IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  You back away as the women continue to gush over him. He doesn’t look your way, not even once, as you disappear behind the building. You follow the gravel trail down to the shore. Moss-covered rocks line the edge of the water, and an overflowing trash can spills out the waste deposited in it by at least a hundred people. The water isn’t as loud as you’d imagined and the waves are soft, unassuming, as they kiss the sand-covered bay and seem to attempt to wash away the dirty rocks. The rocks don’t budge, though, no matter how hard the water tries to move them.

  The beach is farther from the top of the hill than you thought. A large wooden staircase was built to make it easier for people to reach, but you’re slightly nervous as you step onto the stained wood. The boards creak under your heavy steps, and you desperately try to understand what it is that he finds so beautiful about this beach. The staircase is wide enough for at least four people to walk down at once, and you force yourself to ignore the creaking, ignore the chipped paint and spray-painted tags on the wooden sheds settled in the rocky hill. You don’t see beauty here; you see dirt and damaged wood, slow waves and rocks.

  A man runs past you, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. He’s confident as he takes the stairs up to the top of the hill. The wooden planks shake beneath your feet as his weight presses against them. You hadn’t noticed him until he reached you, and you quickly forget about him after he passes. You’re halfway down now; surely no one else makes such a big deal out of taking an unsteady staircase down to the water. You search your mind for something to think about other than the creaky steps and the actor. You don’t watch much television, and you haven’t seen a movie in a theater since before your mom became only a wife, no longer a mother.

  When you moved, she pretended to be upset. She was worried that such a big city would swallow her only child. Why hadn’t you chosen a community college closer to her? she wondered out loud, almost every day for the first week or so. Two weeks later, she was showing you apartment listings in Los Angeles, asking if you had everything ready to go. You know deep down that she was eager for your move. She had become the type of mother who would trade you for a cheap pair of new cuff links for her beloved husband. That man had more cuff links than your mother had flaws. Needless to say, it was more than a drawerful.

  The waves grow louder as you skip the last step and jump onto the sand. It’s not as solid as you expected it to be. Your boots sink into the loose sand, and a storm of dust clouds around your feet. You take another step, trying to find more solid ground. Next to a mud-covered rock, a flock of blackbirds pecks away at the carcass of a dead animal. How beautiful.

  You check your phone again; it’s twenty minutes past three now, and you need to get to the bus stop by four, preferably with a few minutes to spare. You had a few minutes of relief when you thought you would be spared the long bus ride, but they were short-lived. That’s fine—you are fully capable of getting yourself back to your apartment.

  The hungry birds scatter as you near them. From the top of the hill, you hear your name being called, but you ignore it. You enjoyed talking to Daniel, you really did, but you’re not naïve enough to think you could actually have stimulated his interest beyond small talk in a boring class. Back in Hollywood, the two of you would never be friends, and definitely not hand-holding friends. Successful actors and waitresses who are confused about their lives have nothing in common.

  You try to imagine the conversation.

  Him: Oh, I just got back from Sweden, shooting my newest movie.

  You: Yeah, this lady cussed me out because her steak was medium well, not medium rare like she ordered.

  Him: Does this suit look okay for an awards show?

  You: Do you think this stain will come out of my apron? I really can’t afford to buy another until my check next week.

  It just doesn’t work. All of the charm he had has diminished, and now Daniel has gone from being an interesting stranger-friend to a shiny, famous, airbrush-pictured actor. You sigh in embarrassment, remembering that you told him about your lack of . . . well, everything. You couldn’t name a single thing that makes you happy, while he has everything that makes people happy. Money, fame, beauty, charisma, more money, women doting on him, still more money. To further your torture, you google Daniel actor British, then, thinking for a moment, add gorgeous. The first picture that pops up is his, and when you click through, the first page reads “Daniel Andrew Sharman, born April 25, 1986.” You take a second to think about how intrusive it is that so much of his personal information is yielded to you by a simple internet search.

  Dozens of images of his face pop up on your screen, and you glance toward the wooden stairs. He’s halfway down them, moving fast on his long legs. Even his strides are glossy like the pages of magazines, like the pages you’re swiping through on your phone screen. You close the tab before reading a single thing about him. You have everything you need to know from watching him with his fans. He’s a nice guy, but you don’t have the time or energy to waste on an unrealistic friendship with a famous actor. He calls your name again, and you walk farther down the beach. You have about five more minutes before you have to walk back up the giant staircase.

  You take a quick picture of the beach. The water sparkles in the image, and the sand doesn’t look as brown or as dirty as it is in real life. You’ve never been this close to the ocean before. You attempted two different trips to the beach; both times it began to pour rain, a rarity here in Southern California, so you took it as an omen and stayed away. Truth be told, now that you’re here, this close to the expansive shore of the Pacific, you’re slightly disappointed by the reality of it. The sand is hard to walk through, especially in heavy laced boots. You wish you had more time so you could take them off and feel the sand between your toes—something that people always talk about.

