IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (10 page)

As interesting as he seems, you don’t want him to sketch you for more than a few reasons. For one thing, it will be so awkward if he’s drawing you and you’re supposed to be sitting still—but what if you have to pee or your phone vibrates really loudly? In reality, you’re pretty sure that you don’t have to sit quite that still, and you know that no one is actually going to call you, but still.

He gives you a large grin; it’s playful and dangerous, menace blurring the pink of his lips.

“Come on, let me sketch you. I’m bored with this.” He waves his hand around, his long fingers playing at the air when he gestures toward the front of the room. “I was drawing bowls full of fruit when I was a wee lad. I need something more challenging. You have a nice face. Let me draw it?”

“Well, when you say it like that . . .” You roll your eyes at him and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth.

The two people in front of you turn around to look at you, both of them annoyed at the disruption. One woman’s overgrown eyebrows are drawn together at the base of her wrinkled forehead. Her hair is a messy nest of gray and black, and she looks like a total badass. She also looks like she wants to kill you for interrupting her sketching of fruit. The woman next to her reaches over and rubs her hand across the other one’s back, slowly and lovingly. The annoyed one’s eyes soften immediately with the gesture. She leans into the woman next to her and looks away from you. You sigh, admiring the way her annoyance quickly vanished at the touch of her partner. You can’t even remember the last
time you were touched that way, and you can’t name a single person who could calm you like that. You’ve been single for over a year—not that you’ve exactly been looking. Your last relationship wasn’t the best, and by the time you realized it, you barely recognized yourself. Since then you’ve moved to a new city, changed your major in college, dropped out of college, and enrolled again. You’re spending your time figuring out who you are, and you don’t see how bringing another person into your life would be productive in your journey.

“I’m a man of few but honest words,” the guy beside you says, and you almost believe him.

You know better, though
, you remind yourself.

“You’re judging me,” he says, surprising you. His British accent is thick, and he speaks quickly, pointedly.

You clear your throat. “What? I am not.” You look away and pretend to be listening to the instructor’s words.

The charming stranger moves from his spot and stands in front of you, between you and the easel. “You so are.” He makes eye contact with you again and keeps it as he continues: “I can see it in your eyes; you’re trying to find things wrong with me. I suspect you do this a lot.”

What the hell? Who does he think he is? You’re immediately defensive despite his wide smile and soft blue eyes. “That’s a pretty heavy assumption to make about a stranger.”

He pats the seat of your stool with his hand, and you sit down. He continues to stand in front of you, closer now. “We aren’t strangers. We’ve been friends for at least”—he looks down at his bare wrist as if he were wearing a watch—“five minutes.”

Your defenses lower, and you can’t help but smile at the strange yet endearing man. His fingers pluck out a pencil from the tray on the easel, and he looks at you.

“Okay, friend,” you goad him, a sarcastic smile playing on
your lips. “I’m going to need to know more about you before I let you draw me.”

He seems pleased by your idea. He nods, smiling again. You’ve never met anyone whose smile comes as easily as his. You’re slightly envious of him; you can’t remember the last time you smiled as much as he has in the last five minutes. It’s inviting, it’s odd, and he’s doing it again.

“Ask away.” He raises his hands like he’s surrendering, and you pull your lip between your teeth in concentration. You have no fucking clue what to ask him.

You glance around the room for a moment, trying to think of something you would like to know about him. The only people you can see are all middle-aged, and they all look similar. Not in skin color or specific features, really, but they all seem like they have absolutely nowhere else to be. They are relaxed, no one is checking their smartphone, and every single one of them is wearing sandals. You think about how remarkable it is that this place, only a bit north of Hollywood, is so different from it. You like it.

“Waiting . . .” He interrupts your people-watching.

You look at him. “Your name?”

He sits down on the stool, still holding the pencil. “Is that a question?” he teases.

Sarcastic . . . you like this about him.

“Yes.”

“Daniel, and yours?”

You tell him your name while you think of the next question.

