by Anna Todd
“Aaron, sweetie, please stay,” you say gently. “I’m sure Eliza didn’t mean that; it’s been a long day. Why don’t you two take a break and we’ll go back to rehearsing the song once again?”
He looks annoyed and sniffs, addressing both Eliza and you. “I looked him up, you know. The actor in the movie that you talk about so much? Personally, I think I sound better than him.”
You gasp. How dare he? The little piece of toe jam! “I’ll let you know that his voice—”
“Wasn’t the best in the first movie, I agree. But, kid, jeez, that was harsh!” someone says from behind you.
At first they don’t register, the gasps and the bug-eyed expressions of the people around you. You’re pretty sure you hear someone scream, but it doesn’t hit you for a few seconds. You hear footsteps, thundering ones, and that’s when your heart begins to race.
“It was my big break,” the same voice says. “I like to think you won’t judge me on that forever.”
You freeze, your spine stiffens momentarily, and then you’re pretty sure you’ve gotten a permanent cramp in your neck by how fast you turn around. Your entire body shivers because you’d know that voice anywhere. You’ve had it serenade you during lonely nights for years. When times got tough, you had it telling you to get your head in the game. When your third blind date of the month turned out to be a dud, you jammed out to “Start of Something New” because it gave you hope. Just a couple of weeks ago, when you’d gone ahead and had an anxiety attack about school, all you had to do was play “Breaking Free” and you could breathe easier. You’d snuggled with your personalized HSM jersey and imagined that you were someone else for the night, possibly Gabriella, and you’d have a Troy sneaking in through your balcony. The idea itself made everything ten times better.
But it’s not possible to hear that very voice live within a few feet of you. No, you’ve finally gone ahead and breached the fangirl line of sanity. Not only are you dreaming of Zac Efron, you’ve started seeing him as well.
“Hi.” Imaginary Zac takes a step toward you, and you notice how silent the entire auditorium has gone. Even Janie looks shell-shocked, her hands covering her mouth and her eyes the size of saucers.
Wait, if he’s a mere figment of your deprived imagination, why is everyone reacting this way?
Oh, God.
You don’t move, simply staring at the Adonis in front of you, your heart galloping inside your chest. In that moment you’re not even sure if you’re breathing the right way. Your mom did always tell you that you were a mouth breather, but given that you’ve been gaping at Imaginary Zac for a good few minutes now, you’re not even doing that. You feel a bit light-headed; maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or the beauty of the person before you. Real or not, he’s still the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. His eyes—the ones you’ve loved for the past ten years—pierce right through you as he extends his hand.
He says your name, tells you he heard about the musical you’re trying to stage to commemorate ten years of his movie. Apparently a kid from your class tweeted about it. Apparently it went viral and reached his publicist. He wants to help out. He thinks what you’re doing is great. He’d love it if you could make him part of the process somehow. Maybe he could help the actors with their dialogue and songs? You can’t see beyond the fuzziness beginning to cloud your vision. He keeps talking. You keep struggling to not sway on your feet. Tanned skin, rich brown hair that’s been lightened by the sun, tanned, muscled arms that are exposed by his short-sleeve shirt, and, above all, the smile that’s hitting you with the blinding force of a thousand lights.
He’s rendered you speechless.
“My friend here’s in shock, I think. She’s a huge fan. We all are, Mr. Efron, and we’re so grateful that you took the time to come out here. Offering to help out these kids is just so very kind of you! I’m sure she’d say the same if she wasn’t so—”
“I watched The Goonies!” you blurt out, then slap your hands over your mouth.
You’re still shaking, your entire body humming to get closer to Zac. You want to touch him, not in a creepy stalker way, but just to make sure that he’s there and that you haven’t crossed over to the dark side, where fangirls become ghosts haunting their obsessions.
Zac smiles at you, a restrained, polite smile, and you’re not sure if he thinks you’re cute or just plain crazy.
You can hear your own voice quivering but you keep talking. “I know it’s your favorite movie. . . .” Heat blooms across your chest and radiates from your face. “I’ve watched it multiple times. . . . I . . . thank you for introducing me to it. Just yesterday when Ryan nearly dropped our Sharpay during one of the routines, I went back to my cabin and watched it twice! I mean, between consuming copious amounts of wine and having a killer hangover the next day, or watching a cinematic gem, I think I went for the lesser of the two evils.” You laugh at your own comment, but no one joins you. You keep laughing; it soon turns into hysteria, and then to your utter mortification, you snort . . . repeatedly.
“Oh, no,” you cry, and once again try to muffle your breakdown, but it’s futile. Everyone’s looking at you, and the traitors you call students, who you’ve spent weeks training, are rolling on the floor clutching their sides.
Super.
Zac Efron, who apparently is the real Zac Efron, keeps a blank, if slightly concerned, expression on his face. Janie’s burning a hole in the side of your head, but you keep looking at him. Even if you had the option to Apparate to Hogsmeade right now, you’d want to remain stuck right here in this increasingly traumatizing moment.
“Do I make you nervous?” he asks quietly.
