Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

by Anna Todd

  The door to the conference room opens, making you jump out of your skin. A man with a cliché-looking briefcase appears, followed by Dylan O’Brien himself, Mets hat and all.

  Can people actually die of humiliation? Or is that just a saying?

  “Welcome, Mr. O’Brien!” Janet says. “So pleased you could make it. Please, sit.”

  She gestures toward two seats at the end of the table, then tries to make small talk while they settle in. When she asks you how you’re liking your first visit to New York, you’re not sure if you form a coherent response or not.

  Is he suing you? Is that what this meeting’s about?

  Janet’s repeating your name yanks you out of your head. She’s trying to introduce you to Dylan and his lawyer. You can barely hear her over your pulse pounding in your eardrums.

  “Nice to meet you,” you squeak, eyes shifting to Dylan.

  It’s weird seeing a celebrity in person. For just a second, Dylan looks completely different from the guy you’ve seen on so many different screens. Then you blink back to reality, noting that he’s still just as cute in real life—all big brown eyes and bowed lips. The hair that’s peeking out from underneath his hat seems longer than it did in his most recent interview, and you try your best not to stare at the way his T-shirt stretches over his shoulders when he shrugs out of his jacket.

  But mostly you’re shocked to see that he’s smiling at you.

  Why is he smiling at you? Why doesn’t he look disgusted or freaked-out?

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Janet turns to you. “The reason we’re all sitting in this room is because you have an amazing story here, and we’d really love the honor of publishing it.”

  The meeting is a blur after that. Or maybe you’re too mentally and emotionally distressed to register what’s happening. You spend at least an hour speculating why Dylan is here instead of listening to Paul negotiate the terms of your contract. You’re so consumed by panic mode that, once again, Janet’s repeating your name is what brings you into the conversation.

  “We need to discuss the matter for which Dylan and his attorney are here,” Janet says.

  Here it is: the part when Dylan O’Brien sues you for being creepy enough to write a three-book-long story about him.

  “The legal issues surrounding the main character’s name,” Janet says.

  “Actually,” Dylan interjects, sending a bolt of panic through you, “I wouldn’t call it legal issues. My attorney and I are here to negotiate terms for keeping my name in the story.”

  “What?” you ask, dumbfounded. Is he serious?

  “Oh?” Janet says. “You’d like to keep your name in the story?”

  “Yes.”

  An awkward pause ensues, until Janet asks you how you feel about this.

  You’re too afraid to look up when you say, “If I’m being honest, I’d rather not keep the name. No offense.”

  “I would advise not keeping the name as well,” Dylan’s lawyer says. “Even with Mr. O’Brien’s consent, this could cause a flurry of authors wanting to do the same thing.”

  “You mean, wanting to publish a book with a celebrity’s name attached to it?” Janet asks.

  “Yes, ma’am. For sales purposes.”

  He does have a point.

  “I don’t mind,” Dylan insists.

  Another awkward pause follows.

  “Perhaps we should adjourn until tomorrow on this matter?” suggests balding guy. He glances at the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows, then checks his watch. “It sounds like both parties have a lot to mull over.”

  Surprisingly, everyone agrees. Now you get to spend the rest of the night spazzing out over having to sit through another meeting with Dylan O’Brien and his attorney tomorrow. You still can’t get over that Dylan showed up because he wants to keep his name in the story. . . .

  Maybe that’s just his strategy? Pretending to be on board and then completely pulling the rug out from under you and slapping you with a defamation lawsuit?

  Still, with all the Dylan O’Brien stalking you’ve done in the last two years, it’s safe to assume that there’s no way he’s that much of an asshole.

  Yet, you keep the idea in the back of your mind as a precaution.

  After saying good-bye to you and Paul, Janet and the balding guy ask for a minute with Dylan and his lawyer. Relieved, you and Paul head out of the conference room toward the double elevators.

