IMAGINES: Celebrity Encounters Starring You (57 page)

A tear escapes you and is absorbed into his button-up shirt. Your arms are wrapped around his middle, never wanting to let go. Right now, he’s that friend that you’ve always needed but never found.

“This isn’t the end, love,” he says for the second time that day. “We’ll still see each other.”

You don’t reply. His heart is beating loudly in his chest, and you hear it as clearly as a siren.

He lifts your head so he can look you in the eye. “Are you crying?”

“No,” you reply weakly, but a lone tear betrays you and falls down your cheek.

His thumb comes to wipe it away. “It’s okay to cry.”

THEN, AS QUICK AS THE
flash, comes the final day on set. After this,
The Avengers
is a wrap for filming and you’ll no longer be required. As you drive to work, you realize it’ll be the last time to say hi to Robert Downey Jr. and actually get a reply because he knows you. It’ll be the last time to give Chris Evans a bro fist. The last time Jeremy Renner will look you up and down and say, “You’re the prettiest belle at the ball,” in that cheesy, fake country accent.

So the pep talk to yourself consists of a halfway garbled and halfway understandable sob:
You do this every day. No need to be sad. This isn’t the end. We’ll still see each other.

But you can’t
make
yourself believe it.

You skip the breakfast tent. Check your supplies. Chat in the group of people who all are in the same mood you are. Receive and give dozens of hugs. Hold back more tears. And get to work.

Tom comes in, in a lot better mood than you, his hands behind his back and a sad smile on his face. “Good morning, love.” His English accent rolls over you. “Happy last day of filming.”

Suddenly you’re afraid that this will be the last time you hear his voice. Which is absurd, but frightens you nonetheless.

You give him a watery smile. “Morning. How are you?”

He ignores the question, instead stepping closer to you and bending down to look you in the eyes. “What is wrong with my girl today?”

You laugh and smile, wiping away a renegade tear. “This is the end of the road, my friend.”

He looks appalled. “No, it’s not—it’s only the very beginning.”

You cross your arms and sniffle. “Easy for you to say. They can’t replace the actor who plays Loki, but they
can
replace his makeup artist.”

“I’m surprised.” He exhales. “You aren’t usually this dramatic. Granted, you
are
dramatic. Just not
this
dramatic. And never, ever say that you could be replaced.”

His eyes take a more stern set. “
Never
. You can’t
ever
be replaced to me.”

This feeling in the pit of your stomach is stronger than it’s ever been before. He’s so accepting. Understanding. It makes you feel important and appreciated.

When you don’t make a move to say anything in reply, he continues, “I got you something.”

“You didn’t have to do that!” You quickly wipe away the tears that fall down your cheek. Luckily, your eyes aren’t puffy and red like they had been last week.

“Oh, but I wanted to.”

Tom’s smiling like the loon he is as he pulls out a small box wrapped in golden paper. It fits in his palm, and you take it when he offers.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” you chide, looking into his eyes.

His smile softens and he whispers, “Open it.”

You unwrap the golden paper to find a little velvet jewelry box. You feel a small blush rise to your cheeks before you work up enough courage to continue. Opening it slowly, you see the glimmer of red and blue and gold. A little golden heart with the United Kingdom’s flag sits on a gold chain.

You hear him talking as you stare at it. You don’t look up at him, but you know he’s staring at you just as intently as you are at his gift.

“You’re always afraid that you’ll never see me again,” he says
softly. “I’m always around. Every time you see that, or wear it, you’ll think of your old pal Tom and you’ll call me. Plus—we’ve still got a press tour to go on.”

Another tear falls down your cheek and he reaches up to wipe it away. Before he’s able to end the conversation, you envelop him in a hug, catching him by surprise. Your arms wrap around his middle again, the side of your face pressed into his chest. He returns it gladly, resting his head on top of yours.

He’s so warm, and comfortable and sweet. He always manages to smell amazing. His heart is as gorgeous as gold. And now you’ve got a beautiful reminder of all of that through this tiny gift.

You know what you’re saying when you say it. It doesn’t catch you by surprise.

“I love you.”

