cause a scandal and I just—I’m just out of energy.” I plopped both of my elbows on the table and released a noisy breath.
“Cause a scandal? What do you mean sanctioned cheating?”
“All right, so per the agreement, to ensure we stay in the public spotlight, we’re engaged, right? But it can’t be smooth sailing. We’re back together, on again, off again, on again, off again. Everybody loves it, they follow it, constantly trending everywhere. Hashtag Harriquel, hashtag TeamRaquel, blah, blah, blah. And so he created the last scandal. Now it’s my turn.”
“You mean when he was photographed last month making out with Sabina Ureil?” Her question sounded salty, like she’d been harboring resentment on my behalf. It warmed my heart.
“Yes, the soccer player. And it’s fine because I knew about it. I guess we have an open relationship, except we can have sex with everyone but each other.” I hadn’t been with anyone, but I knew Harrison had. “We’re not romantic or touchy-feely at all unless we’re in public.”
“Now you have to. . . ?”
“Oh! Yes. Now it’s my turn to cheat and get photographed ‘accidentally.’ We got a guy who’ll tip off the right paps whenever I decide to give the go-ahead.” I used air quotes around the word accidentally because, apparently, I’d had enough whiskey to use air quotes. “But time’s a tickin’ and Domino is worried that if I'm not photographed being sexy with someone soon, then I will look pathetic getting back with Harrison yet again. I forgave him for the soccer player, therefore Harrison should forgive me for something. You know how it is.”