SHUSHED - CHRIS EVANS ✔️

CHAPTER EIGHT - ATLANTA TO SEATTLE

"Okay. I'm on set, about to film part of the big battle scene."

"Oh okay. That'll be cool."

An awkward silence rests between us.

"What's up? Why are you being weird?"

"I'm not being weird." We're silent again as Chris waits for me to tell him what's going on.

"I just...I saw some pictures online and it upset me." I can hear voices in the background, people bustling around the movie set.

"What pictures?"

"You. With your ex."

"Babe..." He responds with a gentle warning. I hear him cover the phone with his hand as he looks for somewhere more private.

"This is my job, that was just some event. Do you think that I would be with her ever again?" The stress and irritation are clear in his voice.

"I don't know, are you?" I ask.

Chris groaned. "I can't deal with this right now."

"Sorry have to deal with me. Jeez, Chris. Why don't you just talk to me?" The nasty snap in my words isn't helping. I need to chill out.

"I'm not gonna fight with you over the phone."

"Fine. Come here and fight with me in person then. Not like I've seen you recently." I know I'm being a bitch but my panic is spiraling.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "You know what I mean. Can we do this later?"

His sharp tone is accented by the obvious frustration he's fighting to keep concealed from me and whoever else is on the other side of the phone.

"Okay, fine. Talk later," I reply.

"Later," he responds brusquely and hangs up.

The phone still at my ear, I hope his voice will fill the silence again. But he's gone. He's hung up on me.

I drop my phone into my palm and watch as the screensaver of our smiling faces disappears and the auto light fades off.

"Well FUCK!" I yell across my office. The fury builds up inside me as I throw my phone across the desk. I clench my fists and press them to my eyes. Crying won't fix this.

But I can't help it. Tears run down my cheeks as I chase my phone amongst the papers and stare at it, willing Chris to call back. I suppress the urge to call him again.

Doubt races through my mind and my throat feels like it's full of rocks. Somewhere a sane part of my brain tells me not to be irrational.

I didn't even get to tell him about my new client.

Before I spiral completely out of control I flip to my favorite contacts and call my friend Kyra.

When she answers I blurt out the whole story, the details of those stupid pictures, our argument, his words. She listens as a good friend does, and after my rant has ended and I'm breathing normally again, she suggests we go have margaritas. She insists a distraction would keep me from calling him.

Kyra and I meet at our favorite Taqueria overlooking Puget Sound. After summarizing the whole fight for her again and explaining my jealousy, she gives me a few bits of reassuring advice, and then successfully distracts me with talk about mutual friends and past memories. We cheers our margaritas to my new deal and the distraction seems to work.

Soon I'm on my third margarita and feeling great. I decide it's a great idea to go dancing. Kyra accompanies me like a faithful chaperone, sipping a drink from our table as I shake it across the dance floor. And then in a blur of margaritas and pop songs I forget about the fight.