Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

“What? I’m sorry—um . . .” He stumbles over his words as he reaches up to scrub a hand at the back of his neck. “I thought that since we’re both leaving, we could share a cab. And you said in the meeting this was your first time to New York, and I know cabs can be a little intimidating at first.”

Yes. Right. The cabs are intimidating.

“No,” you say. “I meant, why are you talking to me after sitting through that meeting?”

He looks at you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”

You point back toward the building. “Because you just sat through two hours of talking about publishing a book I wrote about you?”

His confusion switches to amusement. “So?”

“So?” you repeat. Under normal circumstances, you probably would’ve worried about sounding rude. Right now, you’re a little too shocked to care. “So? Aren’t you, like, nine miles past creeped out by this?”

In reality, he doesn’t look creeped out. He looks like he’s dangerously close to laughing at you. “Why would I be creeped out?”

“Why wouldn’t you be creeped out?”

Finally, he does laugh at you. “Are you always like this?” He steps toward the street and raises his hand in the air.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you glance both ways down the nearly empty sidewalk, then back at him. A cab rolls to a stop at the curb.

“Look,” Dylan says. “I’d really like to talk to you about the meeting, if that’s okay? Are you hungry?”

Maybe he’s still planning on suing you; he just has the common courtesy to not bring it up in a room full of people. “You didn’t answer my question,” you say.

“Which one?”

“Why don’t you find this weird? Like, at all?”

The cabdriver honks impatiently.

“I just don’t,” Dylan says, shrugging.

“God,” you sigh, glancing up at the night sky and silently praying that you’ll be able to keep your sanity. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

He hesitates, giving you a shy smile. “How I can convince you to keep my name for your main character.”

The cabdriver rolls down his window and says something that you don’t quite catch. Dylan shifts down the curb and pulls open the cab’s back door, holding it open for you. “Are you coming?”

In a split-second decision, you take a step toward him. Then another. Then a few more.

“I need some alcohol in my system if we’re going to have this conversation,” you mutter, slipping into the cab.

YOU END UP at a complete dive downtown, creatively called Old Man’s Pub. Vintage, Edison-style string lights are draped low from the ceiling, and the only options for seating are at the bar itself or at one of the high tables scattered around. Dylan leads you to one of the high tables in the back corner.

“Did you pick this spot because no one here will recognize you?” you ask as you perch yourself on a stool. The place is practically empty, save for a few older men crowded at the end of the bar watching a European soccer match.

“Yes and no.” Dylan sits opposite you and picks up a menu.

You take a deep breath to try to ease the tension in your chest, because seriously, how did you even get here?

A wrinkly waitress stops by to take your drink orders. Dylan orders a beer—some kind of IPA that sounds gross—and for some reason unbeknown to you, you ask for a gin and tonic. The waitress doesn’t ID you, either.

“Do you normally default to hard liquor, or are you that nervous?” Dylan smirks.

You ball your hands into fists in your lap. “I almost asked for a couple of shots of tequila.”

Dylan laughs, and your stomach gives a panicky jump. Seriously, what is happening?

“So, what’s the deal, then?” He’s still smiling at you. “How’d this whole thing get started?”

“Wow, you’re getting right into it, huh?” you mutter, breaking eye contact.

“Yes.”

“Are you asking about the actual story? Or why I picked you to be in it?”

Now Dylan’s the one to look a little sheepish—you note with some smug satisfaction that his cheeks have a bit of a rosy tint. “Both?” he finally says.

You start to lean back, but then you remember that you’re sitting on a stool, and you have to steady yourself on the table’s edge.

“The story was an idea that I had for a really long time; I can’t remember why I wanted to start posting it online.” You take a second to reflect on how it would have spared you the embarrassment you’re currently feeling if you hadn’t posted it. . . . “But I knew that it would give people more incentive to read it if I attached a celebrity name to it. So I did.”

Dylan nods, looking thoughtful. “And I was the closest celebrity to suit your main character?”

“Sort of,” you admit, now that you think about it. Or did you base your character on him instead? You can’t remember. But then you smirk. “It also helped that you were the sixth-most reblogged actor on Tumblr when I started writing it.”

Pressing his hands to his face, Dylan groans and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

“Finally,” you say, a little relieved. “That’s the type of reaction I’ve been waiting for.”

He peeks at you from between his fingers. “What reaction?”

Before you can answer, the waitress appears again with your drinks and asks if you and Dylan plan on ordering food. You say no at the same time that Dylan says yes; then he asks if you guys can have a couple of minutes. The waitress nods and leaves. You wait for her to get all the way across the bar before going back to the conversation.

“The type of reaction,” you say, trying not to grimace after sipping your gin and tonic, “that shows that, at the end of the day, you recognize how creepy this is.”

“I don’t think it’s creepy,” he says defensively.

“Come on.”

“I’m being serious. I’m honored you picked me.”

Now you’re the one to groan. You’re not sure why you want him to admit that this is beyond weird, but you’re convinced that it’ll make you feel better about how much of a weirdo you’ve been since you started writing the story. You’re almost desperate to get him to acknowledge it.

“You realize that I literally know every piece of information about you that’s available on the internet, right?” you say. “And some stuff that isn’t online?”

He regards you for a moment, then chuckles. “I mean, it’s not like you’re the only one.”

“I’ve seen all of the YouTube videos you made before you started acting. And every interview you’ve ever given. Even the videos that are hours long from conventions you’ve attended.”

He folds his arms across his chest and shrugs.

“Not to mention,” you try again, “I’ve watched every episode of Teen Wolf, as well as every movie, TV show, and Web series you’ve been in. I even know what some of your upcoming film projects are that aren’t public yet.”

“First of all, I haven’t been in that much stuff outside of Teen Wolf. . . . Secondly, if you’re trying to freak me out here, it’s not working,” he replies, amused.

“I haven’t even gotten warmed up yet,” you say. “You were born in NYU Medical Center but you grew up in New Jersey. You moved to Los Angeles in seventh grade, and you claim you started making your YouTube videos because you hadn’t made any friends yet.”

“Is that it?” His tone is teasing. “That’s not even impressive. You basically listed my Wikipedia page.”

“And speaking of Friends,” you continue through gritted teeth, “that was your favorite TV show growing up. And you also think Liar Liar is a ten-out-of-ten movie. You’re a baseball freak—you secretly want to be the GM for the Mets. And sometimes you have a hard time deciding between Chipotle and In-N-Out. Double chicken from Chipotle usually wins out.”

Dylan busts out laughing. “Okay, maybe that is a little impressive. But you still don’t have me convinced that you’re a psycho stalker fangirl or anything.”

“I have an entire tab of BuzzFeed articles about you bookmarked on my computer. My personal favorite is titled ‘Dylan O’Brien’s Hair: A Journey.’?”

“Oh, God. That’s a real thing?”

You smirk. “Yep.”

He shakes his head, but still gestures for you to continue.

“I think I know what your middle name is,” you say. “I have a theory about it.”

He knits his eyebrows together. “It’s—”

“Do not,” you growl, cutting him off immediately. He laughs again. “I mean it—do not tell me. I’ve already got way too much Dylan O’Brien knowledge committed to memory. Not knowing your middle name is the one thing that I find solace in.”

He takes off his Mets hat and runs a hand through his hair, a smile never leaving his lips.

“Seriously,” you say. “I’ve pretty much stalked you for the last two years. How are you being so cool about this? I mean, I’ve written over two hundred and fifty thousand words about you.”

He meets your gaze and holds it. You have to force yourself to not look away.

“Do you really consider your story fanfiction?” he asks, scratching under his jaw.