Not Your Type (Chris Pine FanFic)

Chelsea

Chelsea stood in the bathroom.  Again.  Why did she always end up in the bathroom when she was upset?  In the large mirror she could see her entire reflection.  Her hair was messy, her skin flushed.  She wrapped the buttonless shirt tightly around her small frame.  Nauseous, she sat on the edge of the bathtub.  What do I do now? She asked herself.   Chelsea began to wonder what Chris was doing.  Did he even care?  He certainly made it seem like he did.  For hours she’d sat talking with him about anything and everything. He seemed engaged, enjoying each story she told and countering with stories of his own.  She had completely forgotten the awful conversation with Mansfield.  He’s disgustingly good, she thought.

Cracking the door open slightly, she looked into the room.  Chris was standing there looking at his phone.  Quickly and stealthily she darted out of the bathroom and into the guest bedroom where she had changed.   Her charcoal colored dress was carefully hung over the back of a chair.  Chelsea put it back on, but left her feet bare.  Then she glanced down at the shirt.  In a weird moment of weakness, she folded it up as tightly as she could and tucked it under her jacket.  She was going to take his shirt.  Not that he’d notice, but she was taking it.  Rummaging through her small clutch she found a hair-tie.  Quickly her hair went into a simple ponytail.  Chelsea checked herself in the artsy mirror.  She looked like she was about to take the walk of shame.   She took slow, measured steps out of the room and to the stairs that would lead her out of the house.

Shame.   That was the feeling she had.  Early in the evening she’d had a strange feeling deep in her stomach that she couldn’t name, it was shame.   She was ashamed that she hadn’t seen this whole thing coming.  She was ashamed of falling for such a con.  Episodes of Lost flashed through her head, when Sawyer expertly made a woman fall in love with him and then took her for all he was worth.  Only Sawyer was left heartbroken and a father.  One thing for sure, Chelsea wasn’t pregnant.  And she was pretty certain Chris wasn’t heartbroken.   He could have any woman he wanted.   He probably had other women while she was being conned. 

Chelsea suddenly felt violently nauseous at the thought.  She grabbed her stomach. 

“Are you ok?” Chris called from the bottom of the stairs.

Her forehead creased, What kind of question is that?  She thought angrily. She felt the sudden urge to vomit all over his expensive, plush carpet.  Take that.  “Fine.”  She walked slowly down the stairs.

“There’s a car outside,” he didn’t look at her, he looked out the window where there was a black sedan waiting for her.

She turned and looked at him.  This was it.  He had actually called her a car.   He didn’t have the decency to drive her home himself.  As he had expertly made her fall for him, he was now expertly avoiding the consequences.  Chris stared out at the car.  Chelsea tried to think of the right words to say, but all she could feel was white-hot anger pulsating through her veins.  She concentrated on her breathing.  The last thing she wanted to do was say something she would regret later.

It felt like forever, standing there breathing with Chris staring away from her.  When she realized he wasn’t going to turn and look at her, nor was he going to say anything she continued walking down the stairs.   The urge to go over to him and wrap her arms around him, begging him to explain what was going on, was great.  She fought it.  Head held high, she walked directly to the door.  Her anger multiplying tenfold with each step. 

Reaching out for the doorknob she almost expected her hand to melt it; she was so hot with frustration.

“Chels,” her lips pursed at the sound of her name coming from his mouth.  Slowly she turned around; knowing the look in her eyes would cause him to shrink back.  It did.  “I don’t know what to say,” he said sheepishly.