by Anna Todd
You’ve got to do something—fast.
“Chan-ning.” The movement of your lips as you speak his name dislodges Channing’s mouth from yours.
He pulls back quickly, as if waking up from a daze, and shakes his head.
“You okay?”
With wide eyes, he nods once. “Think so.” Then, without hesitating, he pulls you up into his arms and the dance continues.
What was that all about?
There’s no time to spare thinking about it, though, because pretty soon the next phase of the dance is under way. The buildup to the final, toughest move requires a lot of concentration. When Channing sets you down on the floor and the two of you begin to re-create a section from Swan Lake, the crowd’s oohs and aahs fill the theater. Together, you’re creating magic—you know this because Harry Styles has given up attempting to flirt with Lianne across the room in favor of watching the two of you intertwining your bodies in time with the music.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Jonah’s voice booms out through the speakers, “it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. . . .”
You glance at Channing. Little beads of sweat have appeared on his brow. He’s just as nervous as you are. But when he winks at you, flashing that heartbreaking cheeky smile, you feel more powerful than a god. This is your moment, and you’re going to kill it.
“It’s the Tatum Pole!”
The crowd goes wild as you climb up onto the shoulders of one of the backing dancers, gripping him tight with your toes to make sure you don’t fall. Channing reaches up to catch on to your hand, and you pull with all your might to lift him off the floor, level with your body.
The backing dancer wobbles beneath you. Channing seems unsteady as he reaches to grab your shoulders for support. For a nail-biting moment it looks as though the three of you won’t make it—but then in one swift, unbelievable movement he makes it up onto your shoulders and spins around to face the crowd.
You grab hold of his leg tight, squeezing your fingers into his tense muscles to let him know how proud you are of him.
“Yes!” he roars from the top of the Tatum Pole.
The audience erupts with applause. Lady Gaga snaps a photo on her phone. Kanye West removes his shades to check that what he’s seeing is real. Michael Cera pulls his shirt off and throws it onstage, clapping his hands and whooping so loudly the security guards start to move toward him.
This is glorious. Even though you’re only halfway up the Tatum Pole, you feel like you’re on top of the world; you can conquer anything; nothing is impossible.
But then the impossible happens.
You feel Channing’s foot lose its grip.
Oh, no.
Next, a leg appears in front of your face.
Then, in the blink of an eye, Channing’s whole body slips. Your hand, once gripping his leg, is now suddenly sliding fast along his tight Lycra pants, heading for his crotch. You feel the squish of his bulge in the palm of your hand and hear Channing’s high-pitched cry as you reflexively squeeze tight in shock.
The theater falls silent. All you can hear, as time slows to a stop, is the muted cry of Channing above you—and the click of a hundred cameras as every photographer in the room catches your mortifying pose on film.
This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
The curtain finally falls. You release your tight grip on Channing and catch his thighs instead as he repositions himself so that he’s sitting with his legs on either side of your neck—a decidedly more comfortable pose than the one he was previously in.
Slowly, the backing dancer sets you down on the floor. Channing’s entourage surrounds you, pulling him down from your shoulders and whisking him off toward his dressing room in a flurry. Once again, you’re left alone behind the stage curtain, staring hopelessly around while the other dancers watch, stifling their laughter.
You’ve never felt so foolish.
Like a ghost, Lianne suddenly appears in front of you. “That was unfortunate. . . . Come on, let’s go back to your dressing room and get you out of this leotard. You must be exhausted.”
Comforted a little by her kindness, you let her take your hand in hers and guide you toward your dressing room. As you pass by Channing’s door, you can hear him yelling in pain.
“He definitely hates me now,” you sigh.
Lianne doesn’t answer. You traipse into your dressing room, tears welling behind your eyes, and allow Lianne to help you change out of the costume and into some baggy sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
“I’m sure he isn’t that mad at you,” Lianne insists. “It isn’t your fault he slipped.”
Unconvinced, you shake your head and grab some paper from the desk, scribbling a few words down onto it that you hope will smooth things over.
Dear Channing—
I’m sorry for making you look like a fool. It would mean the world to me if we could be friends after all this. I hope you can forgive me.
X
“What do you think?” you ask, passing the note to Lianne.
She reads it with a smile. “I think it’s perfect. I’ll deliver it when I pop into his room to collect his costume.”
You smile gratefully. “Thanks.”
“In the meantime, you should probably head back to your dorm and find something amazing to wear. The afterparty begins in an hour, and you certainly don’t want to miss it, now that you’re queen of the spotlight.”
“Sure.” You fake a smile. “I’ll see you later.”
But you’re lying. You’re in no mood to celebrate your humiliation. Instead, you’re going to go back to your dorm room, jump into bed, and curl up under the covers until this day is over.
MAGIC MIKE, microwave popcorn, and fanfiction: the ingredients for a great night. However, after your awful experience, the mere thought of Channing is enough to make your heart ache. You’ve been sitting here alone in your dorm room for over an hour now, and through the window you can hear the thump of music coming from the grand hall on the other side of the dance academy, where the afterparty is in full swing.
