“Tom Hanks is in this movie?” Uncle Don asks, putting down his fork. “I love that guy.”
I shake my head and put my hands over my face, then decide that isn’t enough and slump over the island, talking into the counter. “Everybody loves him. That’s the entire point of Tom Hanks. But no, he’s not in this movie. Just . . . never mind.”
Chloe and Don are silent, and then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Don’s. “Sweetheart,” he says. “Your mom would be so proud of you.”
I lift my head a little and peer up at him. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
And I know he isn’t going to say anything else—isn’t going to give me an emotional speech about what romantic comedies meant to my mom or a pep talk about how I can do it. Neither of those are things Uncle Don would ever do, or may even be capable of doing. But in those few words, and in the look on his face, I get what he’s trying to tell me. That he misses his sister just like I miss my mom. That she wouldn’t have wanted me to be here, still, static, instead of pursuing something I’ve always loved. That she would be so happy to know I was going to be on an actual movie set, even if it’s only in German Village, even if it’s only for a few days, even if I’m only an assistant.
“Thanks, Uncle Don,” I say, sitting up as tears start to tingle the edges of my eyes. And although I’m still nervous (that’s putting it mildly), maybe what Chloe said is true. That this is meant to be, and maybe my mom had some hand in making it happen. I just wish I could tell her about it.
Chapter Four
Filming doesn’t start until Monday, so I’m not employed yet, but crewmembers are already closing down the street, putting up signs, and moving cars.
“This is ridiculous,” Nick says, handing a coffee to a customer. “You can’t shut down an entire neighborhood because some Hollywood big shots want to make a movie.”
“They took over an empty storefront and closed down one block,” I point out. “And it’s not even this one.”
“Still,” Nick grumbles.
“You’re such a negative Nancy,” Chloe says, squirting whipped cream onto a drink. “It’s like if you don’t have something to complain about, you’ll shrivel up and float away on a breeze.”
“What are you doing?” Nick grabs her arm, looking at the cup.
“Adding some sprinkles,” she says with wide eyes.
“Does this look like a sprinkle smiley face to you?” Nick asks the customer, a middle-aged man in a puffer coat and a knit hat.
“It does indeed,” he says.
“And how does it make you feel?” Chloe asks with a smile.
The man appears to think about it. “Pretty good,” he says finally, taking his cup and walking out.
“See?” Chloe asks. “Customers like a personal touch!”
“Just serve the coffee, okay?” Nick asks as “What a Fool Believes” starts playing. “Chloe.”
“What’s that?” Chloe asks, suddenly very interested in the espresso machine.
“Did you mess with my playlist again?”
“Hmm?”
I stifle a smile as I watch the scene that plays out almost every day.
“Is this or is this not the Doobie Brothers?” Nick asks, crossing his arms.
Chloe turns around and throws her hands up in frustration. “Fine, it is! Do you know how upsetting your sad music is? I’m so tired of listening to Sufjan Stevens!”
“‘Carrie and Lowell’ is a masterpiece,” Nick grumbles.
“And it makes our customers cry,” Chloe says.
“She has a point,” I say.
Nick points at me. “You stay out of this.”
“Totally unfair that Chloe gets to play what she wants all the time, and you wouldn’t even let me play what I wanted once,” Tobin whines from behind the espresso machine.
Nick runs a hand over his face. “That’s because I’m not going to play a five-hour loop of ambient whale sounds, Tobin.”
“But it’s so chill,” Tobin says, handing a latte to a customer.
I smirk and turn back to my computer, but Chloe whips off her apron. “Okay, it’s my break, so feel free to change it back to your Crying Alone playlist.”
“No more yacht rock!” Nick shouts.
“Come on,” Chloe says, grabbing my arm. “We’re gonna go get a closer look at your new workplace.”
“I’m in the middle of typing this sentence—” I say as Chloe pulls me out of my chair. I manage to bring my coffee along because I have a feeling I’ll need caffeine to fortify me for this.
