IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (58 page)

A twinge in the pit of your stomach makes you regret chastising him. “It might,” you say, attempting not to smile. If you smile, that means that he’s gotten to you. You
can’t
let him get to you.

There’s a laugh on his end, followed by “Can I come over to Cora’s later?”

That twinge in your stomach deepens at the sound of his plea. How were you supposed to say no?

“I guess. . . .” You throw a box of popcorn into the cart. “But only if you’re nice. Cora’s parents won’t let just
anyone
come over, you know.”

CORA, NEEDLESS TO SAY,
was ecstatic. Yelling and screaming and fangirling all over the house until her mother got her to calm down. Her parents are going out for the night, and so you three will get the house to yourselves until twelve.

Cora’s living room was light green and had a long brown couch on the far wall. A coffee table sat directly in front of that, and then the large plasma-screen television was on the opposite wall. No one ever used the armchair, and a big shaggy, cream rug covered the middle of the hardwood floor. Knickknacks and books were lying on every inch of available space, including the few dark bookshelves that lined the walls. The doorway to
the kitchen was to the side of the couch, the front door on the other end painted cream to match the rug. You always felt it was homey; somewhere to escape to when you were feeling troubled, a safe haven. The books were a great comfort. As you leaned over the front of the coffee table on the floor, the only thing that was missing were a few pencils and a notebook for drawing and you’d be set.

Tonight, however, the safe haven was to become a battleground. Figuratively and literally. Not only were you going to be watching
The Avengers
(with
him
), you knew that Cora had about twenty board games all ready to go if anyone wanted to play.

Which was wonderful. Not that you didn’t like games; that wasn’t it at all. It was something you and your family would do every time you got together. No, it was because
he
was going to be here. And you weren’t sure if you could handle it.

You’d felt this little twinge that had never before been there. It was odd, and strangely comforting, yet you knew it wasn’t a good thing. Every time Tom entered your thoughts, which was more often than you wanted, it would burrow deeper and deeper. You knew it was just waiting to attack at any moment.

It was overwhelming sometimes. Especially when you were texting him. It was as if he had his own personal string to you and pulled it just because he could, without realizing what it did to you.

So, that evening, when he walks in the door . . . you almost don’t breathe. Afraid that even the tiniest motion or sound will alert him and make him look at you. That’s something you don’t understand either: you don’t want him to see you. You’d give anything if he wouldn’t.

Instead, it’s you staring at him. His hair is shorter than it used to be. He looks worn-out, tired, but happy. Jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, boots. His long, pale fingers are wrapped around a pizza box. Cora runs to greet him. You don’t know what she’s
said. Not even registering her tone of voice. But
his
? His. You hear every word. Every delectable syllable uttered from his lips, though you don’t understand the language he speaks. It’s like you don’t know English anymore, because he has a way of speaking that’s all his own.

One hand unlatches from the pizza box and taps the top of it, the thudding noise reaching your ears. Can sounds be blurred? Because if they can, they are. Everything that isn’t him has completely vanished.

And he turns so elegantly, his every move fluid. You take the time to memorize his face. High cheekbones, beautiful lips, high forehead, and enchanting eyes. Those eyes—you’d love to be lost in them every second of every minute of the day. But they aren’t as bright as you remember them. They’ve lost some of their light, their humor. You dare to wonder if something’s wrong. What is he hiding? What’s happened to make his gorgeous eyes not shine like they should?

You want to fix the problem more than anything else in the world.

“Hello, love.”

His voice and easy smile take you aback, scare you. You don’t think that your heart has ever beaten faster than at this moment. You’re sure that your cheeks must be beet red, that he notices how your hands are shaking, and that your breathing is uneven.

It’s all you can do to reply with a stable, normal, grinning “Hey, Tom.”

“Long time no see.” He wrings his hands and purses his lips.