  “So, what do you think?” he asks, pushing the down button and switching his messenger bag to the opposite shoulder.

  “About what?” you ask.

  “Keeping Dylan’s name. I know changing it was a stipulation you and I agreed on, but I think it would be wise to consider taking advantage of the opportunity he’s offering.”

  “Which is?”

  “You saw how tying his name to your story helped you gain readers,” Paul says. “Imagine how it would reflect in book sales.”

  You see Dylan emerge from the conference room with his lawyer, Janet, and balding guy in tow. Your eyes dart back to the numbers above the elevators—four more floors to go on one and eight more floors on the other.

  “Just consider it,” Paul repeats. “Not many celebrities would agree to this.”

  Dylan and his lawyer start down the hallway toward you, and you feel another wave of anxiety nausea coming on. By some miracle, they stop for a moment; then balding guy turns and hurries back into the conference room. Dylan stands there to wait for him, but cranes his neck to glance toward the elevators.

  And he totally catches you looking at him.

  You drop your gaze to your feet and wait for one of the elevators to ding. Thankfully, one arrives before the balding guy emerges from the conference room again. You and Paul step on, and you exhale completely for the first time in the last two hours when the doors shut.

  The streets look a lot darker on the ground floor.

  After stepping into the lobby, you and Paul part ways—he exits through one of the side doors. Paul had picked you up from the airport when you got in that morning and met you at your hotel so you could share a cab to the meeting. But he had another meeting to get to after this one, and you assured him that you were capable of getting yourself back to your hotel in one piece. Now you aren’t so sure.

  You decide it’s probably a good idea to ask the concierge to get you a cab, since you have absolutely no idea how to do it yourself. You start toward the lobby’s front revolving door when you hear an elevator ding behind you, announcing its arrival.

  You pick up the pace.

  “Hey!” someone calls behind you. “Wait up!”

  Before you have a chance to turn all the way around, Dylan O’Brien himself skids to a stop in front of you, blocking your escape route. You’re so taken aback that you glance around to make sure he’s got the right person.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling down at you. If he notices the distress that you know is written all over your face, he’s polite enough to ignore it. He holds his hand out to you. “Sorry we didn’t get to talk much in the meeting. I’m Dylan.”

  Out of reflex, you take his hand and shake it, but you still can’t get your vocal cords working yet. Instead, your mouth is hanging open, and you can feel your cheeks turning an alarming shade of red.

  “I wanted to come over to introduce myself again. I’m a really big fan of yours,” he continues, oblivious to the havoc he’s wreaking on your pulse. He points a thumb over his shoulder toward the revolving door. “You heading out now?”

  “Yeah,” you say, surprising yourself. You’re not sure how your brain pulled that one off, since you’re not even sure if you’re breathing correctly.

  Dylan starts walking backward, heading for the exit and gesturing for you to follow him. “Are you going back to your hotel?” he asks. “I was going to grab a cab back to mine—you trying to get a cab? We can share if you want.”

  He slips into the revolving door, and you’re convinced you didn’t hear
him correctly. You stand there for a moment to try to process what’s happening. Dylan stops on the sidewalk outside and angles back toward you. He smiles, gesturing again for you to follow him.

  You don’t remember getting through the revolving door. All you can register once you’re outside is the cold New York air, and that, after sitting in a two-hour meeting discussing the story you’d written about him, Dylan O’Brien is offering to share a cab with you.

  “So, uh—how about it?” he prompts, pulling his jacket tighter around him and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to share a cab?”

  You stare at him.

  Why is he talking to you, let alone wanting to be within fifty feet of you? Does he not understand how weird this entire situation is? Maybe it’s because it’s thirty degrees out, or you’re still so embarrassed you can’t think straight, but for some reason you blurt out, “Why are you talking to me?”

  You watch his reaction and immediately feel guilty.

