To My Future Number 1 Fan

by L. A. Witt

  Everyone in Julian’s living room was very, very still.

  “Oh my God,” Quinn whispered beside me. “Is he talking about—”

  “Yes,” I hissed. “Shh.”

  Onscreen, Adam continued, “You tipped me. You smiled at me. And before you left…” He paused when his voice started to get shaky. “Before you left, you asked for my autograph. You said you knew a lot of waiters in LA were trying to break into Hollywood, and there was no telling who might make it big.” His voice wavered again, and he put a hand to his lips as he cleared his throat.

  When he continued, the words were still trembling. “You told me it could be me. It probably didn’t seem like anything to you, but that little conversation, and the chance to sign that notebook you were carrying around, was what I needed to get my ass to that audition that afternoon.” He looked right at the camera, smiling broadly. “I got the part. And after that, I got other parts. And now, five years after you gave me that little boost…” He held up his trophy, and I swore he really was looking right at me. “I never even knew your name, but I hope you’re watching because I’m dedicating this to you.”

  The audience on the screen went wild, standing up and applauding as music played him off the stage.

  Here in the living room, everyone was silent. Jaws slack. Eyes wide. Silent.

  One by one, heads turned to me.

  I was the first to speak. “Did… did that just happen?”

  Everyone nodded mutely.

  I swallowed. “Holy…”

  “That…” Julian blew out a breath. “That was unreal. Un-fucking-real.”

  “Tell me about it.” I wiped a hand over my face, and realized it was shaking. I was shaking all over, actually. The surge of adrenaline and God knew what else had me so jittery, I couldn’t sit still. Without a word, I got up and headed into the kitchen with my still full wineglass. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, only that I needed to move before this sudden nervous energy got out of control.

  My friends hung back, which was kind of surprising. I fully expected them to trail after me and fire off questions, but they didn’t. Maybe they knew that I’d been shocked by the speech. That it was overwhelming. Maybe they were giving me some breathing room, and thank Christ for that. Maybe it was just because they knew damn well I couldn’t cope with spotlights, and I felt about a million of them pointed at me right then.

  In the kitchen, I set my glass down before I dropped it, and pressed my palms onto the counter. Eyes closed, I breathed in and out slowly. I couldn’t process it yet. I tried not to think about how many people had seen that, or how many might be talking about it. For all I knew, they’d forgotten it as quickly as I’d forgotten all the other acceptance speeches tonight, but I was somehow certain everyone and their mother was talking about it. About me.

  In his speech, Adam said he doubted I’d remember meeting him, but I remembered. I’d replayed it a thousand times in my mind. I remembered the first time I ever saw him in a movie and nearly fell out of my seat because I’d have recognized that beautiful face anywhere. I remembered coming home afterward and opening my notebook to that page. I hadn’t been at all surprised when his name matched the one in the credits.

  I just hadn’t imagined that he’d remembered. I wondered if he had any idea how much I’d had to psych myself up to ask him for his autograph. I’d done it a few times before—I hadn’t been lying about getting autographs from waiters who might be up and coming—but the prospect of asking someone had never intimidated me like it had with him. Even while he’d been flustered and frustrated with his job, even while he’d been so obviously down and depressed, there’d been… a light in him. Some dormant charisma. There’d been no way of knowing if he was an actor, or if he’d aspired to be, but I’d known right then that he could command my full attention anytime he wanted to. This was someone brave enough to not only stand in the limelight, but bask in it, and even now I envied him as much as I wanted him.

  In the years since, I’d sometimes wondered if he’d thought I was creepy or ridiculous for asking him to sign my book. Or if he’d thought I was just being patronizing when I’d said, “It could be you.” I’d meant every word, though.

  Knowing my encouragement had left an impression? That he’d needed a push that day? My God. What if I hadn’t worked up the courage? What if I’d been the shy coward I usually was?