You slide farther down beneath the duvet and groan. All you ever wanted was to impress Channing—and now he probably hates you enough to never want to see you again.
You’re just about to pick up the phone to call your parents and tell them you’ll be traveling home tomorrow when there’s a knock at your door. Reluctantly, you leave your phone in its place and push yourself off the bed. It takes three strides to get to the door, but when you finally pull it open, you can barely believe your eyes.
“Channing?”
And there he is, standing in the corridor with a smile on his face and your note in his hand. “Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” you ask, confused. “Don’t you hate me for ruining your dance?”
Channing takes a step forward. “Can I come in?”
You nod, stepping aside to let him in. He stands before your bed, scanning the room to take everything in. Your palms are clammy. You wish you’d bothered to tidy up a little—clothes and empty food packets are all over the place.
“Nice room.”
You grimace. “Thanks.”
Channing takes a seat on the edge of your bed. “You were incredible on that stage, honestly. I’ve never seen a dancer move as well as you.”
“Now, that’s a lie,” you scoff. “What about Jenna?”
Channing flicks his hand. “Don’t worry about Jenna. I’m talking about you.” He locks eyes with you and bites his lip. “You’re far better.”
Butterflies appear in your stomach. You think you must be dreaming.
“I got your note.” He holds up the piece of paper for you to see. “Obviously. And I just wanted you to know that I can’t forgive you.”
Your stomach drops. “Oh.”
“I can’t forgive you”—Channing stands and positions himself right in front of you—“because in order to do that, I’d first have to be mad at you. But I’m not, because you haven’t done anyt
hing wrong.”
“What about the massive crotch grab?” You will yourself not to look down at the scene of the crime. Fortunately, he’s changed out of his tight Lycra pants and into a smart gray suit, so the bulge isn’t quite so obvious now.
He shrugs his shoulders. “No biggie.”
Well, actually, you want to tell him, it was pretty big.
“I’ve heard you’re a fan,” Channing jumps in, before you go ahead and embarrass yourself by saying anything stupid.
Distant memories of the year you spent sleeping with a life-size Channing Tatum doll pop into your head. “Yeah,” you mumble. “I guess you could say that.” Your cheeks quickly become bright red.
“That’s really cool, you know?”
“It is?” You’re surprised; everyone else in the world seems to find your obsession really . . . sad.
“Hellz yeah!”
You try to keep a straight face, but you can’t take your mind off Channing Tatum’s having actually just spoken those two words to you, in all seriousness, while standing in your dorm room. This definitely can’t be happening for real.
“You know, I’m actually a fan of yours too.”
You shoot him a look. “What?” How can he be a fan of you? You’re not even famous!
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been to every single one of your dance classes to watch you practice. I think you’re amazing.” He smiles. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you, if I’m really honest.”
You pinch the skin on the back of your hand. Nope, still awake. “That’s . . . insane.”
Channing laughs. “Why?”
You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. “No reason.” There is absolutely no way you’re going to admit to Channing Tatum that you’ve got a crush on him. Nope. No way. Nada.
“When I kissed you on that stage, it was like an epiphany. I realized I’ve never enjoyed kissing anybody else as much as I enjoyed kissing you. Those two seconds weren’t enough—I wanted more.” His green eyes are bright with an energy that turns your pulse erratic. “I’ve never met anybody with such amazing upper-arm strength. . . .” He looks down at your arms in wonder. “Or such tender lips.”
He brings his hand up to your face and runs the tip of his finger over your bottom lip. You shiver at the touch.
“And you’ve got the firmest grip I’ve ever felt.” He puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head. “Man, thinking about all three of those things at once is making me hot.”
You take a step forward, so that the tips of your toes touch. This is far better than any fantasy you’ve ever made up. Driven by an overwhelming passion, you lift your face up to his and sigh.
“Kiss me again, Channing,” you say. “I’m all yours.”
He doesn’t waste a moment. Letting the note drop to the floor, he lifts you up off your feet and presses you back against the wall. You drape your hands over his shoulders, locking your legs around his waist, and let him kiss you slowly until you run out of breath.
“I’ve never felt this way for anyone else,” he breathes into your ear, as he begins kissing along your jaw. “I think I might love you.”
“What about Jenna?” You panic, pulling back to look him in the face.
“I don’t care about her.” His honest eyes pierce into your own. “She’s nothing to me anymore. I want you.”
“Wow. That’s quite a statement, Channing!”
You jump at the sound of the third voice, and both of you turn toward the open door in shock. Two reporters stand there, one snapping your photo with his camera, the other making notes on a notepad.
Expecting Channing to freak out, you begin to remove your legs from around his waist—but to your surprise, he flips you around and pulls you up into his arms instead, kissing you on the tip of the nose.
“Publish it in all the newspapers,” he shouts out, “and plaster it on the internet! I’m in love—finally!” He pushes past the reporters and starts to jog down the corridor, carrying you along effortlessly in his big, strong arms.
“Where are we going?” You laugh, throwing your head back and catching him around the neck.
“We’re going to tell the world! I want everyone to know. I love you!”