  “Want me to take one of you with the water in the background?” Daniel’s voice says, close, and when you turn around he’s right behind you. His cheeks are red. The wind is whipping through his wavy brown hair. You look up at his eyes, and he holds out his hand for you to give him your phone.

  “No, thanks,” you reply, trying to keep your voice neutral. Why does his presence bother you now, when ten minutes ago you couldn’t get enough of his easy smile, his carefree laugh?

  “Sorry about that up there. I thought you were going to wait for me, but they just kept talking, so I don’t blame you for taking off.” He uses his fingers to comb through his hair and cranes his neck to look down the shore.

  “It’s beautiful, right?” he asks. You decide not to comment on his encounter with the two female fans. You have no reason to be so annoyed by it. He is a complete stranger who doesn’t owe you a moment of his time.

  “It’s okay.” You shrug, still searching for an ounce of beauty along this coast. The wire-mesh trash can closest to you makes a howling noise as the wind passes through the empty bag, causing it to balloon and toss the small bits of trash into the air around you. “Just stunning,” you add under your breath.

  Your shoulders feel heavy and tense, and you roll them to relieve some of the excess tension. He eyes you from the side and traces the span of your face from eyes to chin and back up, then back down.

  You hear the clattering of footsteps on the wooden stairs and stare in horror when you see at least ten women and a handful of men trotting down the stairs, pointing in your direction. In Daniel’s direction.

  “It must have pissed you off that I didn’t know who you were when I met you,” you say without thinking. “Don’t be too offended, though. I don’t watch much television.” You hear the venom in your tone and wonder where the hell it came from.

  He laughs, amused by your unpleasant remark. “Pissed? You mean mad, right? Not belligerently wasted?” he continues before you clarify. “Why would I be mad that you didn’t recognize me—don’t you think I would have made it clear if I thought myself that important?”

  He has a point, but you choose not to engage. “I have
to go,” you say, making a show of looking at the time on your phone. You’re pretty sure you’re going to miss the bus now, but you have to at least try to catch it. Maybe you can run a few blocks. You almost laugh at the thought.

  “Go? Go where?” he asks, clearly not able to take a hint. His eyes focus on the water lapping against the shore. The smell of fish and salt fills your nose, and you want to know why he’s so persistent. The crowd of people is near the bottom of the stairs now and you nod toward them, figuring you may as well warn him before he gets swallowed whole.

  You start to walk away from him, but he follows. “Did I miss something?” he asks, tapping on your shoulder to get you to turn to face him. “Did something happen while I was up there?” He looks around the beach for a culprit.

  You want to dig into your bag and hand him a mirror.

  Except you have no reason to be upset with him. You’re reaching for reasons to be angry because he’s successful? It doesn’t make sense to you, but that still doesn’t change the ache in your stomach when you think about how stupid he must think you are. A simple girl, a waitress at that, who moved from a small, shitty town to Los Angeles, the city of broken dreams. You’re sure he wasn’t surprised when you told him you have never traveled or that you don’t have a car. The women he’s used to being around have been plucked and pampered, hair-colored and blown out by someone with an accent and years of experience.

  “No, I just have to get back. But it was nice to meet you. I’ll look out for your next movie or something.” You shrug and turn away from the ocean.

  “Does your boyfriend need you home?” he pries.

  You make a sound like a grunt. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  You should have lied. You wonder if it’s too late to take that back. You could easily conjure up a make-believe man of your dreams. He would work at some start-up in the Valley, and he would be attractive but in a subtle way. He would love you for your quirks, and he wouldn’t mind if you would rather stay at home and watch random—mostly conspiracy-filled—documentaries on Netflix.

  Maybe he could be a painter, and you two could be planning on traveling the world together. He wouldn’t ever make you feel bad about your wishy-washy future, and he would have a brother or sister who you could adore and become friends with. Listing the things that you have never had makes you miss them. It’s silly and ridiculous, and you should probably stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  “Hmm,” he says, his voice traveling through you. “I don’t have a boyfriend, or girlfriend, either.”

  You shift onto the heels of your boots and stare back out at the water. “Good to know.” You nod slowly, unsure what else to say.

  “I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time, actually. I’ve been so busy with work and traveling, and my last relationship didn’t end very well. It was hard for me to let go of that, so I decided to save everyone the hassle and just pour everything into my work. It’s been a good distraction; a successful one, to say the least.”

  He sounds proud, but you catch a hint of something else in his words. Your first instinct is to bite back with a sarcastic jab, but something stops you.

  You look up at him. “Well, at least you have success to fall back on. I have a rap sheet of bad choices in men, going back to high school.” You cringe, remembering when you made the mistake of sending nude pictures to Timmy Bellus, your cute, nerdy little boyfriend. Except Timmy didn’t want to be a nerd, he wanted to be a cool kid. And his ticket into the cool crowd was showing your private pictures to everyone.

