Chapter Text
You were barely holding it together.
You'd been crying off and on for most of the day, sometimes sobbing, sometimes nothing more than a few tears sliding down your cheeks. You'd called your boss and begged for the morning off, which he agreed to give you, in fact, he'd offered to give your late afternoon interview to one of your colleagues, but you'd refused, promising that you'd be fine by then.
There was no way you were giving up that interview. It literally could make or break your career. It wasn't every day that a simple online magazine with a small readership scored an interview with a Hollywood heavyweight. Nor was it every day that you were lucky enough to nab that interview for yourself. Despite the day you'd had, you were going to do your job and do it well.
Once you got to the hotel where the press junket was taking place, you ducked into the nearest bathroom to wash your hands and check your face in the mirror. Your eyes were still kind of red and puffy and your makeup needed to be touched up, but you were somewhat presentable. You quickly fixed your makeup, ran your fingers through your hair, and put on some chapstick - forget the lipstick, you were nervous and gnawing on your lips anyway - then you pulled your bag over your shoulder, yanked open the bathroom door, and headed for the elevators, displaying a confidence you weren't feeling.
Twenty minutes later, you were ushered into a large suite on one of the upper floors by a blonde woman with glasses. Sitting in one of the chairs, laughing, head thrown back, hand on his chest, lighting up the room like a ray of sunshine was the man you were here to interview. As soon as he saw you, he jumped to his feet and extended his hand.
"Hi," he smiled warmly. "I'm Chris."
"I'm Y/N, Mr. Evans," you smiled nervously.
"Oh man, call me Chris, please," he laughed. "I feel old when you call me Mr. Evans.” He gestured to the seat across from him and sat down.
His smile was so sweet and genuine, even under the god-awful mustache, that you were having a hard time concentrating. You sat down, almost missing the chair, your bag falling to the ground with a loud thunk. You reached into your bag and tried to find your notebook, but of course, you couldn’t, so you had to pull the damn thing onto your lap and search through it, your head practically all the way inside of it, finally finding it under your tampons, two empty gum wrappers, and four tubes of chapstick. You yanked it free, dropped the bag back to the floor, and hit the record button on your phone.
“Okay,” you sighed. “Um...let’s see...Mr. Evans…”
“Chris,” he corrected.
“Right, sorry,” you mumbled. “Chris.” You cleared your throat and stared at the list of questions in your notebook. They all seemed stupid and lame and he’d probably heard them all before. You also had a list of questions you couldn’t ask and ones you should ask. None of them seemed like a good first question.
You glanced up at him, sure he was thinking you were an idiot. He was watching you, stroking the hideous mustache on his face that he’d grown for his stint in the Broadway show, Lobby Hero.
“How do you feel your acting translates to the screen versus how it translates on stage?” you blurted.
You must have asked the right question because Chris’s bright blue eyes widened and then he launched into a detailed explanation of how his acting was different onstage versus on film. After that, the questions seemed to flow much easier and before you knew it, your time was up.
You rose to your feet, Chris doing the same, then he shook your hand, squeezing it gently.
“Thank you for not asking about the mustache,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome,” you giggled.
The door on the other side of the room opened and to your surprise, Chris’s dog, Dodger bounded inside, heading straight for his master, and by default, you. He barreled into you, knocking you backward, forcing you to one knee, his paw on your leg, his face inches from yours.
“Josh!” Chris yelled over your head. “What the hell, man?”
Fresh tears poured down your face and a choked sob left you. You rested your head on Dodger’s and ran your hand up and down his flank, murmuring ‘good boy, good boy’ over and over again.
“Hey, Y/N, are you okay?” Chris said, crouching beside you. “I’m so sorry. Dodger can be a dumbass sometimes. He got overly excited when he saw me.” He took your elbow and helped you to your feet, his face a mask of concern.
“I-I’m f-fine,” you stammered. “I, uh, I had to put my dog down this morning, so, I’ve uh…” You scrubbed a hand across your face and dragged in a deep breath. You snatched your bag off the chair and scrambled backward, shaking your head at Chris’s confused expression. “I’m really sorry.”
You turned and ran, not even thinking about how incredibly unprofessional it looked or how stupid you probably seemed. You had been doing okay, not even thinking about this morning at all or the fact that you’d had to put your best friend for the last sixteen years down until Dodger came in and you went into a tailspin. You couldn’t believe you had blurted out something so personal to a complete stranger.
You were full-on sobbing by the time you got outside, so much so that you had to sit on one of the benches at a bus stop and drag in several deep breaths before you could even begin to think about heading for the subway. You couldn’t believe you’d just made a fool of yourself in front of Chris Evans. You’d be lucky if you got to keep your job at the magazine.
“Can this day be over already?” you muttered to yourself.
