Fangirling Over You: A Fangirl Romance Read online

  He’s dressed normally, not wearing Chrisander’s regular outfit that he wears on the show. Pity. But he still looks exceptionally beautiful even in dark jeans that fit and a black Henley that molds and shapes to his broad chest, bulging shoulders, and biceps that look bigger than my head.

  Now I really can’t seem to catch my breath.

  You’re starstruck, Aria. That’s the word you’re looking for. Completely and utterly starstruck.

  I’m Ayden Stone-struck.

  I watch as the pair of even younger girls just in front of me in line move on either side of Ayden Stone with admiration and happiness in their eyes, and wrap and arm around his waist and squeeze in to look like they’ve been best friends forever and the picture has zero awkwardness. I watch the pair of girls thank Ayden Stone profusely, watch them gush over how much of a fan they are of his work while someone from a few people in the back of line yells at them to hurry up. This happens over and over while more people step up to take their pictures with him, fangirls and fanboys smiling wide for the camera.

  And then it’s my turn, and I choke, stomach bungee-jumping down to my toes.

  I stumble forwards, some sort of emergency mechanism in my body making me move, not feeling my feet underneath me, and everything that makes up my body below the waist has gone all wiggly. I’m not sure how I’m walking at all, or if I’m doing some weird gliding thing even though I’m still going in the direction I want, still getting closer and closer to the man of my dreams.

  Stop it, he’s just an actor—who plays the awesome Chrisander Gage. Get a grip, Aria!

  I don’t want to blow this chance, truly I don’t. Who knows when I’ll be able to save for another plane ticket, hotel and a three-day pass to the con again next year and have another chance? Who knows if Leviathan will be coming back here next year, or if the show gets canceled?

  No, I have to keep a straight face, I have to keep my cool, even though the blood is rushing in my ears, and I can feel my pulse jumping at the base of my throat. My hands have gone all clammy and I wonder for a split second if I should shake Ayden Stone’s hand, and then immediately wonder what he’ll think when he finds out I’m a sweaty mess?

  I think I’m having some sort of fight-or-flight response just by being in such close proximity to the man of my dreams, to a man I already love, but it’s complicated. Which is also the unfortunate and perfect explanation for my love life if I’ve heard of one.

  Ayden Stone’s eyes are the stuff of fan fiction, the kind you can describe to your heart’s content and still not get the precise colour of them, or the way that they’re shaped, and how they sit in his face and change the game from pretty boy to handsome man that you’d willingly take off your panties for, and then beg him to give you his babies.

  “Uh, hi. I’m Ayden,” Ayden Stone says—to me.

  Is this really happening to me? Is this real life?

  I feel my face break into a big, mega-watt smile. God, I’m so happy to be here, those butterflies in my belly multiplying even if I’m freaking out a little, and my throat’s dry enough to rival the desert, and I’m alternately sweating and flushed, but my fingers feel like ice. I’m sure if I was holding something in my hands, I would’ve dropped whatever it was, only able to focus on him.

  Chrisander Gage—shit, Ayden Stone—is that beautiful and that charming in real life, in person, standing right in front of me looking at me a little worriedly, a little bemused that I (probably) would’ve dropped a baby from my arms because I was struck by the beauty of his face, and his whole being in general.

  I’m in so much trouble. How are you ever supposed to date and find a real man for yourself if no one will ever compare to this?

  I sigh, then gasp because I found myself muttering my whole last thought out loud, and now I’m burning red and I’m pretty sure I’m a beacon of embarrassment that the astronauts floating in the International Space Station can see via satellite.

  I swallow hard and think if I make a run for it now, no one will be the wiser and I can try to erase this whole thing from my memory by downing a bottle of my favorite Moscato in one go.

  Stop it. Who cares? You’re never gonna see this guy again. Just get your picture and have your dream come true. Check this off your bucket list. Make this solo trip worth every penny.

  Okay, okay. Don’t look at Chrisander in the eye. Shit, Ayden Stone in the eye. It’s like looking at a solar eclipse dead-on, you’re just going to cause some serious health problems to yourself if you do.