Before you’re able to reply, Cora comes bounding back through the kitchen doorway and starts talking. “Okay, so, I’ve got
The Avengers
, courtesy of Thomas.” She nods to Tom and starts counting on her fingers. “Board games, pizza—also courtesy of Thomas—popcorn, soda, water, tea, hot chocolate, chips, little mini chocolate bars—”

“All right, Cora,” you interrupt, seeing the giddy face of delight appear on both her and Tom’s faces. “You have lots of junk food.”

“That I do!”
she squeals, jumping up and smiling like a kindergartener. “Movie first?”

Tom had brought pepperoni pizza, which is consumed within ten minutes by the three of you. Cora insisted that the movie not be turned on until everyone had eaten and popcorn had been made, so for too long you have to make small talk with a man that you’d once called your best friend. Now he was something else entirely.

Trying to pay attention to every word that comes out of his mouth is difficult, mostly because he is eating at the same time. You keep getting distracted by the way that he chews his pizza, or when he clears his throat from laughing at something Cora says. When some sauce lands on his chin, it is the hardest thing in the world not to lean over and wipe it off for him.

Or kiss it off.

Yeah. That is the better option.

You feel your face get hot at the thought of just kissing him right here and now. His lips gliding so easily over your own, his hands at your waist and in your hair . . .

“Why are you blushing at me saying that I had to hop a plane here overnight because they sent me the wrong schedule?” Tom asks.

Your eyes widen, snapping back to the conversation. “What?” you stumble, face turning even redder. “Sorry . . . I was thinking about something else.”

“Obviously.” He chuckles, winking at you for no reason.

“Ooh.” Cora bites her bottom lip, smiling like a loon, from her seat on the floor. “I know what she’s thinking about.”

What?
How could Cora possibly know anything about . . .

“What?” both you and Tom say at the same time, except he is seriously wanting to know, and you are seriously wanting her to shut up.

“I’m assuming that she’s daydreaming about this guy she’s head over heels for.” Cora waves her hand. “She’d only blush like that if it were about him.”

“Shut up,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“What?” she asks, faking innocence.

“Who?” Tom says.

Cora hears the question and submits an answer before you’re able to. “I don’t know, but apparently he’s the nicest person she’s ever met.” After a brief moment of silence Cora explodes with her next question:
“Is he nicer than Tom?”

“Yeah! Is he nicer than me?!” Tom yells a bit more quietly than Cora, but still possessing that crazed look she has. If the situation weren’t so serious to you, you’d be laughing your head off.

Instead, you stand nervously and cross in front of Tom. “Does anybody want anything while I’m up? No? Well, then.” And in a moment you’re in the safe haven of the kitchen.

Taking deep breaths and counting to ten had never worked so well your whole life. Leaning over the countertop with your head in your hands, you wonder why you ever told Cora that secret.

You hear Tom excuse himself, asking your niece if she wants anything from the kitchen. Ten seconds later, he’s striding in with two dirty plates and two cups to put in the sink.

“Don’t want to talk about it?” he guesses aloud, running some water over the dishes without looking at you.

“Not especially.” You feel that twinge in your stomach dig deeper in.

He sighs. “I understand that”—his long fingers shut the water off—“and I don’t blame you.”

“Thanks,” you reply softly, standing up to your full height and depositing your own dish in the sink.

“But”—he pauses, turning to look at you, the smallest smile imaginable on his face—“I hate to pry . . . but curiosity is killing this cat, so, could you tell me who it is?”

That twinge turns into a dagger. “No . . .” you trail, teasing him. “I don’t think I can.”

But you should know that he’s never one to give up. “A hint?”

Considering what kind of hint to give him, you nod slowly, pursing your lips and crossing your arms over your chest. Then it hits you. Maybe he’d be able to figure it out on his own so you wouldn’t have to say it out loud.

“I met him at work.”

Tom’s eyes widen. “That’s the only hint I get? There’s, like, fifteen hundred men that could be!”

You feel smart. “But only one who’s stolen me.”

“Oh, ha. Ha. Ha,” he laughs drily. “I’m so sure you’ve been stolen.”

You take the moment to fully appreciate his height and whack him on the chest as you pass to get some popcorn from the cabinet. “Popcorn?” you smirk, opening the box.

