by Anna Todd
“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.”
“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.
You’re caught so off guard that you answer honestly, “No, I don’t.”
“I figured. Because it’s not really fanfiction. You’re just using me as a character, so your creepy argument is invalid.”
You scoff. “How?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “What’s the difference between you making me the main character in your story, and some casting director making me the main character in a movie?”
You open your mouth to answer, but then you catch yourself, because, damn, he kind of has a point . . . but not really. But kind of? Now your thought process is getting all jumbled up.
“Well—I mean,” you stammer, trying to get back on track, “the difference is you’re playing a character, while I made you a character. . . .”
But as you say it, you know it’s a weak attempt.
He waves you off. “There are plenty of actors that have either played themselves or played characters with the same names.”
“Yeah?” you say, trying to be difficult. “Give me an example.”
“Amy Schumer in Trainwreck.” He looks pleased with himself. You start to argue, but he interrupts, “Miley in Hannah Montana. Raven in That’s So Raven.”
You can’t keep from laughing. “Big Disney fan, huh?”
“Huge.” He smirks. “But you know I’m right about this. It’s not that creepy.”
“Yes, it is. Why do you think I’ve gotten to know everything I can about you? So I can make the character seem exactly like you. That’s why people are reading the story—because you’re the one starring in it.”
He frowns at you. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself or your story enough credit here. I get the whole ‘tying a celebrity name to it to give people incentive,’ but at the end of the day, people wouldn’t keep reading it if it sucked.”
“Debatable.”
“You’re impossible.”
You snort. “No, I’m right.”
When he doesn’t respond, you drop your gaze to the top of the table and take a sip of your gin and tonic. Logically, you know he has a point . . . but that still doesn’t change how embarrassed you feel about it.
“How did you find my story?” you blurt out.
He shrugs. “My friend told me about it. She’s an actress too, and she reads a lot of fanfiction—both about herself and her celebrity friends.”
You must have made a face because Dylan laughs. “See? That’s an example of something that is kind of creepy.”
He takes a moment to consider this. “Honestly?”
You nod.
“Well, for starters, I really like your story. I’d like it regardless of how it’s written or if it didn’t have my name in it.”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious,” he says with a little more conviction than you were expecting.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
“Secondly”—his voice has a teasing undertone—“I think it’s kind of cool to be someone’s muse.”
You freeze, your heart skipping its way into your throat. Is that what he thinks he is? Do you think that’s what he is? Your muse?
Dylan’s watching you mull all this over—you can practically feel his gaze—but you’re too worried about exposing the blush on your face to look up.
“I don’t know—what I really mean is that I think you’re talented, and even though the story has my name tied to it, it doesn’t read like fanfiction.” He sounds a little embarrassed now. “And I also don’t want you to worry about being pigeonholed as a writer because your story has my name tied to it.”
“Did you talk to my literary agent before the meeting today or something?” you ask suspiciously.
He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “There may have been a conversation with my lawyer about what needed to happen to keep my name tied to your story. Obviously my lawyer’s concern is what would happen if we published the story with the name Dylan O’Brien in it. . . . What kind of legal doors that would open for other authors wanting to do the same thing to sell more books starring me.”
Your stomach drops. “I see” is all you can manage.
“So, you can imagine my disappointment when my lawyer contacted your literary agent, who said that you didn’t want to keep my name on your story anyway.”
You squirm a little on your barstool, feeling guilty.
“When I asked why, I was told that you’re worried that you’ll be pigeonholed as a fanfiction writer for the rest of your life.”
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“What? Why? I mean, I totally understand that you don’t want to be labeled before your career even starts.”
“And yet you came to the meeting today to try to convince me otherwise?”
“Yeah . . . well—mostly. I was told I should be there from a legal standpoint, regardless.”
“I thought you were coming to sue me,” you admit.
Dylan’s sudden bark of laughter makes you jump. “Are you serious?” When you nod, he adds, “I’m not that much of an asshole.”
That makes you laugh too.
“But seriously, I get why you don’t want to keep my name on your story.” His voice is a little quieter now. “I just think it’d be really cool if you did.”
YOU AND DYLAN are mostly quiet when you get back into a cab.
He tells the driver two stops—first, your hotel, then his.
“So, what happens if you do publish your story?” Dylan asks after a few long moments. Something about the way the city lights are blinking by outside makes the inside of the cab seem quieter.
You look out the window. “I’ll probably have to stop posting it. The story’s mapped out to be three books long, and I’m still posting the second one. Janet probably wouldn’t be happy if I gave away the ending for free.”
Dylan chuckles. “Sounds reasonable.” Then something occurs to him. “Wait, so that means I’m going to have to wait, like, years before I can know the ending?”
You turn to him and smirk at his distressed tone. “More than likely.”
“Dude, what!? I don’t get special privileges since I’m the main character?”
“I never said I was keeping you as the main character.” You watch his face fall a little.
