IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (11 page)

“Different things. I’m sort of in between jobs right now,” he says. This makes you feel slightly better about not even owning a passport.

A cell phone begins to ring, and he reaches his hand into his pocket. He stares at the screen and swipes his long index finger across it. He slides his iPhone back into the pocket of his black jeans and picks the pencil back up. A few students stare at him pointedly, and he quietly apologizes for the interruption.

You look around the room, noticing that everyone’s fruit bowls are coming together nicely. You still haven’t drawn a single line, and you don’t really have the urge to do so.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Daniel asks.

You jerk your head toward the sound of his voice, surprised and intrigued. “Like where?”

“The beach just below us; have you been?” He points toward the sprawling view of the rocky shore through the window.

You shake your head and stand up from the stool. The class isn’t stimulating in the least bit, and you can’t remember the last time you had a thought-provoking conversation with anyone, let alone someone of the opposite sex.

You grab your bag from the floor and untie the drawstring. You take your sad little bundle of markers from the tray of the easel and toss them inside. You check the time on your cell phone and instantly regret it. It’s nearly three, and it’s a long slog back to your apartment.

Daniel’s still drawing, now working on the bridge of your nose. “I can’t, actually,” you sigh. “The last bus back to West Hollywood is at four, and the stop is farther from here than I knew. Sorry.” You’re disappointed that you don’t have the time to go with him. You’re having more fun talking to him in this art class than you’ve had in a long time.

“Bus? You took a bus all the way here from West Hollywood?” His mouth moves quickly when he speaks, like his hands when he sketches.

“Yeah; I didn’t realize how long it would take.”

“I can give you a ride back. I live in West Hollywood too.”

“It’s okay, it’s not that far.” You appreciate his offer and hope that he pushes for it again, but you don’t want to seem too eager to accept a ride from a stranger.

“Don’t be unfriendly,” he laughs, standing up from the stool. “It’s a long drive in a car, let alone a bus.”

You nod, agreeing without saying so. You would much rather sit in a car with him than have to pray to the gods for a seat on a bumpy, crowded bus. “What brings you all the way out here if you live in West Hollywood? Besides this rookie art class.”

“I like to get away from the city sometimes, and the beach here is my favorite on the entire coast of California.”

“Why is that?” you ask.

He tears from the pad the large white sheet with your half-drawn face on it and crumples it in his large hands. You’re shocked by this. You knew he hadn’t finished the sketch, but you didn’t expect him to destroy it. He tosses it into the nearest trash can, and you feel your face tighten into a scowl. He looks quizzical when he notices this; his eyes search your face, and you collect yourself. You force a gentle smile, one that you hope doesn’t come across as offended. It was his drawing, anyway, you tell yourself, you don’t have a reason to be upset. It’s not like you were thrilled with him drawing it in the first place, but you would have liked to see how it turned out.

“I like El Matador because it’s quiet and the waves aren’t very strong,” he says. “There’s these masses of rocks along the coast, and I like to sit there and drown out all the noise from LA. I love LA, but it’s nice to have some quiet, especially if I only have to drive an hour and a half to get it. . . .” His voice trails off, and you wish for
a moment that you could get inside this stranger’s head. His hand is on his hip now, and his head is tilted to the side. He reaches his hand out for yours and you immediately pull back. You don’t like to be touched. You don’t know how to be touched. You know this isn’t normal, but you stopped trying to be normal a long time ago.

With a flick of his wrist, he’s grabbing your hand from behind your back. You want to push him away, but he smiles, and suddenly you’ve forgotten how to protest.

“Shall we?” He looks toward the door; his warm hand is holding your wrist like a parent does a child, and you try to ignore the stares of the other people in the room as you two leave. The instructor looks confused, but not a hint of annoyance appears on his wrinkled face. Daniel closes the door behind you and slides his hand down to lace his fingers through yours.

“Do you always hold hands with strangers?” you ask, not worried about sounding rude.