  “What? I’m sorry—um . . .” He stumbles over his words as he reaches up to scrub a hand at the back of his neck. “I thought that since we’re both leaving, we could share a cab. And you said in the meeting this was your first time to New York, and I know cabs can be a little intimidating at first.”

  Yes. Right. The cabs are intimidating.

  “No,” you say. “I meant, why are you talking to me after sitting through that meeting?”

  He looks at you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”

  You point back toward the building. “Because you just sat through two hours of talking about publishing a book I wrote about you?”

  His confusion switches to amusement. “So?”

  “So?” you repeat. Under normal circumstances, you probably would’ve worried about sounding rude. Right now, you’re a little too shocked to care. “So? Aren’t you, like, nine miles past creeped out by this?”

  In reality, he doesn’t look creeped out. He looks like he’s dangerously close to laughing at you. “Why would I be creeped out?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be creeped out?”

  Finally, he does laugh at you. “Are you always like this?” He steps toward the street and raises his hand in the air.

  You don’t answer him. Instead, you glance both ways down the nearly empty sidewalk, then back at him. A cab rolls to a stop at the curb.

  “Look,” Dylan says. “I’d really like to talk to you about the meeting, if that’s okay? Are you hungry?”

  Maybe he’s still planning on suing you; he just has the common courtesy to not bring it up in a room full of people. “You didn’t answer my question,” you say.

  “Which one?”

  “Why don’t you find this weird? Like, at all?”

  The cabdriver honks impatiently.

  “I just don’t,” Dylan says, shrugging.

  “God,” you sigh, glancing up at the night sky and silently praying that you’ll be able to keep your sanity. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

  He hesitates, giving you a shy smile. “How I can convince you to keep my name for your main character.”

  The cabdriver rolls down his window and says something that you don’t quite catch. Dylan shifts down the curb and pulls open the cab’s back door, holding it open for you. “Are you coming?”

  In a split-second decision, you take a step toward him. Then another. Then a few more.

  “I need some alcohol in my system if we’re going to have this conversation,” you mutter, slipping into the cab.

  YOU END UP at a complete dive downtown, creatively called Old Man’s Pub. Vintage, Edison-style string lights are draped low from the ceiling, and the only options for seating are at the bar itself or at one of the high tables scattered around. Dylan leads you to one of the high tables in the back corner.

  “Did you pick this spot because no one here will recognize you?” you ask as you perch yourself on a stool. The place is practically empty, save for a few older men crowded at the end of the bar watching a European soccer match.

  “Yes and no.” Dylan sits opposite you and picks up a menu.

  You take a deep breath to try to ease the tension in your chest, because seriously, how did you even get here?

  A wrinkly waitress stops by to take your drink orders. Dylan orders a beer—some kind of IPA that sounds gross—and for some reason unbeknown to you, you ask for a gin and tonic. The waitress doesn’t ID you, either.

  “Do you normally default to hard liquor, or are you that nervous?” Dylan smirks.

  You ball your hands into fists in your lap. “I almost asked for a couple of shots of tequila.”

  Dylan laughs, and your stomach gives a panicky jump. Seriously, what is happening?

  “So, what’s the deal, then?” He’s still smiling at you. “How’d this whole thing get started?”

  “Wow, you’re getting right into it, huh?” you mutter, breaking eye contact.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you asking about the actual story? Or why I picked you to be in it?”

  Now Dylan’s the one to look a little sheepish—you note with some smug satisfaction that his cheeks have a bit of a rosy tint. “Both?” he finally says.

  You start to lean back, but then you remember that you’re sitting on a stool, and you have to steady yourself on the table’s edge.

  “The story was an idea that I had for a really long time; I can’t remember why I wanted to start posting it online.” You take a second to reflect on how it would have spared you the embarrassment you’re currently feeling if you hadn’t posted it. . . . “But I knew that it would give people more incentive to read it if I attached a celebrity name to it. So I did.”

