Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

The door to the conference room opens, making you jump out of your skin. A man with a cliché-looking briefcase appears, followed by Dylan O’Brien himself, Mets hat and all.

Can people actually die of humiliation? Or is that just a saying?

“Welcome, Mr. O’Brien!” Janet says. “So pleased you could make it. Please, sit.”

She gestures toward two seats at the end of the table, then tries to make small talk while they settle in. When she asks you how you’re liking your first visit to New York, you’re not sure if you form a coherent response or not.

Is he suing you? Is that what this meeting’s about?

Janet’s repeating your name yanks you out of your head. She’s trying to introduce you to Dylan and his lawyer. You can barely hear her over your pulse pounding in your eardrums.

“Nice to meet you,” you squeak, eyes shifting to Dylan.

It’s weird seeing a celebrity in person. For just a second, Dylan looks completely different from the guy you’ve seen on so many different screens. Then you blink back to reality, noting that he’s still just as cute in real life—all big brown eyes and bowed lips. The hair that’s peeking out from underneath his hat seems longer than it did in his most recent interview, and you try your best not to stare at the way his T-shirt stretches over his shoulders when he shrugs out of his jacket.

But mostly you’re shocked to see that he’s smiling at you.

Why is he smiling at you? Why doesn’t he look disgusted or freaked-out?

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Janet turns to you. “The reason we’re all sitting in this room is because you have an amazing story here, and we’d really love the honor of publishing it.”

The meeting is a blur after that. Or maybe you’re too mentally and emotionally distressed to register what’s happening. You spend at least an hour speculating why Dylan is here instead of listening to Paul negotiate the terms of your contract. You’re so consumed by panic mode that, once again, Janet’s repeating your name is what brings you into the conversation.

“We need to discuss the matter for which Dylan and his attorney are here,” Janet says.

Here it is: the part when Dylan O’Brien sues you for being creepy enough to write a three-book-long story about him.

“The legal issues surrounding the main character’s name,” Janet says.

“Actually,” Dylan interjects, sending a bolt of panic through you, “I wouldn’t call it legal issues. My attorney and I are here to negotiate terms for keeping my name in the story.”

“What?” you ask, dumbfounded. Is he serious?

“Oh?” Janet says. “You’d like to keep your name in the story?”

“Yes.”

An awkward pause ensues, until Janet asks you how you feel about this.

You’re too afraid to look up when you say, “If I’m being honest, I’d rather not keep the name. No offense.”

“I would advise not keeping the name as well,” Dylan’s lawyer says. “Even with Mr. O’Brien’s consent, this could cause a flurry of authors wanting to do the same thing.”

“You mean, wanting to publish a book with a celebrity’s name attached to it?” Janet asks.

“Yes, ma’am. For sales purposes.”

He does have a point.

“I don’t mind,” Dylan insists.

Another awkward pause follows.

“Perhaps we should adjourn until tomorrow on this matter?” suggests balding guy. He glances at the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows, then checks his watch. “It sounds like both parties have a lot to mull over.”

Surprisingly, everyone agrees. Now you get to spend the rest of the night spazzing out over having to sit through another meeting with Dylan O’Brien and his attorney tomorrow. You still can’t get over that Dylan showed up because he wants to keep his name in the story. . . .

Maybe that’s just his strategy? Pretending to be on board and then completely pulling the rug out from under you and slapping you with a defamation lawsuit?

Still, with all the Dylan O’Brien stalking you’ve done in the last two years, it’s safe to assume that there’s no way he’s that much of an asshole.

Yet, you keep the idea in the back of your mind as a precaution.

After saying good-bye to you and Paul, Janet and the balding guy ask for a minute with Dylan and his lawyer. Relieved, you and Paul head out of the conference room toward the double elevators.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, pushing the down button and switching his messenger bag to the opposite shoulder.

“About what?” you ask.

“Keeping Dylan’s name. I know changing it was a stipulation you and I agreed on, but I think it would be wise to consider taking advantage of the opportunity he’s offering.”

“Which is?”

“You saw how tying his name to your story helped you gain readers,” Paul says. “Imagine how it would reflect in book sales.”

You see Dylan emerge from the conference room with his lawyer, Janet, and balding guy in tow. Your eyes dart back to the numbers above the elevators—four more floors to go on one and eight more floors on the other.

“Just consider it,” Paul repeats. “Not many celebrities would agree to this.”

Dylan and his lawyer start down the hallway toward you, and you feel another wave of anxiety nausea coming on. By some miracle, they stop for a moment; then balding guy turns and hurries back into the conference room. Dylan stands there to wait for him, but cranes his neck to glance toward the elevators.

And he totally catches you looking at him.

You drop your gaze to your feet and wait for one of the elevators to ding. Thankfully, one arrives before the balding guy emerges from the conference room again. You and Paul step on, and you exhale completely for the first time in the last two hours when the doors shut.

The streets look a lot darker on the ground floor.

After stepping into the lobby, you and Paul part ways—he exits through one of the side doors. Paul had picked you up from the airport when you got in that morning and met you at your hotel so you could share a cab to the meeting. But he had another meeting to get to after this one, and you assured him that you were capable of getting yourself back to your hotel in one piece. Now you aren’t so sure.

You decide it’s probably a good idea to ask the concierge to get you a cab, since you have absolutely no idea how to do it yourself. You start toward the lobby’s front revolving door when you hear an elevator ding behind you, announcing its arrival.

You pick up the pace.

“Hey!” someone calls behind you. “Wait up!”

Before you have a chance to turn all the way around, Dylan O’Brien himself skids to a stop in front of you, blocking your escape route. You’re so taken aback that you glance around to make sure he’s got the right person.

“Hey,” he says, smiling down at you. If he notices the distress that you know is written all over your face, he’s polite enough to ignore it. He holds his hand out to you. “Sorry we didn’t get to talk much in the meeting. I’m Dylan.”

Out of reflex, you take his hand and shake it, but you still can’t get your vocal cords working yet. Instead, your mouth is hanging open, and you can feel your cheeks turning an alarming shade of red.

“I wanted to come over to introduce myself again. I’m a really big fan of yours,” he continues, oblivious to the havoc he’s wreaking on your pulse. He points a thumb over his shoulder toward the revolving door. “You heading out now?”

“Yeah,” you say, surprising yourself. You’re not sure how your brain pulled that one off, since you’re not even sure if you’re breathing correctly.

Dylan starts walking backward, heading for the exit and gesturing for you to follow him. “Are you going back to your hotel?” he asks. “I was going to grab a cab back to mine—you trying to get a cab? We can share if you want.”

He slips into the revolving door, and you’re convinced you didn’t hear

him correctly. You stand there for a moment to try to process what’s happening. Dylan stops on the sidewalk outside and angles back toward you. He smiles, gesturing again for you to follow him.

You don’t remember getting through the revolving door. All you can register once you’re outside is the cold New York air, and that, after sitting in a two-hour meeting discussing the story you’d written about him, Dylan O’Brien is offering to share a cab with you.

“So, uh—how about it?” he prompts, pulling his jacket tighter around him and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to share a cab?”

You stare at him.

Why is he talking to you, let alone wanting to be within fifty feet of you? Does he not understand how weird this entire situation is? Maybe it’s because it’s thirty degrees out, or you’re still so embarrassed you can’t think straight, but for some reason you blurt out, “Why are you talking to me?”

You watch his reaction and immediately feel guilty.