IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You

by Anna Todd

  Lost in thought, you’re caught off guard when you realize you’re taxiing to the gate, surrounded by brusque and harried cell-phone conversations with airline help desks. While you wait for your turn at the overhead compartments, you wonder what people would do if you just burst into song; defusing a stressed crowd with Christmas carols or show tunes has long been a personal fantasy. Of course, in these close quarters (and with your sketchy singing voice) it would probably violate some sort of flight ordinance, and you’d wind up spending Christmas locked in the windowless back room of an airport in a state whose location you could only describe as east of the Pacific.

  You quietly follow the grumpy line of passengers up the aisle instead.

  Inside, the airport is in chaos. Babies are crying, people are arguing, and when you glance at a nearby gate monitor, the standby list is twenty deep.

  First order of business: ladies’ room.

  Once that’s accomplished, you feel ready to find a gate agent who can (Please, God) put you on a flight home as soon as possible. Your mom is baking, your personal life is a mess, and you deserve to wallow in sugar cookies and homemade noodles for at least a month.

  “MA’AM, I UNDERSTAND, I do. But this is the last flight out tonight. We’re boarding now, and”—the agent points to the monitor—“as you can see, there’s simply no way I’m going to be able to get you on it.”

  You smile when sorority girl stomps her little sequined boot in response. While on the one hand you completely understand her frustration, on the other it’s nice to see the playing field has been leveled. While sorority girl was apparently fixing her hair and makeup (because seriously, no one looks that adorable mid-layover), you had had your own futile turn at the airline counter.

  Air travel: the ultimate equalizer.

  A tall figure approaches the desk, hitching a backpack over his shoulder, and your eyes widen as they travel from a well-toned backside to a familiar, handsome face. You know you need to mentally recant your assumption of equality, but you’ll have to find the thinking part of your brain first.

  Because Captain America is standing right in front of you.

  “Holy shit,” you whisper.

  “A-fucking-men,” mutters the lady on your right.

  Oblivious to the complete standstill he has brought the gate to, Chris Evans (!) smiles beatifically at the gate agent behind some stupidly appealing scruff, his charcoal henley shirt straining across a pair of insanely defined biceps. He’s charming the socks off the girl behind the counter, you can tell, as she blushes profusely under his five-hundred-watt grin.

  “Damn, I never have my phone out when I need it,” the woman next to you says as she rummages through the kind of colorful quilted bag you only see in airports. She throws you a wry smile. “My daughter will never forgive me if I don’t get a picture.”

  Oh, you think, same, mentally substituting your best friend Olivia for her daughter, and then you too are digging through your (slightly more chic) Michael Kors knockoff. A subtle shift in the room’s energy gets your attention and you glance up, figuring someone has asked for an autograph or maybe a selfie with him, and you’ve probably lost your shot (just like you’ve apparently lost your phone). But what you find instead is a solemn and respectful Evans shaking the hand of a young soldier in fatigues. The younger man’s hair has been sheared so close you can see the unevenness of his skull.

  “Well, would you look at that,” your neighbor murmurs before dabbing at her eye.

  They’ve moved to the open jet bridge now, the soldier and the superstar, and Evans hands his ticket to the agent at the door. He clasps the kid’s shoulder, and you think he says, “No, thank you.”

  The soldier gives Evans a spontaneous hug, and now you’re the one dabbing at your eyes, and a distinct sniffle comes from somewhere behind you when the soldier tosses a duffel over his shoulder and starts down the tunnel to board.

  The waiting passengers burst into applause when Evans turns around, and he blushes a lovely shade of rose, one hand coming up to swipe across his mouth. His self-consciousness is palpable, he’s obviously forgotten he has an audience, and somehow that makes his generosity even more touching, and you want nothing more than to gather him up and give him a hug.

  You suffer a profound and paralyzing panic when he looks right at you and beelines for the empty seat on your left.

  “Sweet merciful heavens,” your neighbor gasps, echoing your thoughts.