  Footsteps on the linoleum brought me back into the present, and I turned to see Julian, Quinn, and Tammy coming in. Julian had an odd smirk on his lips.

  I inclined my head. “What?”

  “Well, honey.” He shoved his iPad into my hands. “I think you’re about to be famous.” My stomach lurched, but before I could say I didn’t want to be famous, he tapped a long nail on the screen, and a video started.

  Outside the awards show venue, a red-headed reporter in a white suit spoke into an oversized microphone. “Adam Jacobsen’s win was no surprise, but his speech has Hollywood and fans alike talking. Who was this mystery man? Does he even know he has the newly-minted Filmmaker Association Award winner’s autograph?”

  I gulped. “Whoa.”

  Beside me, Tammy squealed, clapped a hand over her mouth, and shoved her phone at me. On it, another reporter was speaking: “I’m hearing from Los Angeles This Morning that they want to find the man who asked for Adam Jacobsen’s autograph, and if the autograph can be verified, they’re willing to fly him out to be on the show with Jacobsen himself.”

  My jaw fell open. “What?”

  Another reporter appeared. “We caught up with Adam backstage to find out more about how that autograph might be tracked down.”

  The screen shifted to Adam, still grinning from ear to ear in his tux with a microphone in his face. “If he’s got the real autograph”—he shrugged innocently, then winked not-so-innocently at the camera—“he’ll know what the inscription says.”

  I could feel my friends’ stares like burning spotlights. My heart pounded. I still hadn’t gotten my head around all of this, and now people wanted to fly me to LA to see Adam? In person? On TV? What the hell?

  Quinn whistled. “You might wanna check Twitter, babe.”

  My mouth went dry as I took out my phone and opened the Twitter app. #WhoseBookDidAdamSign was already trending. People were tweeting at Adam, posting photos of autographs, and speculating about what the inscription must have said. And because it was social media, there were also people telling him to die, calling him homophobic names, and raging that he didn’t deserve the award.

  “What are you gonna do?” Julian asked.

  My first instinct was to say I was going to do absolutely nothing. As much as I wanted to see Adam again, he was a package deal now. Lights, camera, Adam. And who was to say he wanted to see me for real? Maybe he just wanted to give me that little hat tip, make a tear-jerker of a speech so people would be talking about him, and—

  “Adam.” Julian touched my shoulder. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I know you, sweetheart, and you’re trying to talk yourself out of it because it’ll mean attention from a lot of people. And because you’re the kind of guy who’s stunned when someone pings him on Grindr, so you’re in denial that that guy”—he pointed at the iPad—“might genuinely want to see you.”

  Well, I had to give the man credit. He definitely knew me. “I, um…”

  Tammy inclined her head. “You’ve been kicking yourself for years over not getting his number. Now you have a chance to see him again.”

  “Yeah.” I gulped. “On a talk show. On TV. In front of…” I waved a hand because if I actually said a million people there was a good possibility I’d puke.

  “So would you rather go on TV and be nervous?” Quinn asked. “Or pass up this opportunity and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened?”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out because I didn’t have a damned argu
ment and fuck my friends for knowing exactly how to talk me out of my own stupid doubts.

  “I guess… I guess I could tweet at him. It’ll probably get lost in the shuffle, but it’s worth a try, right?”

  “Of course.” Julian nudged my arm. “Go for it!”

  I swallowed hard. Then, fingers a little shaky, I opened a new tweet and typed out, I think it might be me, Adam. From your number 1 fan. It wasn’t the exact quote, but he’d get the idea. I added the hashtag and mentioned Adam’s Twitter handle so he might hopefully see it.

