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Evans sat heavily on his living room couch.
He had a stack of contract papers on his lap and his phone in his hand. He shook his head slowly.
"Mike is incredibly gutsy," Evans thought to himself. "He is really going to reject all of them. Even the partner we already work with on other shows."
He looked at a paper with the Netflix logo on it. "Why did Netflix reject our script anyway? They were the first ones to say no. Whatever. Their loss."
Evans dialed the number for Poppy, the Netflix executive who had made the deal for A Good Girl's Guide to Murder.
The phone rang once before she picked it up.
"Hello, Evans!" Poppy said brightly. She sounded extremely confident. "I knew you would call me today. So, when should I come to meet Michael to sign the papers?"
Evans cleared his throat and spoke in a very flat, professional voice. "There is no need for that, Poppy. We have rejected your offer."
He didn't use the word 'blacklist.' Mostly because there wasn't an actual list written down anywhere. Evans chuckled at his own silly joke in his mind.
"What?" Poppy gasped, her confidence shattering instantly. "Why? Who? Who won the contract then?"
"You will get to know," Evans said simply. "Okay, bye."
He hung up the phone before she could say another word.
Next on his list was a top executive from Warner Bros. Evans tapped the screen and called him.
"Evans, my favorite manager!" the executive yelled into the phone. "Tell me you have good news! I am ready to buy Michael a private island for this movie right now!"
"Save your money, Richard," Evans said.
"We are passing on your offer."
"Wait, what? Is it the money? I can add ten million right now! I will buy you a golden car!"
"I don't know how to drive a golden car," Evans replied flatly. "The answer is no. Have a good day."
*Click.*
Next, he called a producer from Universal Studios.
"Hi Evans, we are so excited to work—"
"No," Evans interrupted.
"But I didn't even—"
"Still no. Your offer is rejected."
"Can we at least talk about—"
"I am hanging up now. Goodbye."
*Click.*
Evans laughed out loud. Firing powerful billionaires was surprisingly fun.
He finally put his phone down and tried to stretch his legs out on the couch.
Just as he pointed his toes to stretch, a loud wail echoed from the baby monitor on the table.
"Waaaah!"
It was baby Lily.
Evans froze mid-stretch.
He immediately jumped up from the couch, forgetting all about the movie studios, and took off sprinting toward the nursery to look after his crying daughter.
Michael was sitting comfortably in his living room, holding his phone in front of his face.
He was on a video call with Emma.
Emma was lying on her bed, wearing one of Michael's oversized black hoodies. She looked relaxed and happy.
"You know," Michael smiled, looking at his screen. "You look much better in my clothes than I do."
Emma rolled her eyes playfully, a slight blush on her cheeks. "You are just saying that to be nice. I look like a giant black marshmallow."
"A very beautiful marshmallow," Michael teased. "The most beautiful marshmallow in the world."
"Smooth, Mr. Writer," Emma laughed. "Very smooth. Save some of that romance for your books."
They smiled at each other through the screen for a moment.
Then, Emma sat up slightly, a serious but goofy look crossing her face.
"Hey, I have a very important question for you," Emma said.
"I am ready," Michael nodded.
"Have you ever thought about why we call a building... a 'building' when it is already built?" Emma asked, narrowing her eyes at the camera.
Michael blinked. He let out a loud laugh. "That is a terrible question. But okay, I will play. Probably because calling it a 'built' sounds stupid. But here is one for you: why do we park our cars in a driveway, but we drive our cars on a parkway?"
Emma gasped. "Oh my god. That makes no sense! Okay, wait, I have another one. If a tomato is technically a fruit... does that make ketchup a smoothie?"
Michael frowned in disgust. "That is the grossest thing I have ever heard. Only if you drink it with a straw. Please never say that again."
Emma giggled loudly. "Okay, fine! Try this one. If Cinderella's glass slipper fit her foot perfectly, why did it fall off when she was running?"
Michael rubbed his chin, pretending to think very hard. "Sweaty feet. Glass doesn't breathe, Emma. It's simple science. Her foot got sweaty and the shoe slipped off."
Emma threw her head back and laughed uncontrollably. "Sweaty feet?! You just ruined a classic fairy tale for me!"
"You asked for the truth," Michael smiled proudly. "Alright, my turn. If you get out of the shower completely clean, how does your towel get dirty?"
Emma stopped laughing and stared at the screen. "Wait... that is actually a really good question. I don't know!"
They continued to throw silly questions at each other for another hour, laughing until their stomachs hurt.
Finally, Michael looked at the clock on his wall. It was time for dinner.
He looked back at the screen with a warm, affectionate smile. "I have to go eat dinner, Emma."
"Okay," she smiled softly.
"Meet you tomorrow, cara mia," Michael said in a low, gentle voice.
Emma blushed deeply.
She smiled brightly, brought her hand to her lips, and blew him a kiss through the camera. "Bye, Michael."