“Where are you from?” you ask.

He raises his hand to the paper and drags the tip of the pencil across the blank white sheet. He draws what looks like a half-moon; his pencil makes small marks, and you watch him closely, waiting for him to answer.

A few seconds tick by and he still hasn’t answered. He’s making more lines on the page, completely enthralled by his work.

“Hello?” You remind him that you’re there, waiting for his response.

“I agreed to let you get to know me,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not to let you ask questions that you aren’t even
trying
to make interesting.”

Then he laughs again.

You stare at him pointedly, and he continues. “You don’t get to know someone by asking them where they are from or their name. I expected more from you.” He pretends to look disappointed and points his finger at you the way your dad used to. You try not to laugh, but fail miserably. He’s funny, this stranger. The laughter feels unusual, even slightly uncomfortable, because you aren’t used to laughing with tall, handsome men in art classes you’ve randomly chosen to attend.

He turns back to the paper, and his pencil marks begin to take shape—the shape of your chin? you think.

You know he’s right. Your questions haven’t been thought provoking, or even a bit interesting. “Fine, fine. Music—what type of music do you like?”

His head falls back. “Oh, come on,” he moans, his heavy voice dramatically drawling out every syllable.

“Hey!” you snap. “Music is a very important part of someone’s soul. You can find out nearly everything about a person by knowing the type of music they listen to.”

His laugh is soft. He raises his head and turns around to face you. His eyes find yours. “
Soul
?”

The way he says the word makes you shiver, despite the warm air flowing through the open windows into the room. You shift on your stool, trying to distract yourself from the goose bumps covering your skin. There’s absolutely no reason for one word, one syllable, to have you reacting like this.

“Answer the question, Daniel,” you say with a mock-stern expression, and he shakes his head, a wide grin covering his face.
His lips have a slight purple tint to them, and, once again, his smile is contagious.

“Yes, ma’am.” He turns his stool back to the easel, facing away from you. “I like the old stuff, like Morrissey. But mostly blues; you know, Guthrie, Lead Belly.”

His answer doesn’t surprise you. You wouldn’t have pegged him for someone who listens to the Hot 100, but still, you’re impressed.

His pencil marks are beginning to take shape, and you can’t believe you’re letting a stranger draw you. You’re impressed once more when you notice the resemblance between you and the barely-there drawing. He hasn’t done much yet, but the shape of your face is beginning to come together, and you’re instantly aware of the talent within him. You continue to watch him move; the lines and marks begin to take shape, and it’s . . .
fascinating
.

“What about you? What music do you like?” he asks, and you realize you haven’t spoken since he answered.

“I like it all, really; I’m familiar with Morrissey—” you begin, but he interrupts.

“More than just ‘Suedehead,’ right?”

Morrissey’s most well-known song; to prove yourself you nod, even though Daniel is still facing the easel. “My dad and I used to listen to every song, except ‘Suedehead,’ actually. He hated that one.” You feel warm at the memory of your dad lip-synching every word of every album by the rocker.

“You’re making me feel seventy instead of twenty-nine,” he teases, and turns around to smile at you. You pegged him for at least twenty-five, but his skin is just so clear, his smile is so radiant, that you assume he’s had it pretty easy. He doesn’t look like someone who’s ever known what it’s like to suffer; you don’t see any trace of hardship on this man’s face.
Think
positive—you can’t judge him for having a good life. You stop yourself from going farther down the negative tunnel that’s your own mind.

Daniel’s sketch has gone from a half-moon to the shape of your face. He shades your mouth quickly, drawing the curve of your bottom lip. When you sketch, you typically begin with facial features and form the shape of the face last.

“Are you out of questions already? I have a few that I would like to ask you.” His tone is so innocent, and the way his accent plays at each word makes him seem all the more dangerous. “You know, research for my work and all.”

He’s quite the charmer. He turns back to you, leaving his work in progress. The class is still moving along; the students in the row in front of you have completed half of the bowl of fruit already. Your page is blank, but you’re more fascinated by Daniel than by capturing some produce on a page.

