The coffee shop is largely empty this evening—just Gary and a couple of other old guys silently reading the paper—so I’m the only one who notices who walks in.
It’s Drew. What the hell is this guy’s problem? This is a major American city and there are, like, twenty other coffee shops he could go to.
“Oh, no,” I mutter.
“It’s actually not that gross,” Barry says. “I really inspect everything before I eat it.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, looking back at him, realizing he’s been talking this entire time.
“The food I find in the dumpster,” he says. “Most people only grab things that haven’t been opened, but my belief is that a bagel with only one bite taken out of it is basically brand new.”
I nod slowly, my eyes darting toward Drew. He’s sitting at a table in the corner by the bathroom, and he’s facing me. And staring right at me, that infuriating smirk on his face.
“Could you hold on a moment, Barry?” I ask. “I have to run to the restroom.”
I stomp across the coffee shop, floorboards squeaking under my feet, and stand next to Drew’s table. “What are you doing here?” I whisper-shout.
“You’re on a date!” he says, his mouth open in amazement like he’s a small child seeing a unicorn. He points at my shoes. “Those are date shoes. I can tell.”
“These are just small boots and—you know what? Stop making fun of me. It’s not like it’s so shocking that someone would want to go on a date with me.”
His brow furrows. “Why do you think I’m making fun of you?”
I cross my arms. “Ah, the old ‘answer a question with a question.’ Classic Danforth. So infuriating.”
Drew peers around me to look at Barry, who’s facing away from us. “Why is he wet?”
“He’s a runner, okay?” I say. “He’s very healthy. It’s super hot.”
My eyes snag on Drew’s cup, maybe because I’m wishing my date also believed in hot liquids. Drew points at it. “Black coffee. I watched the movie . . . You’ve Got Mail. Gotta say, I agree with Tom Hanks’s assessment of fancy coffee drinks. What did your date order, something complicated?”
“He doesn’t like hot liquids,” I mutter.
Drew raises his eyebrows. “No tea?”
“Presumably not.”
“Hot chocolate? A hot toddy? Mulled wine?”
I stare at him, my face as blank as I can make it.
“What about soup?” Drew asks. “Does this man also not eat soup?”
“You know what?” I ask, incensed. “You shouldn’t even be here. You should be somewhere, like, publicly making out with a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“I did that one time,” Drew says.
“Boo-hoo, Leonardo DiCaprio.” I sneer. “The world isn’t a playground for all of us, okay? Some of us are looking for real love, and who knows, maybe I’ll find it with Barry.”
Both of us turn to look at Barry, who’s clipping his nails at the table.
“Did he bring nail clippers from home?” I whisper with disgust.
“I’m sure he’s great,” Drew says with a smile, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. “But here’s my issue with Sleepless in Seattle—”
“You watched all three of them?” I ask, almost speechless.
“I haven’t started When Harry Met Sally . . . yet,” he says. “But listen. How does Tom Hanks afford to live on that houseboat? That thing is huge. It’s gotta be expensive, and he’s a single dad.”
“He’s an architect,” I say.
“And why are there so many architects in romantic comedies?” Drew asks, clearly working up to something. “Are there even that many architects in the world? It’s a hard job, right? Am I supposed to believe that—”
“That’s not the point, okay?” I say, slamming myself down in the chair across from him. “It doesn’t matter how someone in a romantic comedy affords their absurdly nice house, or whether or not their profession makes sense, or if technically they’re sort of stalking someone they heard on a call-in radio show. What matters is that they have hope. Sure, they find love, but it’s not even about love. It’s the hope that you deserve happiness, and that you won’t be sad forever, and that things will get better. It’s hope that life doesn’t always have to be a miserable slog, that you can find someone to love who understands you and accepts you just as you are.”
I stop and take a breath.
Drew blinks, then leans back in his seat. “I’m sorry. I was being a dick.”
