IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  It ticks you off, for one thing. It just infuriates you, and you’re very sure why.

  As you walk into the bathroom, the lights flash on automatically, and you nearly scream in surprise at the sudden illumination.

  He’s just so . . . so . . . not wrong.

  Standing in the bathroom, staring at your reflection in the mirror, you have to stabilize yourself on the counter. You stop, your anger-flushed face staring madly back at you. What can you do? How do you continue talking after he goes and says something like that?

  Deep breaths. Breathe. Inhale, hold for ten seconds, exhale. Peace. Pure, complete blankness of mind that eases the tensed muscles in your neck and arms. Safety, here in this space. Bliss. You breathe again.

  And something breaks your solid concentration.

  “And I-eee-I will always love you-hoooo . . .”

  “Shut up,” you growl at the radio, straightening back up and fixing your cardigan.

  If he wants to play, you’ll play.

  Just before heading out, you throw the mirror a wide smile. Building up confidence.

  Dinner passes with normal conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to that sentence.

  You wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off of me.

  “TOM,” YOU BEGIN, sitting back in your chair carefully, “I need to say something.”

  He gives you the most reassuring smile, and it warms you. Almost enough to have the courage to continue. But only almost.

  “Anything, love.”

  You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. You’re so nervous, your hands are shaking, and your palms are sweaty. Your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

  “You’re nervous,” he states, the tone of his voice getting softer. “It’s only me, love. You can tell me anything.”

  You wish you could believe that.

  You’re about to say it. So, so close to letting it fly, when you look up and see Tom watching you, his eyes curious and kind; that mix of blue that breaks you to the point of wanting to cry.

  Taking another deep breath and letting it out in a slow, shaky halfway laugh, you stare at your hands in your lap.

  “What is it?” Tom whispers, leaning in closer.

  You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to speak. “All right, I’m going to say this, and I totally understand if you just never want to talk to me again. Just please don’t shoot me down immediately.”

  Tom leans back, a gentle smirk on his face. “Okay.”

  You want to slap that smirk off. Or kiss it off. Whichever.

  “Okay?” It’s like you’re checking the word for yourself to make sure that it’s a valid answer. “Um, I really don’t know how to say this. . . .”

  Eyes twinkling, he chuckles, and the sound reverberates through your body like an earthquake. “You’re cute when you’re frazzled. Sorry,” he apologizes for interrupting, “please continue.”

  He just called you cute. Goose bumps break out all over your arms, a shiver shuddering through your frame.

  “I was going to say that—” Another deep breath, and you prepare yourself. This is it. Now or never.

  Crossing your arms over your chest and propping your elbows on the table, you swallow the lump in your throat and say the words as quickly as possible, thinking about ripping a Band-Aid off. “I like you. There—I said it. Ridicule me. Mock me. Just don’t leave. Okay? Because even if you don’t think the same way, you’re a great friend, and I don’t want to lose that.”

  Your eyes close and you let out a little breath before you hear his chuckle.

  “Let’s go dance.”

  What? You open your eyes and just sit there, staring at him. You’re completely confused because you just told him everything—everything—and his reaction is so strange.

  He stands quietly, moving around to your chair and holding his hand out. Numbly placing your own in his, you stand and allow him to lead you to the larger room, where you see couples spinning around the floor.

  Your mind is reeling. What did you just do?? Or was it all a dream and you only think that you did it? Because he didn’t respond at all. Not even his face. Nothing in his look or eyes or anything showed any indication of your spilling the beans.

  And, it just so happened that you being the lucky one that you are, the fast, upbeat music switches over to a slow, peaceful tune when you two step onto the floor. Great.

  He takes you to the center and grabs your other hand to hold up as if you’re about to waltz. Pulling you closer, his right hand wraps around your waist . . . but doesn’t stop. Instead, it lands on the small of your back, fingers spreading out slowly. A blush rises to your cheeks when he starts moving his feet to the beat, and you try to look anywhere but at him.

  “Love?” You feel his hot breath on your ear, and it sends shivers down to your toes. “I would never ridicule you.” He leans back and kisses your cheek. “Or mock you.”

  He leans forward, placing his forehead against yours. For a moment you can’t breathe—can’t even take a breath because those two gorgeous eyes have got you. They’ve got you held completely captive. You’re not even sure how your feet know to move to the music, because all you can think about are those eyes. Blue seas that must have galaxies inside, because there’s no way that’s all they could be. And they betray him: you see the pent-up nerves, the anxiety. The hope, and fear. And happiness. Undeniable happiness.

  His nose brushes yours lightly, his eyes closing as he whispers, “And I would never leave you.”

  His tone of voice stalls you, and you find that your feet have stopped. Instinctively, your eyes close with a shaky breath. Your palms are sweaty, and you just know that he feels it. His fingers draw tiny circles on your back before his whole hand pushes you forward into his frame; your breath hitches.

  “Tom,” you whisper, but you don’t get the chance to finish. He bridges the gap between you and kisses you ever so slowly.

  And, goodness, you’d wondered how this would feel. You forget the room of people around you, lose the sounds of the band and couples chattering. It’s him. Just utterly him, and you’re sure that nothing else in your life had ever resulted in this much peace.

