Not Your Type (Chris Pine FanFic)

The Man on the Porch pt. 1

If it's not one thing it's another, Chelsea thought as she nervously drummed her fingers on the folder she held in her lap. At 7:45 am her phone had rang. Her deep sleep, which had lasted all of thirty minutes, never returned. Originally, she thought it may have been Chris calling back. She strongly believed the first early morning phone call had been him. This one was different.

She had answered the phone with an angry yes. It put off the secretary that was on the other end of the line. The principal her former employer had contacted, and that she had applied with, was calling her for an interview. After Thanksgiving a teacher had abruptly resigned and the woman was desperately trying to fill the hole in her staff. She was so desperate she offered to interview Chelsea that morning, just before lunch.

But Chelsea had to work.

The principal was extremely interested, citing the glowing letter of recommendation she had received from Chelsea's previous campus. The comment had made Chelsea shake her head, she hadn't asked for a letter. She knew her former boss, Mrs. Erickson, felt she belonged in a classroom. Mrs. Erickson, even though she vainly enjoyed the spotlight the tornado's destruction had caused, really had a heart for kids. She trusted Chelsea explicitly as a teacher, valuing her opinion. Erickson was personally hurt and heartbroken when Chelsea turned in her letter of resignation. The two women cried together in her office. She could only imagine what she had written to her friend in a letter of recommendation.

Chelsea attempted to kindly decline the last minute interview, but Ms. Clayton wouldn't take no for an answer. Chelsea explained that she had to work that day, so she was offered a late afternoon interview. She couldn't say no, it seemed rude.

So here she was after a short midday shift at Disney, sitting in a cab in a black pencil skirt with a white button down tucked into it perfectly. Her hair was straight and covering her scar, she wasn't sure how much this woman knew. Chelsea had put her wedding ring on a long silver chain, clasped it around her neck, and then tucked it into the neck of the shirt. She was simply wearing it for comfort and luck. In the folder she had a copy of her resume, college transcripts and a few student samples she'd hidden in a box in her closet.

The school was less than thirty minutes away, a major plus. It looked nice enough, but she knew looks could be deceiving. She'd already done a tiny bit of research on the school, it was Title I and had a high population of ESL students. If she was going to dive back into teaching this would be the place, statistically it was very similar to her school in Lubbock.

"How much would you charge to stay here and take me back home in, say, an hour?" She asked the cab driver. After a little negotiation, he stayed and she entered the school. Her palms were sweaty and her heart was racing. Sitting in the office she bowed her head and said a silent prayer. The sounds of kids weaving in and between the words she lifted up to the sky. Laughter and the smell of paint wafted through the air. Her lips twitched into a smile. She could do this.

***

An hour later she was shaking hands with the Ms. Clayton. They had swapped stories of life in west Texas, evidently this principal was a graduate of Texas Tech as well. They talked about Wes Welker and the prospects of the Super Bowl for the Broncos. Chelsea asked about California certification (she wasn't certified the state) and the correlation to the Common Core. They complained about RTI paperwork and shared intervention success stories. It was a very good interview.

"How'd it go?" the cabby asked.

Chelsea smiled, "Probably too well." She slid into the back seat of the car. The driver asked her questions about education on the thirty minute drive back to her house. It was a pleasant conversation. Chelsea was surprised at the ease with which she talked about teaching. She was happy with her current attitude, she really could get back into teaching. The driver pulled up to her house and she began to pull out cash to pay him. Her phone tumbled out, it showed that she had several text messages. She handed the man money, refusing change and checked the message as she stepped out of the car. She stopped on the curb, shocked by the sender.

Chris: FWD: I can't make the second half of the junket. I feel like shit. 1:00 pm, Dec. 1 (5:30 pm)

A forwarded message about feeling like crap? Chelsea thought. "What is that about?" she muttered aloud. Staring at it she did the math, the original time of the message one in London. That would've been around 5 am her time. But she had just received it, less than an hour ago. She scrolled to the next message.

Chris: FWD: The only direct ones have coach seats available, nothing else. 12:50 pm, Dec. 1 (5:30)

"Why are you forwarding me bizarre travel texts?" she asked, scrolling to the next.

Chris: Traffic is awful. This cab smells horrible. I deserve both. I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't want to hear it," she whispered, more to encourage herself to ignore the text than anything.

"I don't deserve my side of the story to be heard, I understand, but fucking come on!"

She heard a very familiar husky voice shouting angrily. The messy hair, the almost too skinny jeans for a man that perfectly accented the lower half, the broad shoulders. It made her stiffen and immobile. This couldn't be real. And she listened, intently, to his shouts.