“I’m nervous to get too close,” I whisper to Chloe as we walk, my breath puffing in the air.
“Why are you whispering?” she asks.
“I don’t want anyone to hear me and know how nervous I am!” I hiss. But she has a point—it’s ten A.M., and there aren’t even that many people on the brick sidewalk. Almost everyone is at work, although there are definitely some people standing right at the edge of the caution tape, looking at what appears to be nothing more than a few guys in winter coats milling around.
Chloe sighs. “This is way more boring than I expected. I guess I thought, like, Drew Danforth would be right there, and we could shamelessly ogle him for the remainder of my break.”
“The chances of him being shirtless in this weather are slim, you know.”
She looks wistfully out into the street. “A girl can dream, Annie.”
Staring at my future place of employment is making me feel kind of shaky, so I link my arm in hers. “Come on. Let’s go make fun of Nick for the next fifteen minutes.”
I spin us around and immediately collide with a wool-coat-clad chest. My coffee flies out of my hand and drenches the person in front of us.
“Whoa!” he shouts, and when I look up I topple backward.
It’s Drew Danforth.
Chapter Five
“Are you okay?” he asks, grabbing my arm and pulling me off the ground.
I wouldn’t describe myself as someone who is normally at a loss for words. I mean, I write for a living and as a passion. I have no problem making small talk with strangers, and I can handle myself at parties. But right now, the only words running through my mind on a loop are Holy shit.
I blink a few times, staring straight into Drew Danforth’s face. It’s like when you’re a kid and there’s a solar eclipse, and all the teachers are like, “Don’t look directly into the sun! You’ll destroy your retinas!” but there’s always that one kid (Johnny Berger, in our class) who can’t stop staring.
In this situation, I’m Johnny Berger. And I guess Drew Danforth is the sun.
“Are you okay?” he asks again, enunciating his words even more, as if my understanding him is the problem. His brown eyes, I notice, are flecked with tiny bits of gold, which is something you can’t see when you watch him on TV. His hair is just as voluminous as it seems in pictures, but in person, I have the almost overwhelming urge to touch it, to reach out and pull on that one lock of hair that hangs over his forehead.
“She’s not responding.” He turns to Chloe. “Is something wrong?”
“She’s French,” Chloe says without missing a beat. “She only speaks French.”
“I’m not French,” I say, breaking my silence. Chloe’s and Drew’s heads swivel to look at me.
“I’m sorry about your coat,” I whisper, then I run toward Nick’s.
Chloe bursts in the door behind me, the bell jingling in her wake. “I’m not French?” she screeches. “Those are the first words you spoke to Drew Danforth? Really?”
“Well then, why did you tell him I was French?” I shout, ignoring the curious stares of everyone working on their laptops and the calming melody of whatever Nick put on to replace the Doobies.
“I don’t know!” She throws her hands in the air. “You weren’t talking, so I thought I’d give you an interesting backstory!”
I put my hands over my face. “This is ridiculous.”
“No,” Chloe says, g
rabbing me by the shoulders. “This is your meet-cute, and now you need to go back out there and find him and say something that isn’t a negation of your Frenchness or an apology for destroying his probably very expensive coat.”
“Meet what?”
Nick stares at us from behind the counter, a dish towel in his hand.
“A meet-cute”—Chloe stands up straight, shoulders back, as if she’s delivering a Romantic Comedy 101 lecture to Nick and his patrons—“is the quirky, adorable, cute way the hero and heroine of a romantic comedy meet.”
Everyone stares at her blankly.
“Or hero and hero. Or heroine and heroine. Not to be heteronormative,” she clarifies.
“Like how me and Martha met at her wedding,” Gary says.
Chloe thinks about it. “I don’t know that I would necessarily call that one a meet-cute, but sure, Gary.”
“Did you just make that up?” Nick asks, arms crossed.
I shake my head. “No. It’s a thing.”
“Watch a romantic comedy, dude,” Tobin says.
Nick rolls his eyes.
