Demi Lovato Imagines

Homesick pt.2

You check the post-it note again, stuck to the palm of your hand. Despite Matt's jagged writing, you know you're in the right place. This is definitely her address. Although, the fact that it's in one of the most expensive boroughs in LA gives that away. You passed loads of cars as you walked down the street. Huge black Teslas. An Aston Martin. A couple of Lamborghini's. People emptied out of them, carrying presents wrapped in red and gold, teetering on stilettos or slicking back gelled hair as they climbed the drive of 5 Sycamore Avenue. By the time you'd drifted up after them, the door had clicked closed again and you had to press the bell. 

"Hel--oh, hello?"

The woman grabs hold of the door with a taloned hand, preventing it from swinging open any further. You try to smile as brightly as you can. 

"Are you--um--can I help you?"

The will-power you had mustered over the course of the morning dribbled out the soles of your feet, into the cracks of the tarmac. The overwhelming urge to turn and run tugged at your bones. 

"Hi, I'm...I'm here to see Demi?"

The woman's hand tightened, her nails turning white as they pressed harder into the wood. 

"How did you find this address?" she says, almost a hiss. "It's Christmas Day, for Pete's sake."

"She-..." you feel your throat closing up, your words becoming threadier, "She invited me? Here, I...I was given this address by...by..."

Your whole body shakes as you lift the post-it up, fingers fighting to hold the neon yellow paper still enough for her to read. She doesn't lean forward to read it, instead keeping her eyes on you, examining your profile. 

"Demi!" she calls back over her shoulder. As time crawls forward, she doesn't make any move to make way for you in the doorway. Eventually, footsteps get louder and Demi's face appears beside her. 

"Oh, hey Y/n! I thought for a minute you weren't coming!" 

Your brain scrambles to try and discern what she means by this. A day alone curled up in bed with Netflix and instant hot chocolate suddenly sounds a lot more appealing. 

"Here I am," you say weakly. The woman looks back and forth between you and Demi, her features gradually softening. 

"Oh this is Y/n?! Sorry, hun, I didn't realise! I thought you were," she cups one hand around her mouth, whispering, "You know...one of those stalker fans."

Demi rolls her eyes. 

"Don't listen to her," she laughs, "My mom's always been weird about stuff like this. Come on! Come inside! You must be freezing out there."

They both step aside, welcoming you into the warmth. It wraps around you like a blanket as you toe off your boots and unwind the scarf from around your neck. 

"Here," Demi says, taking it from you and hanging it on one of the pegs. "Remind me when you're leaving though. You wouldn't believe how many things people end up leaving in this house." 

You nod, following silently as she leads you towards a big room at the end of the hallway, noise streaming out. You feel an urge to grab on to her hand, to pull her back and tell her you've suddenly forgotten about other plans, other friends. Your heart thumps against your ribs, your vision throbbing. By the time you've reached it, you feel breathless. 

"Go ahead," Demi says, pressing the small of your back. She points to the far corner where there is a small group of women talking. They're, comparably, a lot younger than the rest of the crowd. Mid-twenties, you guess. One of them spots Demi pointing before beckoning you over.