  “I’m a waitress who takes a bus where I need to go. I don’t have a passport; I’ve never been to England or Sweden or anywhere but here and the hole I grew up in, and I can barely keep my head above water long enough to get through my weekly call with my mother, who, by the way, could give a shit about me but needs to keep up appearances and be able to tell her friends that her daughter lives in Los Angeles now—only she doesn’t mention that I don’t actually do shit here.”

  His fingers tap your balled-up fist at your side, and you clench harder.

  He doesn’t relent. He simply moves to the other side of you and pushes his fingers through your free hand.

  “I’ve never understood why people find it unacceptable to touch each other,” he says when you pull your hand away from his. “Whether we’re strangers or friends or lovers, why is it so bad to be affectionate? I’ll never understand that.”

  “You must have been hugged a lot as a child.”

  His expression falls flat at your attempt at a joke. He quickly catches it and regains his composure, a half smile on his lips. “I wasn’t, actually.”

  You breathe out a heavy breath of frustration at yourself. “I’m sorry I’m so bitchy. I’m not good with people.” You try to make excuses for yourself. It’s the truth, though; you never quite caught on to human interaction. You can carry on conversations, sure, but mostly only superficial ones. You haven’t had a candid discussion with someone about yourself, your self-loathing, your failures, your successes. You’ve never had a stranger touch you or hold your hand to comfort you.

  “I’m not either,” he admits.

  He’s lying—you were under his spell the moment he smiled at you.

  “Liar.” You smile at him, not meaning to be harsh. “You were just fine with me and your fan club.”

  He shakes his head and reaches for your hand again. You pull away.

  “I’m an actor; it’s what I do.”

  Can he really not feel comfortable with people? It’s impossible. You witnessed more than one example of his charisma. You wish it to be true, though, because that would mean you have something in common with him after all.

  “Let’s walk,” he says.

  But he doesn’t reach for your hand, and you’re relieved. Letting him touch you would be dangerous for your barely existent self-esteem. You can’t imagine how many people he touches every day, every week. You also can’t understand the irrational jealousy you feel when you think about it. He owes you absolutely nothing—it’s not his fault that he’s so likable. You feel a sense of comfort as he walks with you, away from the crowd of fans. They are quite slow. You look back at them and realize they’re all simply following him at a lumbering pace.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to just take pictures with them instead of having them follow you?” you ask.

  He looks toward them, and a slight frown plays at the corner of his lips. “They’ll follow me either way.”

  He doesn’t look upset by this, or even remotely bothered, but it has to be annoying in some way. Even the most downtrodden person doesn’t enjoy being treated like an animal.

  “Do you want me to tell them to fuck off?” you offer, and he bursts into laughter. Shaking his head, he grabs your hand again. You let him.

  “No, we don’t need photos of you battling crowds of fans all over the tabloids.”

  He’s still laughing, and you join him. You were completely serious, and still are. You have no problem being the bad guy if it makes the crowd go away. You think about his mention of tabloids for a moment. You scan the crowd for someone with a camera, and sure enough, almost all twenty or so of them are holding their phones in their hands. In the age of smartphones, everyone is the paparazzi. You pull your hand from his, and he sighs quietly.

  “Doesn’t it bother you? Being followed around by people?” you ask.

  He walks a little faster, and you rush to keep up with his pace. “No, I’m incredibly lucky to have the life that I do. I’ve worked my ass off for it, and I’m living my dream and millions of other people’s as well. Who would I be to complain about people who care about me following me around sometimes?”

  “Do they care about you, though? They don’t even know you,” you say without thought. You’ve had your share of celebrity crushes, but you’re not sure where to draw the line between adoring someone and caring for them.

  “They know a version of me that they choose to, and they care about that. If
I make them happy, I believe they care about me. If that’s not the case”—his eyes become slightly hooded, almost challenging as he finishes—“then so be it. But I choose to believe they care, and that’s good enough for me, whether they know me or not. Truth be told, very, very few people know me outside of my brother and my mum.”

  You appreciate his humble approach to his fans, but that doesn’t mean you understand it. “I still think it’s rude that they follow you around. Sorry, but I can’t find the normalcy there.”

  “Your version of normalcy may not be the same as theirs, but really, is it hurting me to know they’re walking behind me on a beach?”

  He pauses and you don’t answer, the beach silent except for the squishing of the sand beneath your boots.

  “If anything, I’m grateful to have the option to not be alone when I choose.” His answer is odd, but as the seconds tick by and you actually think about what he’s saying, you begin to understand. You know being alone. You’re a master at the feeling of loneliness. Would you mind so much if at a moment’s notice you could be surrounded by a crowd of people who would love to meet you? You aren’t sure, but you appreciate his approach.

  “You’ve got to be the most positive person I’ve ever met,” you say. Your voice is thick, and honesty drips from your words like honey.

  He surprises you by laughing and touching his finger to the tip of your nose. What an odd gesture, you think. You like it, but you’ll never share this with him.

  “If that’s true, then you haven’t met very many people.” You decide that you love his light and airy voice, the way his lips curve around each word, bringing importance to every sound. The comfort these things bring.