THE MOVIE ENDS,
and you can tell from the way that Tom’s getting antsy that he’s going to have to leave. You know Cora won’t be entirely happy about this, but, like you, she wants what’s best for Tom.

“I’m sorry, Cora, but I’m afraid I must be off.” He sighs, slapping his hands on his knees and standing.

“Aww,” Cora whines, “but we haven’t played Monopoly yet!”

He laughs that wonderful
Ehehehe
before going to where she’s sitting and messing up her hair with his hand. “Maybe another
time, dear.” He smiles and heads for the door, slipping his jacket on and then his boots.

Both you and Cora get up from where you’re sitting; she runs to him, while you walk slowly.

He opens his arms for a hug from your niece and you hear him say, “Good night, dear. Be kind, make good grades, and eat your vegetables.”

You know Cora’s dying on the inside. You just
know
it.

Then he lets go of her, her face beet red like yours was earlier. And you notice that his arms are waiting for you. You enter them without a moment’s hesitation, thankful that for some part of the night you get to touch him the least little bit.

He’s so warm. And his hugs always encircle you fully, making you feel like you’re wrapped up more tightly than you’ll ever be again. It’s a safety that you’ve only felt with him.

“Good night, love,” he whispers. “Call me soon.” He breaks the hug much sooner than you want.

“What?” you can’t help but say, willing him to stay longer. “I don’t get a set of instructions like Cora?”

“Oh.” He smiles, and you see his eyes take on that bright quality they were missing for half a second. His hands go to your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, face-to-face. “Love. Be loved,” he whispers. “And never take no for an answer.”

He places a kiss on your forehead; it lasts a second longer than it should, and the both of you notice. A lazy smile takes over his features, and he lets go and starts opening the door.

“Thanks for having me over, Cora. I had a marvelous time.”

HAVING FINISHED FILMING
on
Man of Steel
and
Now You See Me
, you figured you’d earned some time off and called the airlines to book a round-trip ticket to London, because you had never been
there for more than interviews or work, and every time you set foot in the city you wished that you had time to spend just walking down its sidewalks underneath a red umbrella while raindrops kissed the pavement.

You briefly thought about the fact that you were going alone. One of your old high school friends had incessantly insisted that traveling by yourself made an experience more real. That it gave you more time to think on things without having the expense of another person’s opinion.

Nonetheless, your thoughts drift to friends and family you could’ve asked to go along. It’d been a while since Cora called; it seems schoolwork is driving her insane. And you’d like to say that Tom just drifted off into the back of your mind . . .

But he hasn’t.

Every day your thoughts are rampant with him. You tried to stop; you knew it was just going to be self-destructive. But . . . it’s like you can’t. There’s no way that your mind is going to let you go an entire twenty-four hours without thinking of him. Even if you were able to control your thoughts enough to forget about him during the day, you’d just dream of him at night.

This happens more often than you liked to admit.

Tom doesn’t call you as much as he used to. You attribute it to his working on multiple projects all at once, especially with this new Shakespeare adaptation for the BBC he’s doing. In fact, he hasn’t called you in a week, which is like a million years. The two of you had texted about the color of apples the other day, but the conversation went no further.

He likes apples. In smoothies. With lettuce.
Yuck.

Packing your bags, clothing strewn all over every surface of your bedroom—dresses, sweaters, peacoats, pants, Converse, and flats—you have no idea what should stay and what should go, because for one, you won’t be seeing anyone you already know, and two, would you really go out dancing by yourself?

So maybe the dresses should stay.

You pull a purse out of the closet that hasn’t seen the light since
The Avengers
wrapped filming, and there, sitting in the bottom, underneath a few napkins and some loose change, is a well-worn, scratched-up gray iPod Classic.

Tom had complained about losing this months ago. You remember his searching the trailer in a frenzy, mumbling about how important the device was and how he couldn’t have lost it. He must’ve forgotten that he slipped it into your purse while you were at an interview or getting lunch or something.