Still laughing, you let him carry you through the corridors, past dozens of surprised onlookers, until you finally make it to the grand hall. Bursting through the doors, Channing shouts for everyone’s attention. “I have an announcement to make!” Finally, he places you down on two feet and pulls you into the middle of the dance floor, where a curious crowd quickly gathers. “This beautiful, talented dancer you watched perform onstage with me tonight,” he tells the crowd, “has stolen my heart.”
An impressed murmur travels through the crowd. People beam at you from all angles.
As you blush and giggle in your scruffy clothes, Channing falls to his knee in front of you. “Darling,” he says, clearing his throat. His green eyes glisten with the reflection of the disco ball hanging overhead. “Will you marry me?”
Of course, there’s only one answer. You’ve waited your whole life for this moment. Even though you’re sure you’ll wake up tomorrow to find out it was all just one fabulous dream, you still squeal with joy and wrap your arms around Channing’s neck as you shout out, “Yes!”
SATURDAY MORNING. You wake up in a huge bed to find a bleary-eyed Channing Tatum staring back at you. But this isn’t the life-size doll you took to bed with you that one year—no, this is the real thing.
“Good morning,” he mumbles sleepily, pulling you close and kissing your forehead.
You smile and push yourself up in the bed. Outside, the sun is shining, and you realize the butler has already been in and left a breakfast tray on the side table.
“Oh, look! He’s left us a newspaper too.” You yawn and reach across to take it, wondering whether the dance show made the headlines. “Oh, no.”
Channing looks up. “What’s the matter?”
“I guess they couldn’t resist.”
You pass the newspaper across and laugh with him at the front-page headline: “Channing Tatum Proposes to Crotch-Grabbing Mystery Dancer.”
“Hey, I almost forgot to ask.” He turns to face you now. “Crotch-Grabber, what is your real name?”
A New Connection
Leigh Ansell
Imagine . . .
Your expectations might’ve been slightly unrealistic when you first moved to London a few months ago.
Imagine that.
Living in the heart of the capital meant everything was on your doorstep, and you’d kind of assumed that’d be reason enough to be out every night, living the type of wild London lifestyle all those reality shows had promised. You envisioned top-floor penthouses, a trendy group of friends, sipping cocktails in bars you couldn’t afford. No one thought to mention that the reality of being a freelance writer in the capital would be a little less glitzy.
Instead of being out partying until 3:00 a.m., your weeknight evenings have lately been taking on a significantly tamer routine, and today is no exception. It’s Tuesday, and though you should be working on your article due at the end of the week, your spot on the sofa has never felt comfier. With YouTube open on your laptop, there might be no need to move for hours yet.
Which is fine. You’ve got days to finish the article, and watching old Dan Howell videos back-to-back is a perfectly good use of your time. Kind of.
You’re two minutes into one of your favorites, “Internet Support Group,” when the sound of knocking cuts across the living room. Closing the laptop, you get to your feet, confused about who’d be visiting at this time. You’re not expecting anybody; your best friend’s working late, and since all other members of your family refuse to live anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of central London, there’s nobody else in the city who would want to see you.
Pulling open the door, you get the shock of your life.
There, standing face-to-face with you, is none other than the guy you’
ve spent the last hour watching through a computer screen: your next-door neighbor, Dan Howell.
It shouldn’t have come as a huge surprise. You realized he and Phil lived in the apartment next door two days after you moved in, when you first bumped into each other in the hall. Still, months later, and you’ve yet to move past the polite-but-awkward greetings that ensue whenever you cross paths. You’d rather die than have him realize you’re one of the five million plus avid viewers of his YouTube channel, keeping up with his videos from the other side of your shared wall.
But, for some reason, he’s here, standing in front of you, looking slightly flushed and clutching a laptop in one hand.
“Hi,” you say, because you’re not sure what else to do.
“Hi,” he begins, with a slightly odd smile. “I’m Dan, your next-door neighbor. I appreciate this is a really weird way to have a first conversation, but is there any chance you could spare your Wi-Fi connection for half an hour?”
For a moment, all you manage to do is stare, your mouth hanging slightly open. “Uh . . .”
“Let me explain. See, I do this thing where I make videos on the internet—”
But you already know what’s coming, and you cut in before he has to get too far into the awkward I-swear-this-is-a-real-job spiel. “Your YouTube channel,” you say, with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard of it.”
Relief breaks across his expression. “Oh, good. I suppose that makes things a little less weird. See, the thing is, I’m due on a live broadcast right at this minute, and my friend Phil has chosen a really stupid time to start downloading the world’s longest compilation of cat videos.”
It’s weird, seeing him standing in front of you, when you’ve spent so long watching him crack similar jokes from behind a screen. Your fifteen-year-old self would probably be passed out on the floor already. All you can do is thank God you’ve since reined in your fangirl tendencies.
“So, what I’m trying to ask here—could I possibly crouch in the corner of your living room for half an hour? You won’t even know I’m there. Well, you might hear a bit of pointless rambling, but I’ll try to keep it down.”