  His big, gangly legs are a distraction all their own, but they become doubly so when one brushes against your thigh, and not for the first time (damn it to hell and back) you wonder why you chose comfortable black sweater leggings over something cute and fashionable. Then his biceps (Holy Jesus) knocks into your arm when he abruptly sits back.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says softly, trying in vain to squeezehimself into a space meant for a normal-size man.

  “Thank you,” you reply, and your eyes meet his in horror when you realize that was totally not a sane response. No, that was you, your stupid brain thanking its lucky stars that Chris fucking Evans is sitting beside you, thigh-touching you like your thigh is worthy—your thigh is worthy, and apparently your elbow too!

  “I mean, it’s okay,” you add with a grimace.

  He snorts, mouth twisting in amusement.

  His color is returning to a less self-conscious shade, you note, and then immediately wish you hadn’t, because, Lord, he’s even prettier up close. Which you wouldn’t have thought possible. For a split second you wish you had your camera, the real one, with a nice 50 mm lens, because a face like that deserves good glass.

  “Are you on your way home for Christmas?” It takes a full second and a half for his question to register, his words traveling through the molasses that has taken up residence around your brain.

  “For good,” you say, then wince again. Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup—

  “What do you mean?” He leans fully on the shared armrest, glomming on to the opener with more enthusiasm and interest than your two words deserve, his beefy shoulder practically melting into your side.

  “I . . .” You swallow hard, considering him, still dazzled by his proximity, but thinking maybe you can fake it if you don’t think too hard about who you’re talking to. Before you can suck enough wind to finish, though, your phone goes off with a stream of colorful language and a heavy beat, and the obnoxious ringtone is naked-at-school levels of embarrassing.

  You should have killed Olivia and hidden her body a long time ago.

  “Well, that sounds important,” he says with a wink before standing.

  Your cheeks are scalding as you scramble for your phone, trying to silence the inappropriate song before it hits the chorus—Oh, God—and when you look up, he’s already gone.

  WHY? WHY WHY WHY? you bemoan to your reflection in the mirror. The ladies’ room smells like all airport ladies’ rooms do: a queasy blend of antiseptic soap, baby wipes, and Chanel No. 5. So you wash your hands and leave, miserably aware of all your romantic failings. Not that Chris Evans was ever a legitimate romantic option, mind you. He sat beside you in an airport in Kentucky (or maybe Arkansas) for less than two minutes. That’s just winning the geographical lottery. It’s nothing to get all moon-eyed over.

  Still.

  An intelligent, successful, gorgeous man was actual facts paying attention to you, looking into your eyes as though you were the only person in the room. And—instead of being demure or flirtatious or fascinating in that way some girls manage as easily as breathing—you nearly dumped your sad, pathetic life story in his lap. Of course he bailed the moment he saw even a mere sliver of opportunity.

  You use a makeup wipe to clear some of the raccoonish shadows from under your lashes and sigh. Somewhere in this godforsaken airport there has to be pasta. You need noodles. Pronto.

  THERE ARE NO NOODLES.

  There’s barely an airport. There are A, B, and C terminals, each with fewer than eight gates. It takes you less than twenty minu
tes to traverse the whole damn thing. Back at B, there was a hot dog stand, and processed-meat product is as good a stand-in for noodles as the overpriced (and allegedly healthy) bags of organic granola at the newsstand.

  Chris Evans’s face beams at you from the cover of a magazine beside the register. You buy it and curse yourself all the way back to the hot dogs.

  The girl behind the register is singing as she slaps a wiener between a bun, and she wiggles, scooting around on the dull tile floor with more rhythm than your entire high school drill team combined.

  “Isn’t that your ringtone?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.

  Your heart can’t decide whether it’s stopping or going, and you briefly consider vomiting and keeling over dead before you turn and offer a sickly smile. “I didn’t pick it.”

  “Hmmm,” Evans says with the same dimply smile displayed on the cover of the magazine peeking out of your handbag. You surreptitiously shove it in a little deeper.