  Then I held my breath, hit Tweet, and watched in horror as the message sent and joined the masses talking about Adam, the autograph, and me. Had I really just said that? That was the best thing I could come up with? A dorky fanboy tweet that was so awkwardly me it was sickening? Fuuuuck. No taking it back. I could delete it, but then… then I’d have to come up with something else to say, and—

  “Do you think he’ll find it?” Tammy asked. “I mean, there’s thousands of tweets popping up.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged as if I didn’t care nearly as much as I actually did. As if I wasn’t as anxious, embarrassed, or excited as I actually was. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Chapter 3

  Adam

  By the time I left the after party and checked my phone, social media had turned into a hurricane of people talking about my speech. I hadn’t expected it to get such a big reaction, but there it was. Good thing I’d hired a driver tonight—I’d planned to have a few drinks, after all, and I hated LA traffic—because I was glued to my phone.

  A lot of the “autographs” people posted were obviously fake. Unless I’d been drunk off my ass when I’d signed them, those were so not my signatures. And of course there was the usual mix of verbal abuse about everything from my appearance to my acting chops to my sexuality. Sometimes I wondered how people had that much time on their hands.

  There were so many tweets, I decided it would take the rest of the year to scroll through every single one. Instead, I did a search for my username plus “number 1 fan.”

  And right there at the top:

  I think it might be me, Adam. From your number 1 fan.

  My heart stopped and my jaw dropped. I blinked a few times.

  Then I tapped on his icon, and the photo he used for an avatar enlarged slightly.

  I would have recognized that warm, sweet smile in a crowd of millions. This had to be him. No way in hell it wasn’t.

  Brian. His name was Brian. After all this time, I finally knew his name.

  His bio was, as Twitter bios usually were, quite short: Just a guy with a job he likes and a dog he loves. #GoSeahawks #GoMariners

  I smiled to myself. I kind of wanted to scroll through his tweets and see if there were any pictures of his dog, but that felt a little too stalkery. I also wasn’t sure about replying to his tweet; my fans could be a bit wild, and I didn’t want to send a Twitterstorm his way. I especially didn’t want to put him on the radar of the haters and homophobes. Nobody needed their bullshit. Instead, I checked to see if he accepted direct messages from people who weren’t following him. He did, so I sent a quick message.

  Do you have a picture of the autograph?

  A moment later, a photo came through.

  My hand went to my mouth, and I caught myself feeling as shaky and overwhelmed as I’d been on the stage accepting the award, and at that diner a million years ago when I’d first written those words.

  To my future number 1 fan—Adam Jacobsen.

  I smiled as my eyes welled up. A million times, I’d thought about somehow reaching out to see if I could find him, but for some reason, I’d been too scared. Even tonight, I’d debated nixing the speech and going with a generic I’d like to thank my agent and all that other bullshit. At the last second, I’d vowed to stick with what I’d been planning to do ever since that day in the diner. And after I’d done it, I’d gone backstage and puked because there’d been too many emotions crashing through me and I hadn’t been able to handle it.

  And now… here we were. Connecting on Twitter. I’d found him. Which meant he’d heard my speech. Either he’d watched it live or someone had told him about it, but he’d heard it, and he’d reached out. Now we’d made contact.

  My mind darted back to a conversation at the after party. My assistant had said she’d already started getting calls from talk shows wanting to arrange for me and my mystery fan to meet up.

  Thankful that anxiety didn’t transmit through DMs, I wrote back, They’re serious about bringing you to LA. You in?

  He didn’t respond immediately. He started typing. Stopped. Started again. Stopped. There was nothing for a solid two minutes, and I wondered if he knew I was sitting there gnawing my lip and staring at the screen and trying not to get sick again.

  Finally, a message came through: That sounds amazing. Who do I talk to?

  Send me your number + email & I’ll have the powers that be get in touch.

  Great. I’m looking forward to it.

  I smiled as I forwarded his info to my assistant.

  Yeah, I thought. I’m looking forward to it too.

  ~*~

  This was one of those years where awards season and a new film coincided. That meant having at least three tuxes pressed and ready to go at all times, flying constantly, never really knowing where I was or what day it was, and spending most of my waking hours with cameras and microphones in my face. It was part of the job, and though it was tiring, I didn’t really mind it. Having my assistant, Vanessa, by my side for most of it helped, too. She could at least steer me in the right direction and make sure I was in the right place at the right time wearing the right outfit. Without her, I would seriously be wandering lower Manhattan in my gym shorts when I was supposed to be in a suit in London.