He huffs a quick breath and tightens his fingers around yours. Your palms are already sweating, and you’re embarrassed, overthinking every step you take, every sound you make.

“You aren’t a stranger; we’re friends. Remember?”

You roll your eyes and nod in agreement, even though you’re certain you’ll never see him again. When you step outside, the breeze from the coast washes over you, making you slightly more comfortable than you were moments ago. He leads you down the sidewalk toward the back of the row of white buildings.

Two women walk past you, and you watch as they completely ignore your presence and stare straight at Daniel. The shorter, pudgier woman’s eyes nearly bulge from her head, and she pulls on the other woman’s arm; a rush of whispers bursts from her mouth into the taller woman’s ear.

“Daniel!” the taller woman screeches, and drops her purse onto the gravel walkway.
“Can we have a picture with you?”

Daniel tenses slightly, but it’s so slight that you aren’t sure it actually happened. He drops your hand and you watch, confused as hell, as he smiles kindly at the women.

Who is he? Why do they want a picture with him?

“I just loved you in
Off the Main Road
—my husband and I went to England for the summer and caught it. You were great.”

You have no idea what they’re talking about . . . but it hits you. He’s an actor. Of course he is. You look at his face, the delicate bridge of his nose, the sharp edge of his jawline. Of course he’s an actor.

“Thank you, I really appreciate that,” he tells them. He’s genuine in thanking them for their praises. The shorter woman asks for a picture alone, and she wraps her hand around his arm possessively. She looks at you, judgment clear in her dark eyes.

You don’t want to agree with her, but when you look down at your dirty boots, ripped jeans, and faded blouse, you do. You want to tell her to stop wondering what he sees in you because it’s nothing; he doesn’t see you or know you at all. You suddenly feel silly for allowing him to hold your hand, even as friends. Friends don’t hold hands. Hell, most lovers don’t even hold hands. Love has turned into horizontal bodies and lust-driven conversations, useless and undeserved promises, like those that have filled every relationship you’ve ever known.

You back away as the women continue to gush over him. He doesn’t look your way, not even once, as you disappear behind the building. You follow the gravel trail down to the shore. Moss-covered rocks line the edge of the water, and an overflowing trash can spills out the waste deposited in it by at least a hundred people. The water isn’t as loud as you’d imagined and the waves are soft, unassuming, as they kiss the sand-covered bay and seem to attempt to wash away the dirty rocks. The rocks don’t budge, though, no matter how hard the water tries to move them.

The beach is farther from the top of the hill than you thought. A large wooden staircase was built to make it easier for people to reach, but you’re slightly nervous as you step onto the stained wood. The boards creak under your heavy steps, and you desperately try to understand what it is that he finds so beautiful about this beach. The staircase is wide enough for at least four people to walk down at once, and you force yourself to ignore the creaking, ignore the chipped paint and spray-painted tags on the wooden sheds settled in the rocky hill. You don’t see beauty here; you see dirt and damaged wood, slow waves and rocks.

A man runs past you, his bare chest gleaming with sweat. He’s confident as he takes the stairs up to the top of the hill. The wooden planks shake beneath your feet as his weight presses against them. You hadn’t noticed him until he reached you, and you quickly forget about him after he passes. You’re halfway down now; surely no one else makes such a big deal out of taking an unsteady staircase down to the water. You search your mind for something to think about other than the creaky steps and the actor. You don’t watch much television, and you haven’t seen a movie in a theater since before your mom became only a wife, no longer a mother.

When you moved, she pretended to be upset. She was worried that such a big city would swallow her only child. Why hadn’t you chosen a community college closer to her? she wondered out loud, almost every day for the first week or so. Two weeks later, she was showing you apartment listings in Los Angeles, asking if you had everything ready to go. You know deep down that she was eager for your move. She had become the type of mother who would trade you for a cheap pair of new cuff links for her beloved husband. That man had more cuff links than your mother had flaws. Needless to say, it was more than a drawerful.