  After months of worrying, of anxiety from wondering how he was or if he was thinking about you—you feel peace. Like nothing is easier than just standing here, being in his arms and knowing that you aren’t alone. That at least, for now, you have him to yourself.

  And he isn’t anyone else but Tom.

  Ding & Crash

  Laiza Millan

  Imagine . . .

  A million thoughts are flying through your mind as you rush to get ready for work. You had planned on going to work in the afternoon, but no, they called you to get there in an hour because some big important singer was coming in today, and they weren’t really nice about it on the phone. Ugh.

  Ever since you started this internship, you have been nothing but a bottle of stress waiting to explode. Who knew there was so much hard work to do at a small-town radio station? But here you are, fresh out of college, and doing a big-kid job, it seems. . . .

  You give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror for the umpteenth time and grimace. Oh, hell no, is stress already causing your hair to turn gray—

  Beep! Beep!

  Shit, your warning alarm! That means you have fifteen minutes to get to work! Feeling even more stressed out, you run to the door and grab your keys—

  Ding!

  Dammit—another one! You swipe the screen of your phone open and quickly read the texts from your coworkers.

  Where are you?

  Hey are u on the way?

  Well, duh. They only called you like, when, forty minutes ago?

  You quickly stash your phone in your pocket and bolt out of the house after slamming the door, scaring your poor pets. You fumble for your keys as you unlock your car door and throw yourself inside.

  Music starts surrounding you inside your car as you pull out of the driveway and floor i
t. “What’s wrong with being . . . What’s wrong with being confident?”

  Ugh, these stupid cars in front of you are so slow!

  Ding!

  You glance at your right pocket, hearing and feeling the vibration of a text message again. Should you check it? Well, maybe at the next stoplight. If that Mercedes with a Texas license plate would hurry the hell up, you would probably be at work by now!

  Ding!

  Ignore it. You need to.

  Ding!

  Ugh, what do they want?! You’re on the way!

  Ding! Ding!

  You give up. Just do a quick peek, no harm done. Trying to stretch your leg so you can dig your fingers inside your pocket, you pull your phone out and swipe it open.

  You quickly look back up, one eye on the road. Okay, you’re safe.

  Only you find yourself looking back down again. Oh, wow, five messages! Why could they possibly need to text you so much when they know you’re on the way to work? You click on the first message and look at the—

  CRASH!

  WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

  There’s this annoying ringing in your ears, and a pounding headache coming into full force as you slowly regain consciousness. You open your eyes to feel your forehead against the top of the steering wheel, your nose barely just missing the horn.

  Ugh, wow, your neck hurts. Little by little, you lift your head up, feeling the ache and hearing the cracks your back makes as you try to sit up, only to feel your shoulder give a sharp jolt of pain. You let out a slow moan and lift your hand up to rub the ache away, only to see you’re still tightly clutching your cell phone.

  Blinking, you finally look around you and a large fist of dread punches you right in the gut as memories of what happened come flooding in.

  You were driving . . . You were texting . . . You were driving and texting when suddenly the car in front of you stopped, making you crash into . . . Oh, shit.

  Quickly, you unbuckle your seat belt and throw the door open, each second feeling painfully slow as you head toward the car you hit. Are they okay? Are there kids inside? What have you done? If only you didn’t look down right at that second . . .

  You feel as if something is squeezing your throat—you can barely breathe, you can barely see, and your heart is hammering faster than you thought possible. All background noise fades away as you pound on the other car’s window and scream with all your might. “Hello! Are you okay in there—”

  “Are you okay?” you hear a smooth voice ask from behind you.

  You whirl around to see a very pretty female about five and a half feet tall, long brown hair, dressed up in such an interesting sort of style, and you start to realize . . .

  “Demi Lovato?” you say.

  “Indeed,” Demi says.

  “Did I just crash into you?” you ask, dumbfounded.

  “Indeed,” she repeats, shakily lifting one hand up to grasp yours while her other hand clutches a phone. You stare at the hand she’s offering and notice the small tattooed words that peek from her wrist: STAY STRONG.

  Right. Stay strong. How can you possibly stay strong when you just freakin’ crashed into a car because you were doing something so idiotic and irresponsible? Ugh, this all feels so surreal.

  Speaking into her phone, she says, “Yeah, Selena, I’m all right. Give me a minute.” Then she pulls away and frowns up at you. “Are you okay?”

  “I . . . I . . .” You can barely get the words out. What, are you okay? Who cares when you just crashed into some celebrity’s car! Not just anybody’s, but the musician’s . . . the singer who was going to your workplace for an interview!

  Oh, you are screwed. “Miss Lovato, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” But you’re interrupted by an EMT yelling at you to sit down, saying something about injuries . . .

  Wait—EMT? Injuries? You were so caught up with what was happening to you, you didn’t realize the ambulance and police were already at the scene.

  As the medic checks you over, a policeman pops out of nowhere. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Jeez, where did they all come from? Have they been here all this time?

  “I don’t really know,” you mumble, feeling a whole different kind of scared. “I was just in a hurry to go to work and I thought I was still driving right at the speed limit.”