  “That’ll be eight ninety-five,” the girl chirps, taking your card and swiping it efficiently. “What can I get you?” she asks without looking up.

  You both wait for her to make the connection, to look at him, but she’s still singing, still wiggling, and you snicker at her cheerful obliviousness.

  Your new friend gives you a mock scowl and nods at your dog and Coke. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  “Eight ninety-five,” the girl singsongs, dancing over to the heated glass case.

  Not even his credit card gives her pause, and she treats him with no more or less attention than probably anyone else she’s seen all day. She’s 100 percent immune, and you marvel at it, wondering what that must be like.

  “Want to have dinner with me?” he asks, holding up his hot dog and totally catching you off guard.

  You choke on the sip of soda you’ve just sucked.

  “Easy there.” He grins, squeezing his hot dog under his arm and thumping you on the back.

  “Sure” is what you say, although Are you fucking kidding me? is what you’re thinking.

  Chris Evans is either way more observant than you or he’s walked the three terminals more than once tonight, because he leads you straight to an alcove behind a half wall. It’s the sort of open area that seems purposely unfinished, like it might one day be another gate, or a coffee shop, but for now it houses a floor-size checkerboard and checkers and a fake Christmas tree. The colorful, twinkling lights cast a cheery glow over the short row of seating.

  Neither of you has spoken since the hot dog stand, and it’s more than a little surreal, settling into the pleather-and-steel chair beside him.

  Only, apparently, he doesn’t think so at all, because he tears into the hot dog and grunts in satisfaction. “I don’t know why hot dogs are so good. They’re absolutely disgusting if you read the ingredients.”

  “First rule of eating a hot dog is to never read the ingredients,” you quip, and the pride you feel at having articulated an entire sentence in his presence nearly levitates you from your seat.

  “I know, right?” He grins and takes a sip of his soda. You might be a little envious of the straw. “So. I feel like we should introduce ourselves. I mean”—he winks—“it’s only right. It is our first date.”

  You withhold a second choking incident by sheer force of will.

  “Wait, don’t tell me. I want to guess.” He takes another bite, eyes narrowing on your face as he chews. “Okay, I’ve got it. Daisy.”

  You know you’re grinning like an idiot, your face aches with it, and you probably have mustard on your chin and bread between your teeth, but he’s adorable and playful and all of your brain cells are irreparable mush. “Wow, you’re good,” you manage.

  He waves at himself good-naturedly. “Now me.” You can feel your left eyebrow quirk upward in disbelief, even as he laughs at your expression. “I’m serious. What’s my name?”

  So you play along, chewing slowly and taking this God-given opportunity to admire him at close range without repercussion. “George,” you finally say. “Obviously.”

  “It’s like you’re psychic.” He shakes his head, cramming the rest of his hot dog in all at once. His cheeks are squirrel-like, round and full, but it doesn’t diminish his appeal one whit.

  “WE’RE NOT IN MONTANA,” he exclaims in consternation, taking the giant checker and leapfrogging it over three of yours.

  “You don’t know that,” you reply airily. “Have you ever been to Montana?”

  “No.” He stretches his arms high overhead and you maybe have to swallow.

  You shrug and move your own checker into place. “Then this might be Montana.”

  “Jesus, woman, have you never played checkers? You can’t move there!”

  “WHAT ELSE do you have in that besides a picture of me?” He reaches for your purse.

  “I do not!” You slam the zipper shut so fast he nearly falls over laughing.

  “Come on,” he wheedles, nudging your foot with his toe. “I need carbs. Preferably chocolate.”

  “Seriously, are you a girl?” you mutter, digging around in the bottomless depths of your bag. You might have a few pieces of dark chocolate left in your emergency stash. Triumphant, you toss him a bite-size nugget.

  He grins and unwraps it. “You know what else would be good? Nacho cheese Doritos. I have the biggest craving right now.”