  “Nice to meet you,” I mumble, and take my position next to Ayden Stone—the actor, not the character—as if I don’t know his exact height, weight, and what kind of dog he has (German shepherd and border collie mix named Raven). I know a whole bunch of things about this person in my quest to learn, to know everything there was to know about the character because fictional characters don’t exist in real life, and actors and characters only share the same face and body and usually not much else. I wanted to know everything, because if I knew everything about him, then maybe he’d end up being real—in my head at least. Which is also a sad state of affairs, but my dumb heart wants what it wants, and the dumb thing doesn’t know the difference between a fictional character and a real person, and that is yet another reason why I am single, single, single.

  I’m not sure at what moment it all starts to feel empty, the void left behind after a bubble pops—my obsession with Chrisander Gage, my love for the show, my love for the character and knowing that this is as close to him as I’ll ever get. Just me, standing next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist distractedly, not having heated debates over character motivation and how could he do that to Amy and to Mage, his best friend (and possibly the other love interest in the show because Chrisander is an implied bisexual but classist, the jerk), all while trying to save his ass and those he loves while making some bad decisions—but sometimes the only decisions he could possibly make.

  All of this just suddenly feels like a major letdown, and after mumbling a thank you, and giving Ayden Stone—not Chrisander Gage—a fleeting smile, I leave the booth, and head towards the printers where I can pick up my picture. All of it just feels like a stupid thing I was excited about, useless, unnecessary, leaving behind a hollowness in my chest.

  Hopefully, I don’t look as awful as I feel right now in the picture that almost cost a mint.

  I came all the way here for Chrisander Gage, and I only got to meet Ayden Stone. This sucks. Being a fangirl sucks.

  Reality bites.

  TWO

  It’s a good picture, no, it’s a great picture. So why do I feel so rotten?

  I do look pretty awesome with my big smile, despite the school picture type background, some sort of weird pattern that’s supposed to be easy on the eyes. And man, the kind of selfies I could take if I had a camera like this. I look almost airbrushed but still human, still me. I look happy to be there, when just an hour ago, I felt like anything but. And I’ve gotta say that we both look comfortable with each other, even though we’re complete strangers with arms around each other’s waists. You can’t see the awkwardness. Maybe you learn how to do that when you become an actor or something, take a class on how to deflate a situation that’s bound to make people lose their cool.

  Ayden Stone looks perfect, as per usual. And now it’s all done, the very highlight of my con experience—it’s all over, like Christmas has come and gone, and you still have a whole-ass freezing winter to slog through.

  I sigh. Right now, I’m nursing a cheeseburger and Diet Coke at the closest burger joint to the con while I lament my whole Chrisander Gage experience and how lackluster it now feels.

  I do that a lot—build things on the up and up in my head, expecting them to go perfectly like a screenplay with page-by-page beats of what’s supposed to happen and when. And then I’m inevitably disappointed when that thing I’ve been building up doesn’t meet my incredibly high expectations.

  Like, would it have killed him to
notice my shoes, my Leviathan earrings? Maybe?

  Now, drowning in disappointment that Ayden Stone didn’t immediately fall in love with me—yeah, right—coming to San Diego feels like it was a bad idea, especially by myself. If I was with Candace, then I could put on a face and at least try to pretend to have fun. Alas, I’m alone and wallowing in my own misery. I sort of don’t even want to go to the convention center tomorrow, the last day of my three-day pass. I’ve already seen everything I wanted to see, I would just end up spending more money on shit I don’t need, but the inner fangirl in me wants. Maybe I should just relax in my hotel room all day tomorrow? Go to the bar and nurse a beer while watching a baseball game, like an American?

  None of that sounds appealing, not one bit.

  Then again, I also don’t really feel like dealing with a crowd, the hustle and bustle of thousands upon thousands of people moving around the convention center. Sure, it’s the last day of the con, so maybe there’ll be less people around, but I’m just not feeling it. Besides, I think my wallet will thank me if I don’t show up tomorrow.