After all that, his frank statement shocks me, and now it’s my turn to apologize. “Wait, I’m sorry, you didn’t ask for that weird rant about—”
He waves a hand at me. “Listen. Have a good time with Barry, okay? I’ll give When Harry Met Sally . . . a shot.”
He grabs his coffee, stands up, and meets my eyes for a second before he says, “You look nice tonight, by the way.”
Then he walks out of the shop, giving Nick a wave but not looking back. I sit there in shocked silence.
“That was a really nice speech, Annie. Impassioned.”
I turn to see Gary leaning back in his seat.
“Thanks,” I say. “I should probably get back to my date.”
“Is he the sweaty one?”
“That’s Barry,” I say with a sigh.
“Hey! Barry, Gary. Our names rhyme. Gotta be a good sign.” Gary gives me a wink.
“Wow,” Barry says when I finally sit back down. “You were in there for a while.”
I think about explaining to Barry that remarking on the length of someone’s bathroom visit isn’t appropriate first-date small talk, but I decide against it.
“Do you, by chance, live in a houseboat?” I ask, hoping against hope that something can turn this around.
Barry shakes his head, unperturbed by this line of questioning. “Actually, I’m a proponent of what I refer to as ‘un-dwelling.’ I have no permanent address.”
“So where do you live?” I ask, then bite my lower lip.
He opens his arms in a gesture that takes in his surroundings. “Right here. I mean, not in this coffee shop. But everywhere . . . I’m a resident of this world.”
I nod slowly, and he adds, “Specifically, right now I’m sleeping on my ex-girlfriend’s couch.”
I can’t stop myself from grimacing. “Listen, Barry, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, but I don’t think we have a connection.”
He nods. “I get that a lot.”
“I’m gonna get home, but . . .” I start to feel guilty about cutting this short and want to offer to get him another glass of water, but I notice his is still full. “Was there something wrong with your water?”
Barry shakes his head. “The thing about fluoride is—”
I cut him off. “Have a nice night.” I give Nick a wave as I leave, the doorbell jingling. It’s just dark, the January evenings getting lighter and lighter as we make our way slowly toward spring, and I can’t help but replay my conversation with Drew. Mostly because I don’t want to replay my conversation with Barry (what I wouldn’t give to not think about him getting half-eaten bagels out of the dumpster), but also because I regret what I said—or at least how I said it. He seemed genuinely remorseful about his anti-rom-com comments, which ultimately weren’t that big of a deal—I mean, he’s allowed to have whatever opinions he wants about romantic comedies! They’re only movies!
But I know in my heart that they’re not only movies to me. They’re my family, memories of my mom, and comfort. And more than anything else, they’re what I told Drew: hope. Hope that someone like me, someone who’s lonely and searching, can find what she’s looking for.
I can’t expect Drew Danforth to understand that, I think as I walk in the front door. He’s spent his life surrounded by beautiful women who stroke his ego and, presumably, other things. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—get it.
I text Chloe to ask her why the hell she thought Barry would be a good idea and turn on S
leepless in Seattle. Barry and all real-life men may be disappointments, but you know who has never (and, God willing, will never) let me down? Tom Hanks. And I’d rather watch him slowly fall in love for the five hundredth time than think about my own nonexistent love life right now.
Chapter Ten
Chloe walks to set with me the next morning. I have to get to work at the crack of dawn to help Tommy with whatever he needs, so for once we’re on an almost identical schedule.
“I don’t really know Barry that well,” Chloe admits as we walk down the brick sidewalk. “He was in one of my business classes, and I had his number because we worked on a group project. He seemed nice!”
“Him being nice wasn’t the problem,” I say. “Lots of men are nice, and that doesn’t mean I want to date them. Tobin, Gary, and Nick are all nice. Even Dungeon Master Rick is nice. That doesn’t mean I should date any of them.”
Chloe makes a face. “Gary’s, like, sixty and Tobin’s about twenty. And isn’t Dungeon Master Rick kind of an asshole?”
