Page 73 of Fangirl

“Do you want the front entrance or back?” he asks as we weave through the streets of central London,

I lean forward in my seat, suddenly far more interested. “Oh, there’s a back entrance?”

He chuckles at my excitement. “Most premieres have one. Unless you’re contractually obligated to walk the carpet, you don’t have to go through the front.”

“Oh, I’m definitely not obligated to anything. So, nojournalists at the back?”

He shrugs. “Maybe one or two, but nothing like the madness out front.”

Relief floods me. “Oh, yes please!”

The driver laughs again. “Back entrance it is.”

I glance at him through the rearview mirror. “Do you do this often? Drive people to premieres?”

“Quite a lot, yeah,” he says, smoothly navigating through traffic. “My company works with most of the big UK production houses. And I could tell right away that you’d pick the back if given the choice.”

I let out a small breath, shoulders sagging. “Am I that obvious?”

He grins. “Let’s just say… I have a pretty good read on people.”

I sink back into my seat, exhaling. “Well, I appreciate it.”

He nods. “No problem. We’ll be there in about five minutes.”

My heart kicks up a notch. In five minutes, this won’t just be texts and late-night calls. It’ll be real. In five minutes, I’ll be standing in front of Eli. Talking to him. Touching him. For months, I’ve dreamed of this moment—of the way it’ll feel when his eyes meet mine, when his lips curve into that easy, knowing smile. And now, it’s here. It’s finally happening. And if I let myself believe in fairy tales, I’d think this is the part where everything changes for the better.

I just hope I’m not wrong.

I glance down at my hands, my fingers twisting in my lap. I feel stupidly relieved to be skipping the red carpet. The idea ofcameras flashing, reporters calling out questions—it’s too much. Too overwhelming. This? The back entrance, the quiet slip inside, the moment of calm before I see him? This is exactly what I need.

My phone vibrates.

Eli: I’m inside. Just let me know when you get here, and I’ll come find you.

I stare at the message, my pulse fluttering.

Me: Almost there. I’m taking the back entrance.

I don’t even have time to overthink it. The car slows, pulling onto a side street behind the theater.

“We’re here,” the driver announces.

I swallow hard. Showtime.

I step out of the car, gripping my pass like it might disappear if I loosen my hold for even a second. The air outside is thick with anticipation—the distant roar of the crowd just beyond the building, the low murmur of voices bleeding through the walls, the faint pulse of music from outside. But I don’t stop to listen.

I rush to the side door, flashing my card at the man stationed there. He barely spares me a glance before stepping aside, letting me slip through.

The second the door closes behind me, the world shifts.

The outside chaos is reduced to a distant hum behind thick walls. I let out a sharp breath, relief flooding through me in a way I didn’t expect.

I’m inside.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, it feels safe.

The corridor stretches long and empty before me, quiet in a way that makes my heartbeat seem too loud. Plushcarpeting muffles my steps as I move forward, past sleek black-and-gold walls, the soft glow of recessed lighting guiding my way. The faint scent of popcorn and expensive perfume lingers in the air.