The waves grow louder as you skip the last step and jump onto the sand. It’s not as solid as you expected it to be. Your boots sink into the loose sand, and a storm of dust clouds around your feet. You take another step, trying to find more solid ground. Next to a mud-covered rock, a flock of blackbirds pecks away at the carcass of a dead animal. How beautiful.

You check your phone again; it’s twenty minutes past three now, and you need to get to the bus stop by four, preferably with a few minutes to spare. You had a few minutes of relief when you thought you would be spared the long bus ride, but they were short-lived. That’s fine—you are fully capable of getting yourself back to your apartment.

The hungry birds scatter as you near them. From the top of the hill, you hear your name being called, but you ignore it. You enjoyed talking to Daniel, you really did, but you’re not naïve enough to think you could actually have stimulated his interest beyond small talk in a boring class. Back in Hollywood, the two of you would never be friends, and definitely not hand-holding friends. Successful actors and waitresses who are confused about their lives have nothing in common.

You try to imagine the conversation.

Him:
Oh, I just got back from Sweden, shooting my newest movie.

You:
Yeah, this lady cussed me out because her steak was medium well, not medium rare like she ordered.

Him:
Does this suit look okay for an awards show?

You:
Do you think this stain will come out of my apron? I really can’t afford to buy another until my check next week.

It just doesn’t work. All of the charm he had has diminished, and now Daniel has gone from being an interesting stranger-friend to a shiny, famous, airbrush-pictured actor. You sigh in embarrassment, remembering that you told him about your lack
of . . . well, everything. You couldn’t name a single thing that makes you happy, while he has everything that makes people happy. Money, fame, beauty, charisma, more money, women doting on him, still more money. To further your torture, you google
Daniel actor British
, then, thinking for a moment, add
gorgeous
. The first picture that pops up is his, and when you click through, the first page reads “Daniel Andrew Sharman, born April 25, 1986.” You take a second to think about how intrusive it is that so much of his personal information is yielded to you by a simple internet search.

Dozens of images of his face pop up on your screen, and you glance toward the wooden stairs. He’s halfway down them, moving fast on his long legs. Even his strides are glossy like the pages of magazines, like the pages you’re swiping through on your phone screen. You close the tab before reading a single thing about him. You have everything you need to know from watching him with his fans. He’s a nice guy, but you don’t have the time or energy to waste on an unrealistic friendship with a famous actor. He calls your name again, and you walk farther down the beach. You have about five more minutes before you have to walk back up the giant staircase.

You take a quick picture of the beach. The water sparkles in the image, and the sand doesn’t look as brown or as dirty as it is in real life. You’ve never been this close to the ocean before. You attempted two different trips to the beach; both times it began to pour rain, a rarity here in Southern California, so you took it as an omen and stayed away. Truth be told, now that you’re here, this close to the expansive shore of the Pacific, you’re slightly disappointed by the reality of it. The sand is hard to walk through, especially in heavy laced boots. You wish you had more time so you could take them off and feel the sand between your toes—something that people always talk about.

“Want me to take one of you with the water in the background?”
Daniel’s voice says, close, and when you turn around he’s right behind you. His cheeks are red. The wind is whipping through his wavy brown hair. You look up at his eyes, and he holds out his hand for you to give him your phone.

“No, thanks,” you reply, trying to keep your voice neutral. Why does his presence bother you now, when ten minutes ago you couldn’t get enough of his easy smile, his carefree laugh?

“Sorry about that up there. I thought you were going to wait for me, but they just kept talking, so I don’t blame you for taking off.” He uses his fingers to comb through his hair and cranes his neck to look down the shore.

“It’s beautiful, right?” he asks. You decide not to comment on his encounter with the two female fans. You have no reason to be so annoyed by it. He is a complete stranger who doesn’t owe you a moment of his time.

“It’s okay.” You shrug, still searching for an ounce of beauty along this coast. The wire-mesh trash can closest to you makes a howling noise as the wind passes through the empty bag, causing it to balloon and toss the small bits of trash into the air around you. “Just stunning,” you add under your breath.