  Okay, then. Decision made. Not going tomorrow, and I got my money’s worth with the pass regardless if I miss the last day. Maybe I’ll walk around town tomorrow or something before I have to check out and head to the airport.

  Yay for getting to the airport early tomorrow!

  I’m kind of sick of my burger, but I force myself to take another couple of bites, knowing that my mood is ruining my appetite and nothing else. I suck back some soda and stow the picture—now in a protective plastic case—in my bag, making sure its centered and away from damaging items like my two-pound wallet that has a month’s worth of receipts and can substitute for a brick if I feel the need to enact some self-defence.

  I look over towards the windows, my booth nestled up against the windowpanes, watching people walking by, smiling, laughing, and I feel a pang of homesickness, loneliness or whatever. I shouldn’t have come here alone, I guess, but when all your offline friends just don’t get your obsession with a show and have zero interest in hanging out or discussing something you’re so passionate about, well, dragging them along to a con and sitting in on panels doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas. Also, why would I put a strain on a friendship just because I had the misfortune of falling in love with a show and a fictional character that doesn’t exist in real life? Other than my mom checking in that I wasn’t abducted the minute I stepped foot in California, I’ve been on my own.

  And meeting Candace for the first time in real life would have been amazing, the absolute best. And to be here—fangirling so hard?

  Ah, that would’ve been great, the absolute best.

  But she’s not here, and I’m here, and that’s all there is to it.

  I look back down at my burger, stewing in my misery, not wanting it anymore, wanting something else. Something like chocolate right about now; chocolate always make me feel better.

  I’m not paying attention to much, just sort of staring out into space when someone sits opposite me, bringing me back to real time and making sure I’m in the here and now.

  I’m lucky that I swallowed the last bit of cheeseburger or else it would’ve flown out of my mouth the second my jaw dropped open at seeing who’s sitting opposite me, right there, just across the table.

  Ayden freaking Stone.

  I blink again, slow and steady, but still, there he is, not a figment of my overactive fangirl imagination.

  Am I dreaming? Is this some sort of hallucination? Is there a glitch in The Matrix?

  “Hi again,” he says, placing his orange plastic tray laden with two burgers, a large fry and a giant cup of soda on his side of the table while I openly stare, trying to compute the new information of Ayden Stone sitting on the other side of this Formica table. I’m sure my brain’s short-circuited, or maybe it’s buffering. Yeah, definitely buffering. My thoughts are slow, stilted, not making a whole lot of sense. I really have no idea what to do or what to say.

  “I’m Ayden,” he says, like we’re just two regular people meeting each other for the first time, like he’s not who he really is, and he doesn’t know that I’m a total fangirl of his alter ego, Chrisander Gage. As if I didn’t just take a picture with him. As if all this is normal.

  What the what?

  Manners that have been drilled into me save the day. Save the cheeseburger. Whatever.

  “I’m Aria. It’s nice to meet you.” I clear my throat, and in an odd sort of way I feel like I’m watching myself from a distance, like this is a scene from a book written in the third person point of view. I watch myself open my mouth and am horrified about what I’m about to say, shaking my head from side to side. “I don’t know why you’re eating here. With me.”

  Did I actually just say that to the actor who plays Chrisander Gage, aka the love of my life?

  Whatever you’re doing, you’re messing it up, big time.

  Unreal—this is totally unreal.

  I carefully place my cheeseburger down, wipe my hands on a napkin, leaving behind streaks of grease, trying to wipe my mouth of grease, and Jesus, I hope it’s only grease and not drool. I’m a fangirl, but I have standards, too. Even while I’m internally losing it.

  Maybe I fell asleep and I’m lucid dreaming or something? Is there a restart button or am I glitching?