You considered going to the office for about two seconds, then ditched that idea to head home instead. On the subway, you texted your boss and told him about the interview, leaving out what had happened at the end. Thanks to the day you’d had, he was more than agreeable when you asked if it was okay to finish up the article at home. You promised to be in early so he could look it over and get it ready for publication.
You stood outside your apartment door for almost five minutes, until nosy Mrs. Morton from across the hall peeked her head out and asked you if you were okay. You nodded and smiled, shoved the key in the lock and went inside. You were crying before you’d closed the door behind yourself, the ache at the loss of your dog settling deep in your bones.
You changed into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, made some hot chocolate, grabbed your laptop and phone, and made yourself comfortable on your bed. You kept the box of tissues close and you flat out refused to even glance toward the corner where Buddy’s bed had been. In a fit of unrestrained grief, shortly after returning from the vet’s office, you’d thrown all of his things in a box and shoved it in the back of the closet.
God, you missed him.
You forced yourself to work, quickly typing up a rough draft of your interview. You turned on some music, quiet, just for background noise. You lost yourself in what you were doing; when you finally shut your laptop, you were surprised to see that it was almost seven and that you were actually hungry.
You stretched your arms over your head and climbed out of bed. You were halfway down the hall on the way to the kitchen when your phone rang. You darted back into the bedroom and snatched it off the bed.
“Hello?”
“Um...may I speak to Y/N, please?”
You pulled the phone away from your ear and stared at the screen. You recognized that voice, but there was no way in hell he would be calling you.
“Speaking,” you murmured.
“Hi, Y/N, it’s...uh...it’s Chris. Chris Evans. We met earlier today -”
As if he had to remind you of who he was. You slapped a hand over your mouth to hold in the unrestrained, nervous giggle trying to escape you. You closed your eyes and counted to ten, slowly.
“I remember,” you finally said. “How...how did you get my number?”
“I called the magazine, asked them if I could have your number. I said I wanted to follow up with our interview and that my assistant had forgotten to get it. It took some finagling and some convincing, but I finally got it.”
“Okay,” you replied, drawing out the word.
“God, that sounded so creepy,” Chris muttered. “Jesus, Chris, get a grip.” He cleared his throat. “Let me start over. I wanted to apologize, again, for the way Dodger behaved this afternoon. He’s really a very sweet dog with good intentions. He must have sensed you like dogs, so that’s why he ran over to you. Also, I’m really sorry about your dog. I can’t believe you sat through that whole interview after what you went through. You were so kind and professional after having gone through that. I don’t know how you did it.”
“Th-thank you,” you managed to squeak out. You tried to take a deep breath, but instead, you made some odd choked sound that probably made the man on the other end half-deaf and then you promptly burst into tears.
“Shit! Now I made you cry. I’m so sorry!”
“D-don’t apologize,” you stammered. “It’s not your fault. I’ve had a really rough day and you’re being so nice -” Another round of fresh tears stopped you from finishing your sentence. You were unbelievably grateful that Chris couldn’t see you, not with snot and tears running down your face, your eyes puffy and red, and your hair sticking to your sweaty neck and face. You were a mess. It was bad enough that he had to listen to you.
“I-I’m sorry,” you snorted, then promptly began sobbing again.
You heard Chris chuckle and then his voice penetrated the pounding rush of blood in your head. “Hey, it’s okay. We could spend all night apologizing back and forth, but instead, why don’t you tell me about your pup? I’d love to hear about him.”
You closed your eyes and tried to breathe. Talk about Buddy. You could do that.
“Buddy was the best. He was a border collie, more black than white, so sweet it was almost unbelievable. And so gentle.”
You sat at your kitchen counter with a glass of wine, some cheese, and a box of crackers, and spent the next two hours talking to Chris. You talked about your dog, his dog, dogs you had when you were little, dogs you wanted to have someday, the weather, the city, every topic under the sun. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and you had a lot in common, more than you’d ever imagined. He talked about his family, his brother and sisters, his mom and dad, and how much he missed Massachusetts. You told him about your job, your family, and everything you could imagine. You connected with him on a level you’d never thought possible. It scared you a little, the connection you felt. You wondered if he felt it, too.
About nine-thirty, Chris let out a big sigh. “I should go,” he murmured. “I have an early morning.”
“Oh, okay,” you replied. “Sorry I kept you on the phone forever.”
“Hey, don’t apologize,” Chris laughed. “I loved talking to you.” He paused and cleared his throat. You could have sworn he sounded nervous. “Would you, uh, like to meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon? There’s a great coffee shop near the theatre…”
“I’d love to,” you blurted.
“Great, great. I’ll text you the address. How about two or three tomorrow?”
“That sounds wonderful.” You were grinning and you probably sounded like an idiot, but you didn’t care.
You had a date with Chris Evans.