Imagines: Not Only in Your Dreams

You’re caught so off guard that you answer honestly, “No, I don’t.”

“I figured. Because it’s not really fanfiction. You’re just using me as a character, so your creepy argument is invalid.”

You scoff. “How?”

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “What’s the difference between you making me the main character in your story, and some casting director making me the main character in a movie?”

You open your mouth to answer, but then you catch yourself, because, damn, he kind of has a point . . . but not really. But kind of? Now your thought process is getting all jumbled up.

“Well—I mean,” you stammer, trying to get back on track, “the difference is you’re playing a character, while I made you a character. . . .”

But as you say it, you know it’s a weak attempt.

He waves you off. “There are plenty of actors that have either played themselves or played characters with the same names.”

“Yeah?” you say, trying to be difficult. “Give me an example.”

“Amy Schumer in Trainwreck.” He looks pleased with himself. You start to argue, but he interrupts, “Miley in Hannah Montana. Raven in That’s So Raven.”

You can’t keep from laughing. “Big Disney fan, huh?”

“Huge.” He smirks. “But you know I’m right about this. It’s not that creepy.”

“Yes, it is. Why do you think I’ve gotten to know everything I can about you? So I can make the character seem exactly like you. That’s why people are reading the story—because you’re the one starring in it.”

He frowns at you. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself or your story enough credit here. I get the whole ‘tying a celebrity name to it to give people incentive,’ but at the end of the day, people wouldn’t keep reading it if it sucked.”

“Debatable.”

“You’re impossible.”

You snort. “No, I’m right.”

When he doesn’t respond, you drop your gaze to the top of the table and take a sip of your gin and tonic. Logically, you know he has a point . . . but that still doesn’t change how embarrassed you feel about it.

“How did you find my story?” you blurt out.

He shrugs. “My friend told me about it. She’s an actress too, and she reads a lot of fanfiction—both about herself and her celebrity friends.”

You must have made a face because Dylan laughs. “See? That’s an example of something that is kind of creepy.”

“How come you think it’s weird that she reads fanfiction, but you don’t think it’s weird that I write it?”

He takes a moment to consider this. “Honestly?”

You nod.

“Well, for starters, I really like your story. I’d like it regardless of how it’s written or if it didn’t have my name in it.”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m being serious,” he says with a little more conviction than you were expecting.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Secondly”—his voice has a teasing undertone—“I think it’s kind of cool to be someone’s muse.”

You freeze, your heart skipping its way into your throat. Is that what he thinks he is? Do you think that’s what he is? Your muse?

Dylan’s watching you mull all this over—you can practically feel his gaze—but you’re too worried about exposing the blush on your face to look up.

“I don’t know—what I really mean is that I think you’re talented, and even though the story has my name tied to it, it doesn’t read like fanfiction.” He sounds a little embarrassed now. “And I also don’t want you to worry about being pigeonholed as a writer because your story has my name tied to it.”

“Did you talk to my literary agent before the meeting today or something?” you ask suspiciously.

He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “There may have been a conversation with my lawyer about what needed to happen to keep my name tied to your story. Obviously my lawyer’s concern is what would happen if we published the story with the name Dylan O’Brien in it. . . . What kind of legal doors that would open for other authors wanting to do the same thing to sell more books starring me.”

Your stomach drops. “I see” is all you can manage.

“So, you can imagine my disappointment when my lawyer contacted your literary agent, who said that you didn’t want to keep my name on your story anyway.”

You squirm a little on your barstool, feeling guilty.

“When I asked why, I was told that you’re worried that you’ll be pigeonholed as a fanfiction writer for the rest of your life.”

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“What? Why? I mean, I totally understand that you don’t want to be labeled before your career even starts.”

“And yet you came to the meeting today to try to convince me otherwise?”

“Yeah . . . well—mostly. I was told I should be there from a legal standpoint, regardless.”

“I thought you were coming to sue me,” you admit.

Dylan’s sudden bark of laughter makes you jump. “Are you serious?” When you nod, he adds, “I’m not that much of an asshole.”

That makes you laugh too.

“But seriously, I get why you don’t want to keep my name on your story.” His voice is a little quieter now. “I just think it’d be really cool if you did.”

YOU AND DYLAN are mostly quiet when you get back into a cab.

He tells the driver two stops—first, your hotel, then his.

“So, what happens if you do publish your story?” Dylan asks after a few long moments. Something about the way the city lights are blinking by outside makes the inside of the cab seem quieter.

You look out the window. “I’ll probably have to stop posting it. The story’s mapped out to be three books long, and I’m still posting the second one. Janet probably wouldn’t be happy if I gave away the ending for free.”

Dylan chuckles. “Sounds reasonable.” Then something occurs to him. “Wait, so that means I’m going to have to wait, like, years before I can know the ending?”

You turn to him and smirk at his distressed tone. “More than likely.”

“Dude, what!? I don’t get special privileges since I’m the main character?”

“I never said I was keeping you as the main character.” You watch his face fall a little.

The cab rolls to a stop outside your hotel, and you pull out your wallet. Dylan grabs it out of your hand and shoves it back into your purse.

“Hey—”

“This is on me,” he says, dismissing you. “But I am going to need your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone.” He holds out his hand.

“Why?” you ask, but you still unlock it and hand it to him.

He types in a number and hits send.

“Who are you calling?”