  “Are you messing with me?” you ask slowly.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like Doritos,” he warns, but the twinkle in his eye gives him away.

  You shove him. “Ass.”

  His laughter is carefree and entirely too lovely.

  HE PLOPS DOWN beside you with two more hot dogs.

  “So?”

  He shakes his head with a grin. “Not even a glimmer.”

  “How’s your ego holding up?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe they don’t watch movies in Montana.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I think we’re in Utah.”

  “We’re not in Utah.”

  “We could be.”

  “We’re not.”

  You shake your head when he offers the second dog. “Wisconsin? It could be Wisconsin.”

  “Wisconsin isn’t in the middle.” He looks so utterly offended at your geographical incompetence that you laugh.

  “Kansas?”

  He pulls your Coke out of reach. “I’m cutting you off.”

  “GAH, I NEED REAL FOOD,” you mumble, grimacing at the ache in your neck. “And a pillow.”

  “And a blanket.” He thrums his fingers on his chest, and when you sneak a peek, the Christmas-tree lights transform his face with their shifting patterns of blue and red and green.

  You’ve been lying on the floor for the past thirty minutes, having given up on ever getting comfortable on the utilitarian seating, and if you think too hard about your currently being horizontally within reach of Chris fucking Evans, you’re going to hyperventilate, so you don’t.

  “We could go shopping.” He gives you one of those looks you can’t quite decipher, somewhere between teasing and secrets, and you find yourself nodding and being pulled to your feet. “I think there’s one store.”

  “Hot dog girl got off thirty minutes ago,” you remind him gently. “That ship has sailed.”

  “Shut up.” He pushes your purse into your hands and turns you in the direction of the A terminal.

  “You also owe me five bucks,” you say.

  “I’ll give you ten if you hand over that magazine.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “SO WOULD YOUR MOM like earbuds or portable hand warmers?” He holds up both packages with a contemplative expression.

  You point at the rack of pint-size medicinal products. “I don’t know; these are some quality gift items right here.”

  “Hmmm.” He purses his lips. “A person’s propensity for diarrhea seems like an indelicate subject for Christmas morning.”

  An angry shout arises from just outside the s
tore, and you look at each other, brows raised as an apparent confrontation over coffee creamer grows heated.

  “Christmas is a bad time to be stuck in an airport,” he mutters.

  “Son, anytime is a bad time to be stuck in an airport,” the cashier says, and sighs.

  You buy two chocolate milks and a travel toiletry kit; he buys an exceedingly overpriced electric blanket and two travel pillows.

  You try not to think about the contents of his bag all the way back to the Christmas-tree nook.

  “SO HE TOOK AGATHA THE cat with him? No warning?”

  “Nothing.” You sigh, closing your photos.

  “What a dick.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s terrible.” He bumps your shoulder companionably. “Want me to have him knocked off?”

  You look at him askance. “You’re not really a superhero, you know.”

  “Shhh.” He pushes a finger against your lips. “My ego will hear you.”

  It’s there and gone in an instant, the way his eyes fall to your mouth, but you can’t unsee it, and you definitely can’t unfeel the softness of his fingertip on your skin.

  “Hey, look at that.” He climbs to his feet and walks to the windows. It’s dark now, and the heavy snow has been falling for hours. It’s piled up in drifts against the buildings, covering the wide wings of distant planes, large, fat flakes still raining down in a blinding flurry of white. It’s beautiful.

  “We’re going to be here awhile,” you murmur.

  “We better buy more hot dogs,” he agrees.

  HE TURNS TO YOU. “We should do it—go caroling through the terminal.”

  “What? No!” You laugh, wondering if you can get away with inching closer. He’s plugged in the blanket and unwrapped the pillows, and you’re right this moment bedded down together on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. He’s a long, delicious length of male all along your side.

  Olivia is never going to believe this.

  Heck, you don’t believe this.

  He rolls over and onto an elbow. “Come on, Daisy. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  “I must have left it in Montana, George.”