  As soon as we stepped off the plane, I knew we were in LAX. It was one of those airports I recognized immediately. Oh, did that mean I could sleep in my own bed tonight? Yaasssss sign me up.

  Of course it also meant a gauntlet of photographers as soon as we were out of the secure area. I was used to that, but I fucking hated it. Keeping my head down, I stayed on Vanessa’s heels as she strode through the crowd of faces and lenses.

  There was an SUV waiting on the curb, and the driver took our luggage as Vanessa and I got into the backseat. The door shut, and we both exhaled.

  “I could do this until I’m ninety,” she grumbled, “and I will still hate those assholes.”

  “I can’t wait for that. It’s going to be hilarious watching you shaking your cane at them.” In a nasal voice, I added, “Get off my lawn, you stupid paparazzi!”

  Vanessa laughed. “Right?” Then she tsked and took out her phone. “How are you feeling, by the way? Jetlagged? Hungry?”

  “Both.” Damn, now that she mentioned it, I was starving. “You want to hang out for something cheap and unhealthy?”

  She laughed but shook her head. “I wish. I’ve got a whole list of calls I need to make tonight to straighten out your schedule for the next month.”

  I didn’t even want to know why it needed straightening out. I’d made the mistake of asking in the past, and discovered it was never a good idea to peak behind the veil of what she did and how she did it. She kept so many plates spinning at a given time it made me queasy just imagining it. This woman was definitely getting a fat bonus this year.

  Without looking up from her phone, she said, “Oh, and don’t stay up too late tonight. You’re on Los Angeles This Morning tomorrow.”

  I glanced at her. “I am?”

  “Yeah. That guy who has the autograph you mentioned in your speech? They flew him in today, and you’re both on first thing in the morning.”

  My stomach fluttered. I hadn’t forgotten about Brian, but I also hadn’t realized everything had been arranged already. It had been less than a week since the awards, and I knew they wanted to arrange it while there was still buzz, but damn. “Oh. Uh. What time do I—”

 
; “A car will pick you up at 3:30.”

  “3:30? You mean the 3:30 that happens in the morning?”

  She shot me a playful glare. “Unless you think the one that happens in the afternoon will get you there in time for a live morning show.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Sorry, hon.” She patted my knee. “But hey, you’ll be jetlagged enough your body will think it’s 6:30, so there’s that.”

  I grunted unhappily. I didn’t do 6:30, either, but in this line of work, there wasn’t a lot of leeway. “So, what about Brian? I mean, I at least want a chance to talk to him one-on-one before—”

  “Not gonna happen, hon.” She shook her head apologetically. “You need sleep, and anyway they want you two to see each other for the first time on live TV.”

  I huffed and rolled my eyes. “Okay, but I mean, he’s not exactly used to lights and cameras hovering over him. Will there at least be someone to make sure he’s not overwhelmed?”

  Vanessa met my eyes, an odd smile on her lips. I could feel myself blushing, and was about to defend my concern for him, but then she shrugged and shifted her attention back to her phone. “I can check with the network. They’re handling everything, so I would assume they know what they’re doing.”

  That was probably the best we were going to get. My first few talk show appearances, I’d been dropped into a makeup chair, shoved into the green room, and heaved onstage without a lot of preamble. It was intimidating as hell even when I’d already kind of gotten used to things like paparazzi and red carpets.

  Brian would be going into this completely unprepared, and I’d seen how much that could overwhelm someone.

  While Vanessa caught up on texts and emails, I opened Twitter and went to my direct messages. I scrolled to Brian and pretended tapping his name didn’t give me crazy butterflies as I messaged him.

  You going to be ok tomorrow?