You feel his chuckle resonate through his body; he plants a kiss on top of your head. “And I love you.”

“WHO LET HIM UP THERE
 . . . like that?” you groan into your hands, cringing at the sight of Tom.

Luke shifts in his seat beside you uncomfortably. “I didn’t notice.”

“He looks like a creepy Daniel Day-Lewis,” you complain, a bit too loudly, and a few fangirls turn around to look at you. Ignoring them, you continue, “I told you to force him to shower—the man can’t take care of
himself
apparently.”

You’re grumbling, trying to fix this situation. But it can’t be done. He’s already up at the panel, answering questions, making playful banter. He’d been so excited about being at Comic-Con that he’d shirked some responsibilities that morning, like showering.

And shaving.

Quit. Picking. At. Your. Beard. Thomas.
You just want to scream it over the noisy crowd.

It’s like no one has noticed but you. His greasy-looking Loki hair that’s been slicked back slightly (obviously
his
doing; you’d never let him out like that), his unkempt beard that’s a different stinking color from his hair (your OCD is flaring like nobody’s business), and he’s so pale. It all doesn’t fit together, and you wonder how he’s sitting there smiling like it’s nothing.

You know that you shouldn’t be so obsessed over appearance—but it’s your
job
to make him look good for the public. You’re wearing a geeky
Star Trek
T-shirt and jeans, your green sneakers, and your brown hair is up in a loose ponytail; you’d even decided to break out your nonprescription hipster glasses.

But Tom, just . . .
Tom.

You’ll berate him for this afterward. Ask him what in the world he was thinking.

He’ll just give you that face and you’ll forgive him like always, saying, “Never do it again.” But he will, and the cycle will repeat.

Right now, though, you need to focus on something else. Like that line forming for questions. It luckily only takes twenty minutes to reach the front of the line and step up. So many questions had been for Tom, and Tom only. So you were going to go against the norm—no matter how much the room might hate you for it.

“My question is for Chris Evans,” you say like you’re nervous. Chris’s ears perk up, as well as Tom’s, and you can see the two of them, and the rest of the panel, fighting off a smile.

“Yes?” Chris lets a smile slip.

You pause and pretend to take a deep breath. “How are you? Are you well?”

You hear the room chuckling as Chris does the same. “I’m pretty good. What’s your name, miss?”

“My friends call me one thing”—you stare him down and give him a look that will have him rolling on the floor later—“but you can call me tonight.”

Ignoring the erupting laughter of the crowd around you, you let your eyebrows jump up and down, and you send him a quick wink.

Tom restrains Chris with a hand and leans up to his microphone. “Dibs.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” you start, glaring at Tom. “Mr. English Accent”—Tom stops, his eyes going wide. You hope he can see the playfulness that you’re trying to convey with your own eyes—“talking with Cap right now. You’re
jötunn
. Chill.”

That gets some “Oh, burn!” and cheers from the crowd, and you allow the satisfaction of the comeback to wash over you.

“Well, Tonight”—Chris chuckles as he leans back into his mic—“how are
you
today?”

“Just wonderful, thank you,” you reply cheerfully, bouncing a bit in your spot.

“Did you have another question, miss?” Tom asks.

You pretend to tear yourself away from Chris to look at him. “Yes.” Your tone is dripping with annoyance and you cross your arms over your chest, allowing one leg to support your weight. “Mr. Pure Imagination—do tell me if you’ve ever heard of a razor?”

It gets so quiet in that room that you could’ve heard a pin drop, before the entire panel erupts into laughter. It’s hard not to start laughing yourself.

“I have.” Tom chuckles. “But I’m afraid that I wasn’t properly instructed this morning on whether or not to shave.”

You lean into the mic and whisper, “You should have.”

His smirk makes you want to giggle, but you hold it in and say, “Good-bye, Chris, it was nice getting to almost speak to you.”

Turning on your heel, you ignore the steaming fangirls and
head for the lobby doors—just to leave Tom and Chris to manage the damage.

“HMMM,” YOU HEAR
before something crashes into your side, wrapping around your waist, “feisty today, aren’t we?”