You’re curious about the questions he has for you; even though asking the questions gave you an advantage in the game, you can’t help but wonder what he will ask.

Noticing that his eyes are focused on your mouth, you wave your hand in the air. “Ask away, Daniel.”

“I like the way it sounds when you say my name,” he says, as if it’s the most simple of statements.

You quietly gasp without meaning to, and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, studying you still. You can’t think of a single thing to say in response. You stare at the way his perfect teeth press into his lip. It’s unfair that he’s so attractive. Plus, not only is he attractive but he’s interesting, a quality you haven’t come across in many people.

A few seconds pass, and he finally turns his eyes away from your mouth and up to your eyes. “What makes you happy?”

His question floats through the air, unexpected and unassuming. You look away from his blue eyes to process it. You’re grateful when he turns back around to the paper and lets you think through your answer.
What makes me happy? What makes me happy?
you ask yourself over and over, trying to sift through
all the things in your life. You like school, but you actually hate it because you feel like you’re forcing yourself to choose a career before you know what you want to do. You like your apartment complex, but what kind of answer would that be?
Um, my apartment building makes me happy?
No thanks.

You care about your parents even though you barely speak to them. Your mom’s new husband is nice; your mom calls every once in a while, when she can break away from catering to him and his colleagues. You haven’t spoken to your father in years. You don’t have any siblings, and Los Angeles hasn’t blessed you with any friendships yet.

“I . . .” You continue to search for something to say. “I . . . well, what makes me happy is . . .” You struggle to come up with one single thing.
How is that possible?
You’ve never been the cheeriest of people, but it’s not possible that you don’t have a single thing in your life that makes you happy.

Your difficulty with this makes you question nearly everything in your life.

When Daniel looks at you, you feel the heat in your cheeks. You’re embarrassed, even though you don’t really have a reason to be.

He seems to notice your discomfort and changes the subject. “What’s your favorite form of art? Do you prefer painting, sketching, music, acting, writing?”

He’s kind.

“Drawing. I like to write too, though I’m not good at it. I love music, but I don’t have any talent to create it. I like to sketch, though not bowls of fruit. I like landscapes the most, I guess I’d say. I use markers as my medium mostly. It’s odd, I know. Most people hate to use markers because they bleed, they leave pools of ink, but I prefer them to pencils. The colors are brighter, more alive, you know?”

You take a breath at the end of your lengthy babbling, and his eyes are lighter, focused on you.

“That was a long answer,” you breathe. “It counts as two.”

“No, no. It surely doesn’t.” He laughs and turns back to the easel. “What’s your favorite place you’ve ever visited?”

You haven’t done much traveling in your life. In fact, you never left the state you were born in until a few months ago when you came to California. “I haven’t traveled much,” you say, looking down at the toes of your dirty boots.

“Much, or at all?” Daniel asks.

“At all. My mom was supposed to take me to Disney World when I was ten, and when I was sixteen . . . my best friend and I tried to run away from the shitty town we’re from, but her car broke down, so we didn’t make it out.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him such specifics about your life, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He soaks them in, his hands still moving, creating.

“Seems like you made it out just fine.”

You can’t see his face, but you sense that he’s smiling.

“What about you—where’s your favorite place that you’ve been?”

He ponders your question for a few seconds. “Sweden. It’s cold as fuck, but I love it there. If it were warmer and I could get work there, I would never leave the place.”

You don’t know much about Sweden, and you realize that you probably don’t know much about anything compared to this foreign, well-traveled, insanely attractive, well-spoken man. Instead of comparing your inadequacies to his achievements, you change the subject.

“What do you do for work?” you ask. You’re curious about this. He’s clearly talented in the arts, and he has the face and tall, lean body of a model.

Daniel clears his throat and doesn’t turn around to answer.
His pencil shades in the crease of your bottom lip, and you find your fingers touching your lips.