  “Oh,” he says, his eyes falling away from me, hands up, about to bite into one of his burgers, and now I feel like a total asshole. “I’m sorry, that was pretty presumptuous of me, just sitting here, wasn’t it? I’ll get out of here, just give me a sec—” That’s when Ayden freaking Stone spills his drink all over himself, standing up in reflex, gasping as the ice hits him from chest to abs to crotch area in caramel-colored liquid.

  Oh, shit.

  My cheeks start to burn in second-hand embarrassment, and I push my leftover napkins at him, even though there are only three left and I don’t think they’re actually going to, like, do something to that mess on his body. God, what a body.

  Focus, Aria. He’s embarrassed and nobody likes being embarrassed.

  Listen, Chrisander Gage is a really amazing human being who deserves only the best from the best. He’s been hurt along the way, and he’s finally seeing about what other people go through in the Leviathan ship, and his character is already so epic even though we’re only three seasons in, but man, sometimes, he really is just a pleasure to look at, and the whole amazing human being/personality thing increases his attractiveness by a million times. And that’s all thanks to the guy standing in front of me. In. Real. Life.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble, taking a napkin from the stack on his tray that survived the spillage and trying to ineffectually mop up some of the soda from the table because I know what’s it like to work in a burger joint and have jerks make even more of a mess once the soda’s been spilled. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I tell Ayden (Stone) as I move the sopping napkin to my tray—guess I’m definitely not going to eat any more.

  “It’s not your fault,” he says, all while backing away from me, leaving his tray behind, like I’m a rabid animal he wants to get away from as fast as possible. Well, that stings. “I’ll just go and clean up.” He backs up, turns around and heads for the washrooms, phone now plastered to his ear. Does he have an assistant who can get him an extra set of clothes? That would definitely be handy, you know, if I was famous and all. Which I’m not.

  I need a second for my brain to catch up with all of this. Ayden Stone sat across from me, spilled his soda on his clothes and whisked himself off to the washrooms.

  I sigh again, letting the universe know I’m not too happy with today’s events.

  It’s your problem for building up your expectations and then being disappointed by them. Again. The five hundredth time’s the charm, eh?

  But seriously, what did I actually expect?

  Did I want him to recognize all the hard work I put into my outfit, get all the references to the show and the characters
that I love? Honestly, though, in my dream of dreams of dreams, I’d want him to fall in love with me, look at me the exact same way Chrisander Gage seems to look at Mage, eyes full of warmth, of fondness, and incredibly endeared. That just doesn’t happen in real life, and it certainly doesn’t happen to a fangirl and her fictional crush.

  In what universe would that happen?

  I sigh, thinking the whole day is over and done with, and then debating with myself if I should leave his tray behind or if a worker would think it was garbage and toss it all away, even if it’s still full of food, yet to be eaten. In the end, I decide to stay behind, trying to cool the burning in my cheeks by sucking back the rest of my watery soda, and then opening my plastic cup to chew on the ice for good measure.

  When Ayden (God, I’m saying his first name like we’re friends or something) comes out of the washroom with a new shirt and jeans, my mouth pops open again, and I have to stifle a smile. That would be a resounding yes to the assistant who just got him a change of clothes.

  “Oh, you waited for me. That wasn’t necessary,” he tells me, taking his seat opposite me once again.

  I don’t know what to say—it’s not a secret that Ayden Stone doesn’t like to give interviews—he’s not usually seen on late-night talk shows, or even the daytime ones, either, and it’s sort of built up a mystique around him, because if we don’t know everything about an actor, then don’t we have the license to know why he won’t let us into his private life?

  Talking to him now, casually, well kinda, is blowing my mind. I’m half afraid to go get a refill of my soda so I don’t come back to this table to find him gone and then I’ll start questioning my entire existence, pretty sure I dreamed this all in some sort of hallucination caused by the overbearing California sun.

  “I feel bad for starting the whole sorry chain of events. I was wondering if I can buy you another meal since yours looks like it soaked everything up.” I shove my chin towards his tray, the wrapping that his burger was in looking considerably…melted. Unless he likes soda-soaked food, then that would be a little odd, but I’ve dated some guys that were way weirder.