You love this warmth that he emits so easily, and so carelessly. What have you done to deserve this?

He walks with you through the lobby of your hotel, hand remaining on your waist. “I would’ve never thought my love would’ve been so . . . cavalier.”

“That was not cavalier,” you snort. “That was being a teasing flirt.”

“A flirt, eh? So you were flirting with me?”

You deny your face its right to burn bright red. “No, I was flirting with Chris. I was telling you to shave.”

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO
do?” you groan, flopping back onto the king-size bed that Cora was fortunate enough to have. You and Cora had sleepovers every once in a while, reminding you of those old childhood memories that you both were so fond of. (Really, Cora was still a child. Not even fifteen yet.)

Since the press tour had ended, your contract with Marvel had run out. You’d decided that you deserved a vacation, packing your bags and catching a plane back to Indiana. Perhaps many would believe that spending your off time back in your hometown with your family wasn’t the proper idea of “relaxing,” but you were quite content.

Tom was still there—in the back of your mind. The two of you had remained good friends, although your not seeing him, ever, was weird.

You texted, mainly. Once every few days you two would have some conversation about a random topic. Scarves. Music. Stars. Coats. Dessert. Squid. Cartoons. Books. Shakespeare. Movies. Mirrors. Cell phones. Anything, and everything. And it was always more interesting than it should’ve been.

“What is he like?” Cora asks, crossing her legs on the other side of the bed and popping M&M’s in her mouth.

“Hmmmm?” she nudges when you don’t answer. “Is he gorgeous?”

“Yes . . . very.”

“Good kisser?” Cora blurts, offering you some M&M’s.

You take the bag and eat the chocolate, trying to drown the screaming voices in the melting confection. You don’t want to answer Cora’s question. You really, really don’t. Not even to yourself. Because if you do, you’ll fall even deeper into his sneaky trap of getting women to fall in love with him.

Grudgingly you answer, knowing Cora wouldn’t let you off without one. “I wouldn’t know.”

You’re trying to let Cora know as
much
about your crush as possible, without her ever realizing that it’s
Tom
you’re talking about. Which, seeing as how Cora is a certified Hiddlestoner, feels like a difficult thing to do. Before the night’s over, Cora knows a lot about this “mystery man” of sorts . . . but hasn’t pieced it together yet.

TOM, BEING THE LOVING-BROTHER TYPE
that he is, sent Cora a copy of
The Avengers
a month before its release. She called you immediately after getting it from the mailbox, and you figured out a time when you could watch it together.

As you walk through the cereal aisle of Walmart, your phone beeps so loudly that it makes you jump. Throwing a box of
Cheerios into the cart, you reach into your purse and pull out your phone, finding that you have a new text.

Darling, are you doing anything later?

Tom was being so straightforward. He hadn’t even led up to this. . . .
What?
Confusion sets in before you’re able to stop it.

I’m going over to Cora’s to watch the Avengers with her tonight,
you reply quickly, trying to figure out what he wants.

Great! I’ll be over around, seven? I’ll bring pizza.

Did he . . . just? Invite himself?

Yes. I invited myself. And the re’s nothing you can do about it,
he sends almost as immediately as you’re thinking it.
MORTAL.

So that’s how he wants to play, huh?

Just as the thought enters your consciousness, you realize that you’re just falling further and further into this rut that you’ll never be able to climb out of. And it’s all his fault. Stupid Lok—

Wait. Wait. Hold on.

He invited himself over.

So . . . he’s in
town
?

WHEN HE ANSWERS,
Tom’s nonchalant tone is deep, its rich accent dipping each syllable in a vat of something poisoned. It’s sickening how you were so dependent on it. On
him
.

“You were very impolite just now,” you say, shoving the cart through the produce section while you hold your phone to your
ear. That voice of his
does
things to you; and going weeks without hearing it directed at you makes it even more potent.

There’s a moment of silence when you’re both waiting for the other to start talking. For the first time that you’ve ever known Tom, it’s awkward. The thought scares you a bit more than it should.

“Would it make it better if I asked if I could come to Cora’s later?” His voice has taken on another property: pleading, sorry, and anxious.