  The officer just nods as he jots things down on his pad. “So you don’t really remember what else happened?”

  Well, you do . . . But, ugh.

  “I got a text from one of my coworkers,” you admit with a heavy sigh. This is nothing to be proud of. You notice the EMT glance at the officer, a knowing look flying across their faces as they lock eyes. Assholes.

  Except not really, because you were the idiot who didn’t keep their eyes on the road!

  “Yes, go on,” the officer says politely, looking back at you.

  You look down, feeling the weight of humiliation and idiocy coming down on you. “I looked at my phone just to read and reply to the text, but I guess that’s when I hit the car.”

  “All done,” the EMT announces, handing you a bag of ice. “You can place this on your forehead every few minutes to ease the swelling. You’re lucky there wasn’t any serious damage. Also, does your car airbag work?”

  You don’t know. Oh, man, are they going to nail you for that too?

  Suddenly you hear a commotion and someone yells, “Oh my goodness, Demi!”

  You turn around and see Demi Lovato on the ground, looking paler than usual. Oh, crap.

  “Back off!” People are pulling you back as they make their way toward her. The EMT who helped you was already by her side with the others, feeling for her pulse and nodding.

  “She’s still alive! But we need to get her to an ambulance!”

  No! What the hell, you just spoke to her a few minutes ago!

  You watch in horror as everything whirls around you. The EMTs bring this long stretcher and place her on top, then put her inside the ambulance. People left and right are trying to control the traffic jam that was already forming, what with drivers trying to take a peek of the famous Demi Lovato being lifted into an ambulance. You faintly hear the siren start up, but you still feel numb and scared.

  And before you know it, they’re gone.

  And you’re alone with the cop and traffic.

  IT’S BEEN HOURS. Here you are, sitting in the station house, getting judgmental looks from everyone. Your hands are marked with little crescents from your fingernails digging into your skin, and your thoughts are all over the place . . . you’re pretty much in it deep.

  But here you are, hours later. You don’t know exactly how many, since everything is such a blur to you, but it’s been hours since you had an accident that cost you your job, and potentially someone else’s life. You didn’t bother calling your work; you were pretty certain Demi’s people would call for you.

  You could imagine how it all went down: “Hello? Hi, yes. Your guest Demi Lovato won’t be able to make it to the radio station because your intern crashed into her, and now she’s at the hospital, possibly dying and whatnot. Thank you so much. What’s that? No, no, we will not reschedule. Ever. And perhaps you should fire that intern.”

  Damn, you’re an idiot. You groan, placing your hands on your face as you keep thinking to yourself, I shouldn’t have done this and If only I hadn’t picked up the phone.

  Now what about Demi? Online it says she’s supposed to have a concert tonight, but obviously that’s not going to work out. You haven’t heard anything from her people, and you’re kind of both relieved and scared. Is she okay? Will she be okay? Is she even still alive?

  Duh, of course she is . . . right?

  Your thoughts are interrupted by the door opening; the same policeman who stayed with you the whole time at the scene of the accident comes walking in. He lets out a deep sigh and clears his throat. “You know the consequences for texting and driving, right?”

  You nod. “Yes.” You’re bound to pay a hefty fine, b
ut you’re not really sure what that fine increases to if it involves a famous person, one you send to the hospital.

  He opens his mouth to say something else but stops when the door opens again, revealing another guy in a suit. This new stranger takes one look at you and raises an eyebrow. “Get up. They wish to see you.”

  BEFORE YOU KNOW it, you’re back in the police car and on your way to see Demi. You can feel your heart accelerating as each light passes, and you get closer and closer to the hospital. Ugh, why do they want to see you? Are they going to sue you? Oh, wow, what’s happening?

  You’re pulled out of the car by the policeman and led inside the hospital. You feel like every eye inside the building is burning into the back of your skull, little whispers of those inside ready to grow into public rumors.

  A tall, older doctor is in the middle of doing some paperwork and talking to a patient, but when he sees you with the officers, he immediately excuses himself and shakes your hand. “Dr. Taylor.”

  “Sir,” you mumble, already feeling the weight of guilt once again.

  “I believe the patient requested to see you,” he says, then moves to the side and gestures for you to go into the nearby room. He nods at the policeman and says, “Only this one. She requests that no one else be allowed to come in.”

  When you don’t move for a moment, you feel a soft tug on your arm and glance at the policeman next to you, who smiles. He can obviously tell how much this is killing you and gives you a sympathetic look before nodding toward the room.

  You timidly take a step inside and hear the door close behind you. Everything around you is still. Your palms are sweating, and the silence is booming loudly in your ears. Curtains surround Demi’s bed, but you can’t get yourself to move your legs. It’s as if you’re suddenly paralyzed, unable to move or even talk.

  “Is anyone there?” a smooth voice from behind the curtain asks.

  You jump up slightly from the sound. “Y-yes! I’m . . . I’m here.”

  You go to her and pull aside the curtain, but stop when you see the image in front of you. There’s Demi Lovato, looking much more pale than usual. She has a heart-rate monitor hooked up to her and a blanket covering her up to her chin.