“Anyway,” Chloe continues, “Annie straight up ran into Drew Danforth and spilled a cup of coffee all over his coat, which is, like, the cutest of meets.”
“That doesn’t sound very cute,” Nick says skeptically, rubbing the scruff on his chin. “Was it still hot?”
“Scalding,” I say, sinking into my chair and resting my head on the table.
“Sounds like a meet-painful,” says Gary, and a few people laugh.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’m so glad you all find my embarrassment entertaining.”
“Annie!” Chloe sits down across from me as a customer walks in and the rest of the shop stops paying attention to us. “This isn’t embarrassing. This is merely a story I’ll tell in my toast at your wedding to Drew.”
I lift my head to look at her. “I hate to break this to you, but I don’t think he’s my Tom Hanks. I think he’s just a famous guy with a possible third-degree burn on his chest. And now my first day on set is going to be super awkward because I accidentally assaulted the lead actor with a beverage.”
Chloe’s about to say something, but then a song starts and she closes her mouth, looking up toward the speakers. “I swear to God, I told Nick not to play any more Bon Iver. It makes people look up their exes on Instagram, not buy coffee. I’m gonna go put on some Hall and Oates.”
As she walks away, I rest my head on the table again. As if it wasn’t embarrassing enough to have my uncle get me a job on set, now I have to deal with this.
But maybe the most embarrassing thing—more embarrassing than having an uncle who pulled strings to get me a job and more embarrassing than spilling coffee on a famous person—is how I felt when I looked into Drew Danforth’s eyes. Frozen. Tongue-tied. Starstruck. Like the world slowed down and all of a sudden it was just the two of us there on that sidewalk, like nothing and no one else mattered.
Snap out of it, Annie, I think. He’s a movie star . . . a dude who gets paid to make millions of women feel like that all the time. Just because he’s very good at his job, at making you think he’s the (extremely hot) guy next door and he would totally love you if only he knew you, doesn’t mean that he’s your Tom Hanks. I mean, I’ve also thought on numerous occasions that Drake and I would be great friends if we hung out because we like the same things (cozy sweaters, hometown pride, Rihanna), but that doesn’t mean I actually think we’re going to become BFFs. Also, Drew is known for pranks, and while some people may find that kind of stuff funny, I definitely don’t.
Drew Danforth isn’t a sad widower or a seemingly callous chain bookstore owner, I remind myself. He’s a literal movie star, and Tom Hanks didn’t play a movie star in any of his rom-coms. That would be more like Notting Hill, and honestly, Julia Roberts was kind of a jerk in Notting Hill. A beautiful jerk, but still a jerk.
Maybe Drew will forget all about me by the time we start filming. He probably meets a lot of people every day, and although most of them don’t spill coffee on him, I’m not under the assumption that I’m all that memorable. Maybe frizzy-haired, klutzy women who barely speak are normal for him. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time.
Chapter Six
Since formally accepting Tommy’s offer to be his assistant, I’ve e-mailed back and forth with him a few times about details. He sent me the script for the movie, which is currently untitled, but which might as well be called Modernized, Gender-Swapped Runaway Bride. And that’s not a complaint, because, hello, I love Runaway Bride. Basically, it’s about a journalist who’s writing a story on a guy who left his fiancée at the altar. One of the wedding guests filmed the whole messy thing and uploaded it to YouTube, and now he’s famous for being an asshole. Of course, because this is a rom-com and journalistic ethics don’t exist, the journalist ends up falling in love with him, and then there’s a big “wait, this was all for a story?” scene, aka one of my all-time favorite romantic comedy clichés.
In other words, it’s great. A little cheesy, a little unbelievable, but still full of heart. I know that Tarah Thomas, the lead actress who found fame on teen dramedies, will do a fantastic job, but I wonder if Drew Danforth can pull it off. Although, since it does involve him playing a jerk, I think he might be able to handle it.