I notice she doesn’t say anything about why Nick is undateable, but I just shrug.
“Maybe you guys got off on the wrong foot,” Chloe says. “Maybe you should give him another chance, and he’ll smell better next time!”
“Chloe,” I say, stopping outside Nick’s. “If you even have to specify that someone might smell better next time, that’s a pretty good indication that there shouldn’t be a next time.”
She sighs and shoves her hands into her coat pockets. “You’re right. I just . . . if I say something, will you promise not to get mad?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “That depends on what it is.”
She half-smiles. “I know you’re all about Tom Hanks in ’90s romantic comedies and all, but I want to make sure you’re giving real, nonfictional guys a chance.”
I bristle. “I am.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you? Really? Did you ask Barry about the houseboat thing?”
I throw out my hands in exasperation. “What? Like it’s so wrong that I would enjoy meeting a man who lives on a houseboat?”
“Annie!” Chloe practically shrieks. “We live in the middle of Ohio! We are landlocked as shit. Where is that houseboat gonna dock?”
“Maybe the Olentangy River,” I mumble. “I don’t know.”
“Hon.” Chloe reaches out to grab my shoulders. “Listen. All this ‘soul mates, fate, till death do us part’ stuff means nothing to me. You know that. But it’s always meant something to you, and I don’t want you to shut yourself off because you’re waiting for something perfect.”
I sigh. “I’m not waiting for something perfect.”
She purses her lips but nods. “Okay. Well, I can tell Nick’s waiting for me to get in there and get things started.”
I look over her shoulder and, through the window, I see Nick pointing to his wristwatch.
“But have a good day at work, okay?”
“Chloe,” I say. “Barry doesn’t eat sugar. Or hot liquids.”
“What?”
I shrug. “I don’t think it was meant to be.”
She leans over to give me one more hug, then opens the door to Nick’s. Before I walk away, I take a second to watch them through the window. Chloe pulls on her apron, yelling about something, and Nick yells something back, and it’s so painfully obvious that they’re living in their own rom-com. Of course, I can’t tell Chloe this; much like a skittish animal, she’ll run away if I make any sudden movements or try to convince her that the real love she doesn’t believe in is right under her nose.
* * *
• • •
On my way back from the morning’s first coffee run, I slow down on my walk back to the closed-off block that constitutes our set. Sure, all the lighting and equipment and people milling around in their puffy black coats may take away a little of the glamour, but not much. This is still a movie, aka my dream. Even though Tommy’s coffee is rapidly cooling in this freezing air, I stop for a moment to take it all in. There’s Tarah, a real-life famous actress, talking to someone and gesturing to something in a binder. There are the crewmembers, spilling out of the previously empty storefront that the movie took over. Before my eyes find him, I hear Tommy’s voice booming, and then I see him, his arms waving and eyebrows raised, talking to Drew and a man who has a ponytail and—
Wait, what is Uncle Don doing on set?
I run-walk toward them, muttering curse words under my breath as the coffee sloshes out through the hole in the lid.
“Uncle Don! Hey! Why are you here?” I attempt to say casually, but it comes out as more of a breathless yelp. Three heads swivel toward me.
“Hey, Annie!” Uncle Don looks so happy to see me that I feel guilty for questioning his presence, but as usual, he doesn’t seem offended. “Tommy invited me to check out the set! And meet the cast!”
Drew gives me a wide-eyed grin and wiggles his eyebrows a couple of times, like he’s Groucho Marx or something. Even this bizarre gesture somehow looks good on him.
“How nice for you,” I say, turning away from Drew and focusing on Uncle Don.
“Let me tell you something about your Uncle Donny,” Tommy says, grabbing Don’s arm and launching into a story I can barely pay attention to because of my growing discomfort that Drew Danforth is standing so close to my only living family member. Like, it isn’t enough that he makes fun of me every day on set, in the coffee shop, and occasionally in a fast-food dining environment. Now he also has to learn personal details about my uncle’s past that he can presumably use to mock me at a later date? No, thank you. It’s all just too much.