  Dylan nods, looking thoughtful. “And I was the closest celebrity to suit your main character?”

  “Sort of,” you admit, now that you think about it. Or did you base your character on him instead? You can’t remember. But then you smirk. “It also helped that you were the sixth-most reblogged actor on Tumblr when I started writing it.”

  Pressing his hands to his face, Dylan groans and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Finally,” you say, a little relieved. “That’s the type of reaction I’ve been waiting for.”

  He peeks at you from between his fingers. “What reaction?”

  Before you can answer, the waitress appears again with your drinks and asks if you and Dylan plan on ordering food. You say no at the same time that Dylan says yes; then he asks if you guys can have a couple of minutes. The waitress nods and leaves. You wait for her to get all the way across the bar before going back to the conversation.

  “The type of reaction,” you say, trying not to grimace after sipping your gin and tonic, “that shows that, at the end of the day, you recognize how creepy this is.”

  “I don’t think it’s creepy,” he says defensively.

  “Come on.”

  “I’m being serious. I’m honored you picked me.”

  Now you’re the one to groan. You’re not sure why you want him to admit that this is beyond weird, but you’re convinced that it’ll make you feel better about how much of a weirdo you’ve been since you started writing the story. You’re almost desperate to get him to acknowledge it.

  “You realize that I literally know every piece of information about you that’s available on the internet, right?” you say. “And some stuff that isn’t online?”

  He regards you for a moment, then chuckles. “I mean, it’s not like you’re the only one.”

  “I’ve seen all of the YouTube videos you made before you started acting. And every interview you’ve ever given. Even the videos that are hours long from conventions you’ve attended.”

  He folds his arms across his chest and shrugs.

  “Not to mention,” you try again, “I’ve watched every episode of Teen Wolf, as well as every movie, TV show, and Web series you’ve been in. I even know what some of your upcoming film projects are that aren’t public yet.”<
br />
  “First of all, I haven’t been in that much stuff outside of Teen Wolf. . . . Secondly, if you’re trying to freak me out here, it’s not working,” he replies, amused.

  “I haven’t even gotten warmed up yet,” you say. “You were born in NYU Medical Center but you grew up in New Jersey. You moved to Los Angeles in seventh grade, and you claim you started making your YouTube videos because you hadn’t made any friends yet.”

  “Is that it?” His tone is teasing. “That’s not even impressive. You basically listed my Wikipedia page.”

  “And speaking of Friends,” you continue through gritted teeth, “that was your favorite TV show growing up. And you also think Liar Liar is a ten-out-of-ten movie. You’re a baseball freak—you secretly want to be the GM for the Mets. And sometimes you have a hard time deciding between Chipotle and In-N-Out. Double chicken from Chipotle usually wins out.”

  Dylan busts out laughing. “Okay, maybe that is a little impressive. But you still don’t have me convinced that you’re a psycho stalker fangirl or anything.”

  “I have an entire tab of BuzzFeed articles about you bookmarked on my computer. My personal favorite is titled ‘Dylan O’Brien’s Hair: A Journey.’ ”

  “Oh, God. That’s a real thing?”

  You smirk. “Yep.”

  He shakes his head, but still gestures for you to continue.

  “I think I know what your middle name is,” you say. “I have a theory about it.”

  He knits his eyebrows together. “It’s—”

  “Do not,” you growl, cutting him off immediately. He laughs again. “I mean it—do not tell me. I’ve already got way too much Dylan O’Brien knowledge committed to memory. Not knowing your middle name is the one thing that I find solace in.”

  He takes off his Mets hat and runs a hand through his hair, a smile never leaving his lips.

  “Seriously,” you say. “I’ve pretty much stalked you for the last two years. How are you being so cool about this? I mean, I’ve written over two hundred and fifty thousand words about you.”

  He meets your gaze and holds it. You have to force yourself to not look away.

  “Do you really consider your story fanfiction?” he asks, scratching under his jaw.