The night before my first day on set, I rewatch While You Were Sleeping. It was another one that Mom and I used to watch over and over (and unlike some of the other rom-coms she showed me, it was relatively appropriate for a small child). It confirmed that this “search for love” thing isn’t for the faint of heart. I mean, Sandra Bullock had to rescue a man from an oncoming train, and even once that was done, she had to keep up an elaborate ruse to his entire family and pretend she was in love with him while he was in a coma. And that wasn’t even the man she eventually fell in love with!
Love is complicated is what I’m saying. It relies on fate and Peter Gallagher falling onto a train track and, more often than you would find plausible, comas. I can’t engineer that; I just have to let it happen, and if that means waiting, then I’m okay with that. Chloe may think that I’m not “trying” or “putting myself out there” or “actually using the apps she put on my phone before deleting them,” but she doesn’t get it. You can’t methodically stalk your way into true love (although I guess Meg Ryan did kind of do that in Sleepless in Seattle, and it worked out pretty well for her). And no one would ever make a romantic comedy about aimlessly scrolling through Bumble, because that would be one hell of a boring movie.
As I walk to work on Monday morning I wonder, for what must be the five millionth time, if I’m being unrealistic or ridiculous for wanting what my parents had. If looking for that person to grow old with, to run through the airport to find in a time before strict TSA regulations, to confess their love for you via a grand gesture that involves a boombox or a field of daffodils, is just ridiculous. I wonder if Chloe is right, that I should settle for someone perfectly fine in the right now.
But that’s not what I want, I remind myself, my breath puffing in the cold air as my boots crunch through the dead leaves on the brick sidewalks. I want real love. While You Were Sleeping love. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan love.
The walk to set is a short one, because German Village is a small neighborhood. It may be part of Columbus, which is actually the fourteenth most populous city in the United States (thanks, Wikipedia), but it has its own small-town feel. Like any small town, it has its cute, quirky shops and its cute, quirky residents. Like the Coatless Wonder, a guy who always, always wears a T-shirt even in below-freezing temperatures. Once Chloe chased him down and tried to give him a coat from Nick’s lost and found, in case he didn’t have one, but he said he just liked to keep his arms unencumbered.
As I walk through Schiller Park, I think about how much I love living here. The old and beautiful homes, the history, Katzinger’s Deli with its barrels full of pickles, the dogs that run through the park most days—it’s home, and I c
an see why a movie would want to film in a neighborhood so lovely. Sure, it’s not Central Park, where so many iconic rom-com scenes have been set, but love does occasionally occur in places that are not New York City.
As I cross a bridge over a small, frozen pond, the nervousness I’ve been avoiding starts to catch up with me. I mean, who am I to think I can do this? Be an assistant to one of the most famous and successful film directors in America? The man who directed Tangled Leashes, the ensemble comedy about a bunch of couples who meet at a dog park? I even overheard Dungeon Master Rick talking about how that one made him cry, and the only other time I’ve heard of him crying was when his black Lab ate the D&D miniatures he had spent weeks painting.
Sure, I’ve seen every single one of Tommy’s movies, but what if he needs me to do something I can’t do? Or what if he asks a question I don’t know the answer to? What if I look incompetent in front of one of the most famous directors in the country?
What would Nora Ephron do? I ask myself silently. Although I love her sweet and sad romantic comedies, I also love her indomitable spirit. Once I saw an interview with Meryl Streep where she talked about how when Nora was a young writer, she tried to get a job at a magazine and was told she couldn’t be a reporter because reporters were men. And did she turn around, go back home, get into bed, and drown her sorrows in whatever the time-period-appropriate version of Netflix was? Hell, no. She became an incredibly important and celebrated writer and showed those assholes what was what. If Nora Ephron was here, she would march onto that set and she would get shit done.
And just in case thinking about the ever-present spirit of Nora Ephron isn’t enough, I think about my mom. Because she would love this. She would want to know everything about what it was like to be on the set of a romantic comedy, and she’d have a million questions for Tommy about Tangled Leashes, and what it was like to work with Julia Roberts, and if Billy Crystal was as nice as he seemed.
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 3
