Signed, R. M.

Unknown Number

I was getting ready for my flight to LA tomorrow, packing my old black suitcase—the one I've had for over a decade. Brush, toothbrush, clothes... maybe even some sexy underwear. Anything can happen, right?

Just as I was about to close the old black case, I realized I almost forgot to pack my charger. God, if I had forgotten that, I would've been lost—chargers in LA are expensive! Finally, I'm done.

Going to sleep is going to be hard now since I'm so excited to meet Rami Malek. I'm just going to put on an old T-shirt I got from my brother. It's way too big, but so comfortable. I lay down in bed, surrounded by pillows and, of course, a thick blanket to cuddle into. Lastly, I turn off the lights and roll over. Good night to myself.

I was having such a good dream... but then my alarm went off—of course, at the worst possible moment. Getting out of bed took an eternity, but then I remembered—I'm flying to Los fucking Angeles! I dragged myself into the bathroom to take a shower, even shaved—for who knows what reason. Naturally, I cut myself shaving because I was daydreaming about the dream I'd just had.

Everything in that dream was perfect. I shifted under the weight of the thick, expensive blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The floor beneath my feet was warm—heated wood, maybe. The kind that clicks when you walk barefoot on it.

The suite was drenched in golden light. Outside, the skyline looked like something straight out of a magazine ad. I could smell something faint in the air—amber, cologne, champagne.

I padded across the room slowly, afraid I'd wake whoever else was here. My fingers trailed over a marble counter, across leather cushions. This place was... insane. A leather jacket hung over the back of a chair. Slim, designer. Male.

The bathroom came into view, steam curling out into the hallway. I heard the water, steady, rhythmic. The door was wide open, like someone had nothing to hide.

I stepped to the threshold. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.

Through the glass shower doors, I could see him—raven hair plastered to his neck, shoulders strong and pale under the spray. He turned slightly, the curve of his profile hitting me like déjà vu.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything.

And then I woke up.

All I could remember was that he had raven-black hair, a nicely built body, and was about 5'7". His hair was wavy, his skin pale with a touch of rosiness.

I snapped out of my daydream and realized I was still in the shower—completely forgetting I had to get ready and leave for the airport. Never in my life have I rushed out of the shower so fast. I got dressed, did my hair. I'm about 5'5", with a short blonde curtain mullet—not too skinny. I grabbed my headphones, wheeled out my heavy black suitcase, tossed it into my car, and drove off. Of course, I had to connect my phone to play some music. I couldn't stop thinking about that dream the entire drive.

When I arrived at the airport, the nerves kicked in. I was going to stay in LA for two weeks—alone. LA is a big deal for me. I've barely been out of town my whole life... and now I'm heading to this massive city? What could go wrong, right?

Oh boy, was I wrong...

I put on my headphones as soon as I got on the plane and listened to music the entire six-hour flight from Boston to LA. Somewhere over the middle of the country, my playlist hit a soft instrumental song that made me spiral straight into fantasy.

I closed my eyes and pictured walking up to him, just like I planned—but this time, he smiled a little longer, a little softer. His eyes locked with mine, and instead of handing the signed photo back with a polite nod, he leaned in just a little.

"You know," he'd say, "you have a beautiful presence. You ever thought of acting?"

I'd laugh, completely caught off guard. "Only in my wildest dreams."

"Maybe we should make those dreams real," he'd add, his voice low and warm.

My heart would be racing. And somehow—don't ask me how—we'd be walking out of the building together, disappearing into the LA sun like something out of a movie.

"You good?" the guy next to me asked, breaking me out of it.

I blinked. My face was burning. I'd been smiling like an idiot at the tray table.

"Yeah," I said. "Just tired."

But the daydream stuck with me all the way until landing. And part of me wasn't even sure if I wanted to meet the real him—because how could reality ever top that?

I finally got off the plane and was able to get to my hotel and my hotel room. First things first—I had to unpack and change. I was still wearing that oversized greenish T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. I dug through my clothes and finally found something decent enough to meet Rami in: a black crop top with a white cross on it—a little gothic—paired with black baggy track pants. I threw on some white sneakers and silver jewelry. I usually don't wear makeup, but I had to cover my under-eye circles and a few stress pimples.

If I wasn't completely crazy, I'd say the outfit looked okay. Oh, and I couldn't forget my thin, roundish black glasses. I had packed them because I didn't want to wear them the whole flight. By the time I was done, two hours had flown by—and I had to leave again, this time to finally meet him. My hands were shaking with nerves.

I walked into the building, surrounded by so many actors I could've met... but I only wanted him. I stepped into line, holding a small photo of him that I wanted signed. It's my favorite.

There were only two people ahead of me.

My body started shaking really badly.

Then—there I was. Walking up to him.

"Oh god... hello, Rami. It's really nice meeting you!" I managed to say.

"As I hear, you already know my name, so I don't have to introduce myself," he replied with a smile. "How are you, love?"

"Well, I'm great—hope you are too. I was wondering if you could maybe sign this for me?" I mumbled.

Standing there, looking at him felt completely unreal. He reached out, took the picture, politely signed it, then flipped it over and wrote something on the back. I couldn't make it out from where I stood.

"There you go. It was really nice meeting you... ugh?" He paused, clearly forgetting my name.

"It's Lynn. Lynn Pierce," I said, helping him out.

"Well, Lynn, it was nice meeting you. Really was," he said—and winked.

I turned around, staring at the picture with his signature. I remembered he wrote something on the back. Flipping it over, I saw a phone number. His number. Why me?

Out of everyone in that room... out of every fan he's ever met, why would he give me his number?

I stared at the paper like it was a mistake. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it wasn't even his number. Maybe I misread it, or he meant to give it to someone else, and I just happened to be holding it.

But what if it was real?

What if this is one of those rare, once-in-a-lifetime things that you never see coming? The kind of thing people write books about—or obsessively recount to friends for the next 40 years?

My hands were shaking again.

I'd never felt so terrified and so alive at the same time.

I started smiling like crazy.

Back at the hotel, I grabbed my phone and typed in the number. This couldn't be real, right?

Hey, who's this?

An instant reply came:

Well, hello there, Lynn.

I stared at my phone in shock, then dropped it on the table and started silently screaming in my head.

There's no way this is real...