You nod. It’s all starting to hit you right now. You’ve spent ten years fantasizing about him, keeping up with the Google alerts, being the first in line to watch all his movies and hoarding Wheat Thins just because you know he loves them.
And he’s finally here. To your utter embarrassment, you begin to tear up, and what’s worse is that he notices.
Clearing his throat, he stretches his hand out to Aaron, who’s watching the two of you with rapt attention—well, as much attention as an eleven-year-old can muster. “Mic, please?”
You watch in confusion as Zac takes the microphone from Aaron and brings it up to his lips. “I’d like for everyone to clear the room, please. The two of us need to go over some things for this musical, and we’d like some time alone to seriously overhaul the situation.”
He commands the room like the superstar that he is. You watch him affect everyone instantly, as they all begin to leave. Even Janie follows suit as she squeezes your shoulder and whispers good luck in your ear.
When the auditorium is completely silent, Zac walks toward the sound system and begins fiddling with the playlist.
Your legs finally give out as you downright collapse onstage.
Hugging your knees close to your chest, you tell yourself over and over that this is not a dream. Somewhere in the back of your mind you always believed this would happen, and it did. You’ve got to seize the moment.
“Are Honey Nut Cheerios really your favorite cereal?”
He laughs but nods. “Yup, why?”
You feel dazed. “I just wanted to confirm whether or not I’d been eating them all these years for no good reason. And I tried to get into those comics and manga that were listed on your fan site, but, uh, I just couldn’t.”
His booming laughter fills the entire auditorium, and immediately afterward you hear the beginning notes of your favorite song.
“Would you like to sing with me?” Walking back onstage, he hands the other mic to you.
But you can only stare back like he’s asked you to strip. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“The clip I saw on the internet . . . it was of you singing this song for your students. It’s what brought me here. You’re . . . absolutely incredible,” he says with a mixture of sincerity and awe in his voice.
You continue to gape at him, then sputter. Struggli
ng to get to your feet, you finally stand upright and try to find the right words. “My . . . singing . . . brought you here?”
“That and the passion with which you were telling everyone about the movies, about me. I guess I just had to see you.”
You blink and continue to do so for several long moments.
“We’re going to miss our cue,” he says. “Sing with me? Please, before word gets out that I’m—”
“Yes!” you shout, way too loud. But he just grins. “I mean, thank you. That’s just . . . and when I say that I can’t explain what this means to me, I literally can’t.” Tears prick your eyes again and he sees them and inches closer.
“ ‘We’re soaring, flying . . . ’ ” He takes your hand and brings you closer. Your skin is aflame where he touches you, flickers of pleasure dancing across the surface. He sings, and it takes you back ten years. You’re that girl again, impossibly in love with someone who wasn’t even aware of your existence. He’s whispering in your ear now: “You can do this, come on. Sing like I know you can.”
But then you get your miracle. . . . “ ‘If we’re trying, so we’re breaking free.’ ” The words slip past your lips and Zac’s entire face lights up.
You’re doing this, you’re actually doing this!
The next five minutes are the best five minutes of your life. You’ve got to hand it to the guy—he can still bust out his best Troy Bolton moves even though it’s probably been years since he last had to perform them. But what’s most miraculous is how it makes you feel: free, awakened, and bursting with joy. You dance, you sing your heart out, you laugh, and it’s the most exquisite moment of your life when he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you close and you sing those last lines together: “ ‘You know the world can see us in a way that’s different than who we are.’ ”
MAYBE YOU BLACK OUT for a moment. Who knows? But by the end of your performance you’re both breathless, but in the best way possible. He releases you, relinquishing his hold just the tiniest fraction, and you stumble back.
“That was good, wasn’t it?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. “That was so, so good!” you squeal before throwing your arms around him and being enveloped by his scent. You could never find out what his signature scent was, but you’re bottling it up inside of you now, committing it to memory.
As long as you live, you’ll never wash this shirt of yours again.
“It was.” He smiles against your hair, his breath tickling your ear. “Just like I imagined.”
You pull back slightly. “That must have been some video you saw, huh?”
His arms are wrapped around your waist, and you didn’t even notice them getting there. “I watched it on replay for a week before we found you. Is that creepy?”
“I’ve seen each of your movies more than twenty-five times—is that creepy?”
His laugh rumbles through his toned chest, and he lowers his forehead to yours. “You must think I’m really forward, but I don’t usually do this. I don’t stalk people and I definitely don’t have my hands all over a girl the first time I meet her, but with you it’s like . . .”
“I’ve known you my entire life?” you suggest.
He bites his lip and nods.
“I have, in a way,” you tell him. “I did grow up with you, and I’ve had people tell me that it was insane—having these feelings for someone famous. But you were real to me. I know you’re a Libra; we’re totally compatible, by the way. I know you’re superprotective of your signed-baseball collection. I believed and trusted that you’d come back after everything that happened in 2013. . . .” You break off when you see the look in his eyes. “Too much?”
“No, I . . . just . . . wow. Thank you for caring about me for so long and through . . . everything. Maybe now you could give me the opportunity to get to know the real you and for you to get to know me as I am now.”
