Eden lets out an earsplitting scream and tackles me. Somewhere in the distance, her laptop knocks against a wall. “Do I get to meet them all?”
“I assume so.”
She screams again, and I wrap my arms around her wiry body.
It’s the last moment she’s pleased with me for a while, though, because I am hopeless otherwise. I need a full summary of the show, can only point to faces and say, “He looks familiar,” or, “Oh, he was in that one movie where we saw a flash of dick, right?”
But by the end of this very cursory overview, I can say three things with absolute confidence: （1） This show looks dramatic and addicting; （2） I can absolutely understand why the entire world wants to believe he’s sleeping with his costar, Elodie Fabrón—as in, their chemistry is genuinely fever-inducing; and, relatedly, （3） without question, I need to find a way to make sure Alec Kim ends up in my bed tonight.
* * *
We get to the event early—parking down the street just after noon and hovering outside the side door. It’s hot as hell, and Eden pesters me to text Yael early. I don’t know Yael but I know her enough to be able to tell Eden to shut it; we will text at exactly one o’clock and not a moment sooner.
But from where we stand, we’re able to see the line that snakes around the block and loops back on itself. I know many of the fans lined up are here to see the famous Doctor Who actor who plays West Midlands’s first heartthrob, or the bombshell from the blockbuster DC superhero franchise, but some of them—many of them, probably—are here specifically to see Alec.
I have a handful of copyeditor questions to address for the article before it goes to press and a call to take with Ian about what he’s digging up back in London, so I am grateful for some downtime. Even so, it is a surreal experience to do my job surrounded by hundreds—maybe thousands—of people who have likely taken a day off work to come see a group of famous people in person. Once I send my last email, Eden and I fall quiet in mild awe at the scale of this event, eavesdropping on scattered breathless conversations. I love my best friend’s fangirling side, love how fully and unselfconsciously Eden loves the things she loves. But I’ve never had that bone, even in moments when I watched her and it looked like she was having a blast. Unless it’s for work, I don’t have the ability to dive headlong into something and spend hours thinking of nothing else.
But people-watching here—listening in on the conversations of the people who stand idly in the line that stretches down Blackstone and past us—makes me realize these fans easily know more about Alec’s life than I do. Some women near us talk about the pens they brought in his favorite color （red） and wonder whether he’ll sign their shirts （Alec is, apparently, the only member of the cast to never sign an item on someone’s body）。 They talk about his smile, how it takes him a few minutes to look comfortable, how he is always the slowest in the signing line because he talks to everyone. They argue over whether he’s scheduled to be at Comic-Con, and say inside-joke lines to each other that I can only assume are dialogue from one of his shows.
I have to tune them out once they pull out their phones and start opening their favorite photos and gifs. I’m sure he’s shirtless in more than half of them. I have a weird dark shadow in my mind thinking about them looking at his naked body.
“Is this weird for you?” Eden asks quietly, reading my mind.
I laugh at her timing. “Very.”
“Fangirls are intense.”
“I don’t mind that,” I tell her, honestly. “I love seeing you get excited about things. I just feel like a fish out of water. I’m aware these women probably know more about him than I do.”
I feel her watching me, agreeing silently, and my mood sinks further into discomfort. I want to see Alec in his element, but there’s a part of me—even though I know he doesn’t operate this way—that worries that I’ll disappear in this crowd. That he’ll see me here and realize I’m nothing special. I never felt that way, never worried about it for a second until I was surrounded by hundreds of his fans. Why are we mixing our lives like this?
But it’s too late to bail: Eden is vibrating next to me.
I would never dream of dragging her away from this. I think, Just get through it.
At one, I finally text Yael, We’re here.
There’s no response, but a few minutes later a door opens and she pops her head out, meeting my eyes for only a second before she’s gesturing for us to come in. I catch the grumbling of some women behind us, the loud cries of some farther down in the line—“Take us, too!”—and then the heavy steel door seals us up in a long, bare hallway.