The cab rolls to a stop outside your hotel, and you pull out your wallet. Dylan grabs it out of your hand and shoves it back into your purse.
“Hey—”
“This is on me,” he says, dismissing you. “But I am going to need your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” He holds out his hand.
“Why?” you ask, but you still unlock it and hand it to him.
He types in a number and hits send.
“Who are you calling?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets it ring for a few more seconds before ending the call. He hands your phone back to you. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the meeting. Do you want to share a cab again?”
“Um, sure?”
He smiles at you. “Cool.”
You decide to concentrate on getting the cab door open so he can’t see the embarrassingly goofy grin that’s spreading across your face.
“See you tomorrow,” you say, stepping onto the sidewalk. He waves and you shut the door.
You’re walking through the hotel lobby when you feel your phone vibrate. You look down to see a text message from a number you don’t have saved in your contacts: I still think it’d be pretty cool to keep my name as the main character. But you have to promise that I don’t have to wait with everyone else to know how the story ends.
You smile like an idiot as you read it. Then you text back: And if I don’t keep your name?
Another message comes through by the time you get back to your room: Then two years’ worth of internet stalking me will have been all for nothing ;)
Unforgettable Impression
Bel Watson
Imagine . . .
It’s one of those days.
Some days are bad, others are terrible, and others you can only describe as shitty. Yet, others are even worse, days that make you wonder what you did wrong to deserve such punishment, days that you describe with the well-known meme “the Lord is testing me.”
Today is one of the latter, in which you debate whether to jump off the highest floor, let a plane run you over, or bang your head against a wall until you crack it. The true question is, which one will give you at least a small sense of satisfaction?
It began with your cell phone’s preemptively assuming it was time to change time zones . . . again. Hence you were an hour late for your flight. When you realized what had happened, the ensuing panic had you running faster than Harry Styles does upon hearing “Free Stupid Tattoos.”
Of course, you’ve forgotten quite a few things that you only now remember, on your way to the airport. Still, that can be fixed. You decide to focus instead on the trip; you were going to spend time with that online friend you met through Wattpad from Sheffield, the location for the last One Direction concert prior to their upcoming hiatus. When you jokingly suggested you should meet for the first time and go to that concert together—for moral support because there was no way you could survive the last concert alone—she said yes and it suddenly became a reality. It was time to plan every detail and, most important, get those tickets—for which you almost became a hacker to keep the website from crashing. Time went by until everything was covered and the day to take your plane to meet her had arrived.
Your day keeps going downhill with your flight, of course, delayed the nice amount of two hours. You started considering just jumping on the first plane to the UK you can find, even if it means hanging from the wing. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Because you spent almost all your savings on that concert ticket, you couldn’t get a direct flight. The delay of your first flight makes you late for your next one, which obviously makes you want to see heads rolling. You might be a psychopath.
But, oh, come on. Not all is bad, right?
“We are deeply sorry for the inconvenience we’ve caused you, miss. Please accept our apologies,” a man in suit and tie with a bright and perfectly practiced smile tells you just as you’re about to cause a scene in front of everyone in the airport.
Your nostrils expand as you take a sharp breath, doing your utmost best to control your inner
Hulk.
“Don’t worry, we will get you a new ticket for our soonest flight to the UK.”
“When would that be?” you ask.
But the man just smiles, tense and a bit nervous.
At least the company takes responsibility and gets you a new ticket, ten hours later, but still, you’re going to get to the UK. And because karma isn’t a total bitch, you end up in executive class, which is really nice. First row!
This is basically the only good thing of your the-Lord-is-testing-me day. It’s probably the stress of the day, or that you haven’t eaten anything but a small order of fries, but when they give you your food on the plane, you gobble it up.
Almost as soon as you finish, you start feeling unwell.
It’s like your guts are playing Twister, which is really bad timing. You’re flying across the Atlantic, so it’s not like you can shout to the pilot to stop because you need to use a proper restroom. But then your whole body tenses and a little squeak escapes your lips as the ache gets stronger. Your body is getting hot, and it seems you’re breaking out in a cold sweat.
Oh, dear God, this is bad, you think, wanting to drop to your knees and scream a long and thunderous “No!” to the skies, like in soap operas. That has to be gratifying, though a luxury you can’t afford.
You realize that resisting is just hopeless. Before standing up, you pull up your hoodie and let your hair fall free, hoping people won’t notice your cramped expression or the humiliation coloring your cheeks. But the moment you get to the restroom for your section, you start to think maybe it wasn’t just bad luck but rather the food: a line of another five people looks as pale as you would were you not blushing.
You look around, trying to find another restroom as fast as possible. Once you spot one at the other side, you make your way over just to find two other people waiting. Wanting to cry for your bad luck, you head to the economy-class restrooms, just to find even longer queues.
Taking deep breaths, you go back to your seat and wait, keeping the controlled breathing, hoping it’ll get better. You barely move and the minutes seem to drag forever as people keep waiting for their turn and getting out with more relieved expressions.