He lets go, and you take a few steps away just to feel a little less disoriented. “You mean you’re not going back to Salt Lake City, where you’re still single, and having a relaxed summer from all your tough NBA training?”
He looks at you, and for the first time you see a slight hint of panic in his eyes, like you might actually be crazy.
“I’m kidding,” you tell him, deadpan.
He pretends to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Thank God, or this situation would’ve been freakily like the last time I ever met a fan.”
You’re the one breaking into a cold sweat this time around, but you see the humor in his eyes and grin instead.
He closes the distance between the two of you again. “Hi, I’m Zac Efron.”
You quirk an eyebrow at him but let him continue.
“I’m from San Luis Obispo, California.”
“I know.”
“My favorite color is blue.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared of and absolutely believe in the existence of zombies. There’s going to be a zombie apocalypse soon, and I have a contingency plan.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“I suck at team sports.”
“Yes, I wondered how you managed all that coordination in the movies.”
“But if nothing about me surprises you, then—”
You stop him there. “I’d love to know you. You the person, and not the actor, and certainly not Troy Bolton,” you whisper, feeling that if you speak too loudly, it’ll shatter the dream this certainly is.
“And I’d love to know you, the girl in the video, the girl in real life. Maybe we could help each other. I’ll stay here and help with your show, because I want to, desperately so. Maybe this could be the start of something new.” He winks and I groan at the pun. “And maybe you could remind me”—he pauses—“of why it is that I loved doing what I do so much before.”
“You need my help getting back in the game?”
The music is still playing in the background, and as a teenage Troy sings about how hard it is for him to balance his love for the game with his love for the song, you realize that if someone were to come up with a playlist for your life, you would pick the same sound track.
“Yes,” Zac tells you. “Yes.”
Being Mrs. Reedus
Bella Higgin
Imagine . . .
You knew the house would be empty when you got back, but you still can’t help a pang of disappointment as you walk through the front door and know for sure that you’re alone.
It’s been sixteen months since an impromptu wander around New York and a chance visit to Caffe Roma led you to bump into a man you’d previously only admired on the TV screen. Fourteen months since you realized you were hopelessly, helplessly in love with him. And exactly one year ago today that a fairy-tale wedding turned a dream into reality.
But Norman, in making you Mrs. Norman Reedus, never made any secret of the fact that he wouldn’t be home for your first anniversary. It’s not by choice—filming one of TV’s most successful and popular shows requires a lot of dedication. The Walking Dead can’t stop just because a cast member’s new wife is feeling lonely. And Daryl is important to the show.
Eye in the Dark, the round ball of black fur that Norman rescued as a kitten, scampers across the wooden floor and winds between your legs. Norman once told you that if he didn’t like a person, his cat wouldn’t either. But Eye has been nothing but a big softy with you from the get-go, giving the kitty seal of approval to your relationship.
Stooping, you stroke Eye and are rewarded by a satisfied purr. At least you have a furry friend to keep you company.
“Just you and me, cat,” you murmur.
It’s only been a few weeks since you and Norman moved from his apartment in New York to a wooden lodge out in the backwoods of Senoia, Georgia, and sometimes you still can’t believe you’re actually living here. New York is wonderful, but you both agreed that a quiet country life was more your sort of thing. The three-bedroom, three-bathroom log cabin is situated practically in t
he middle of nowhere. It looks rustic from the outside, but inside it’s furnished with all the appliances and amenities a newly married couple could possibly ask for. Still, it feels empty without Norman, quiet and sort of sad, as if the whole building knows he’s not here. But that’s how it always is when he goes away. He has so much life and spirit and energy that everything feels duller and grayer without him.
But you knew exactly what you were getting into when you married him. You don’t say “I do” to the world’s most famous zombie hunter and not expect that he won’t be away from home a lot, immersed in his gory fictional life.
Even now, though the sun is setting on the horizon, he’s probably running around in the Georgia woods with his crossbow, pursued by hungry walkers, cannibalistic humans, or whatever else the show’s writers have conjured up this season. Norman could tell you what’s happening in each episode, but you prefer not to know. It means you can still watch the show like a regular fan, rather than the one Daryl Dixon comes home to after he’s done in the woods.
You walk through to the living room and slump onto the couch. Eye promptly jumps in your lap, paws kneading your jeans. Absently you pet the cat, your eyes fixed on the framed picture that hangs over the fireplace. Your wedding to Norman wasn’t one of those celebrity affairs that fill several pages of gossip magazines. The world might finally know his name, thanks to his success on The Walking Dead, but he’s no glory hound. He’s one of the humblest men you’ve ever met, and your wedding to him was just that—yours. Not the property of paparazzi and nosy fans. The photo is simple, just the two of you standing beneath a tree with your arms around each other, you in a modest gown with white lace sleeves, while Norman rocks a basic black tuxedo. Neither of you felt the need for fuss and frills. You still don’t, which is why it wasn’t a big decision to move from the bustling streets of New York City to the quiet seclusion of Standing Rock Road, Senoia.
You sigh and it echoes through the empty house, causing Eye in the Dark’s ears to prick up. The only downside with living rurally is that it can get lonely when it’s just you in the house.