“And anyway,” Tommy says finishing his story, “in the end the chinchilla was a little startled but no worse for the wear.”
“I wish I could say the same for myself,” Don says with a laugh, and I’ll admit, I’m at least a little curious about this story. But there’s no time for that now.
I laugh as if I’ve been paying attention. “Okay, well, Uncle Don, you probably have to get going now, right?”
Don checks the Luke Skywalker watch I bought him for Christmas (the hands are tiny lightsabers) and shakes his head. “My shift at the Guardtower doesn’t start for two hours.”
“Great!” Tommy claps him on the back. “Then let me show you around!”
Before they walk away, Drew reaches out for a handshake, and Uncle Don turns to me. “Annie, can you believe that Drew has never read The Wheel of Time? Unbelievable, right?”
Truthfully, it’s not unbelievable that Drew hasn’t read a fourteen-volume high fantasy series, but I don’t say that. “Shocking,” I agree.
Once Don and Tommy are out of earshot, I point at Drew. “Stop talking to my uncle.”
Drew shoves his hand into the pockets of that stupid flattering pea coat that looks like something Colin Firth would wear while playing an uptight barrister who’s secretly a big softie. “I was being friendly. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
I snort, resolutely promising to ignore that attractive pea coat and focus on the very annoying person inside it. “Oh, please. You’re gathering intel so you can come up with more stuff to make fun of me for.”
“Make fun of you?” Drew shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m assembling my Annie Cassidy dossier and that tidbit about the time your uncle inadvertently stole a sorority’s pet chinchilla is the perfect addition. What won’t I do with that information?”
“Don’t act like you were so interested in what Don was saying.”
Drew throws his hands in the air in an exaggerated shrug. “Like, yes? I was? I apologize that I enjoy talking about books with well-read people.”
“Oh, are you going to start reading The Wheel of Time series now? Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy: each volume is like a thousand pages, so good luck.”
Drew squints, his cheeks pink from the cold air. “I do know how to read, you know. You may remember that I was perfectly capable of reading that McDonald’s menu.”
I blush at the mention of our fast-food quasi-date. “The McDonald’s menu is less challenging.”
Drew shrugs again. “It’s definitely shorter.”
“And less gory,” I say, subdued now that Drew doesn’t seem interested in arguing with me. I mean, not that I enjoy arguing with him.
“I have to get back to work,” Drew says. “I suggest you do the same, Coffee Girl.”
Righteous indignation flows through my veins once more as Drew salutes me in a manner that can only be described as sarcastic, which wasn’t even something I was aware salutes could be until this moment.
As he walks away, I say, “Don’t give me that sarcastic salute,” in a voice that is perhaps too loud, and one crewmember stops what he’s doing to stare at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, then head off to find Tommy and Don.
* * *
• • •
Several hours later, long after Don has gone to work, Tommy hands me a big stack of papers and asks me to go put them in a binder in his trailer. Truthfully, I kind of love stuff like this—moments when all I have to do is competently use a hole-punch and feel great at my job. It’s while I’m contemplating how capable I am that my foot catches on something, and then I’m falling, the papers in my arms flying skyward.
“Shit!” I say as my knees hit the ground, all delusions of competence gone. “Shit shit shit shit shit shit.”
“Are you okay?” asks a deep voice.
All of Tommy’s pages are now scattered on the pavement. I keep muttering to myself, grabbing a sheet that fell into a puddle of brown Ohio winter slush. “Shit shit shit shit,” I keep muttering, but this time much more quietly.
The deep voice laughs, and I finally look up. “Oh,” I say, startled, as I look into the eyes of a surprisingly attractive man. I mean, it’s not surprising that he’s attractive, since I don’t know him at all, but dropping a bunch of things and then being assisted by a handsome stranger is . . .
Well, it’s something that happens in a rom-com.
The man keeps picking up papers, assembling them into a neat stack.
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 7
