“It’s good, right?” Chloe shuts her textbook, then leans over the counter and peers at my face, gauging my reaction. “Like, Nick should put it on the menu, shouldn’t he?”
I take a sip. “I like it. It’s—”
Gary appears from behind me and grabs the cup from me. He takes a drink and says, “You know, I thought this was gonna taste like potpourri, but I actually like it.”
“Gary,” Nick says patiently. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t sample other customers’ food and drinks.”
“This isn’t a customer,” Gary says, handing the drink back to me. “This is Annie.”
“I’m not even offended,” I say. “Just think about the twinkle lights, okay?”
“I think Annie’s right,” Chloe says. “Like, put them around the front window, so everyone on the street sees them, and it will make this place look like it’s glowing.”
Nick squints at me. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I had a breakthrough on my screenplay last night,” I say with a smile.
“And she’s currently enmeshed in a love triangle, like she’s the heroine of a dystopian YA trilogy,” Chloe says.
“Chloe . . .” I start, wanting to talk to her about my Carter breakup away from Gary and Nick.
“Wait, with that guy who was in here the other day?” Nick asks, wiping down the counter. “The one who smelled bad? He stayed here for two hours after you left, not even drinking that water and talking to Gary about fluoride.”
“It’s a conspiracy,” Gary says, shaking his head. “I didn’t even know.”
Chloe tilts her head and gives me a smile that says, What sort of people have we chosen to surround ourselves with?
I sigh, then decide to go ahead and tell everyone. “I’m not in a love triangle. Carter and I broke up.”
“Oh no,” Chloe says, reaching over the counter to put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, actually,” I say, and I sort of can’t stop myself from smiling. “I’m . . . kind of ridiculously okay.”
Chloe leans back over the counter and crosses her arms. “Well,” she says softly. “Maybe it wasn’t such a love triangle after all.”
“Love can be other shapes, you know,” Gary muses. “Square. Rhombus. Octagon.”
Tobin comes out of the back room, and everyone’s attention turns away from me. “Hey, Annie,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face.
“Where have you been, young man?” Chloe demands.
“My mom called,” Tobin says. “She and my stepdad are on their honeymoon in Costa Rica, and she wanted to make sure I’ve been watering her plants.”
“And have you been?” I ask.
“No,” he says unapologetically. “But every day is a new beginning, you know?”
“But possibly not for your mom’s plants, which may already be dead,” Chloe says.
Tobin turns to Nick and points to the speakers. “Seriously? Chloe can play yacht rock again? When is it gonna be time for ambient whale sounds?”
Nick busies himself at the espresso machine. “Shut up, Tobin.”
“This is unfair,” Tobin mutters.
With a laugh, I sit down at the table closest to the counter and pull out my phone. I type an “H” into the search bar, and Hollywood Gossip pops right up. Looking at the site has become my dirty little secret, especially now that I know how much Drew hates this stuff, but I can’t help it. Now I’m invested in the lives of celebrities I don’t even know, and as a bonus, I can rank the Kardashians in order of favorite to least favorite.
But it still feels gross to read gossip, so my eyes shift back and forth from the counter to my screen, like I’m looking at porn in public (which I would never do, mostly because eww but also because Nick once had to kick out a guy for watching porn at full volume and then no one would sit at that table for weeks). Chloe is giving Tobin a lecture about how important plants are for our health, both mental and physical, when I see the headline.
Drew Danforth’s new love? The heartthrob was spotted getting cozy with costar Tarah Thomas on the set of his new film!
I’m vaguely aware of the espresso machine running and of the Steely Dan song that starts playing. I sort of hear Nick tell Chloe that one song was fine but now she needs to turn it off, and Chloe argue that hardly anyone’s here right now and she should be able to play something happy for the book club meeting in the corner. But, for the most part, the sound around me fades into nothing.
“Chloe,” I say, and it comes out strangled.
“What?” she asks, running around the counter and rushing to my side.
Without looking at her, I hand her my phone.
“Oh,” Chloe says. “Oh.”
“This doesn’t look good,” says Gary, who I didn’t even realize was standing beside Chloe, reading over her shoulder.
Tobin walks over, grabs the phone, and lets out a low whistle. “I think you got played, Annie.”
“What happened to cleanup?” Nick asks from behind the counter.
“Drew might be hooking up with another woman,” Gary says.
“See?” Nick points at all of us, accusation in his voice. “This is why I said I didn’t want any movie stars around. This is what happens. At least Bradley Cooper had the good sense not to date any of my customers.”
“We weren’t dating,” I say, taking my phone back from Tobin and sliding it into my purse. “We were just . . . I don’t know, we were just flirting. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”
“Oh, Annie,” Chloe says, wrapping me in a side hug. “This isn’t your fault. You know what this is? Some sort of fun misunderstanding. Like, you know how in romantic comedies the heroine always thinks the hero is cheating on her but it turns out he’s been talking to his sister or something?”
“I’m fairly certain Tarah isn’t Drew’s sister.”
“It’s just an example. What I’m saying is that this is your rom-com misunderstanding, and you’ll resolve it and then ride off into the sunset and get married. There aren’t even any pictures, so who knows if this is true? It’s an anonymous tip.”
I shake my head. “Thanks for the pep talk, Chlo.”
Then Tobin wraps me in a hug from the other side, and Gary says, “Oh, all right,” and hugs all three of us. I steal a glance at Nick, and although he would never join in on a group hug, even he looks at me with eyes full of sympathy. It’s all too much.
“Actually,” I say, wriggling out of the hug, “I have to get home. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Okay,” Chloe says, watching me with concern. “I can come over tonight if you want?”
“Thanks, but I’m just gonna work and go to bed,” I say, and then I give her one more hug. “Bye, guys.”
The bell jingles as I walk out the door and into the night, where the street that looked so charming and lit up before now looks dingy and dark. This is it, I tell myself. This is your life.
It felt good to think, even for a day, that something magical could happen to me. That a movie star could come to town, and he could not only be good-looking but also sweet and sad and complicated, and that we would have a connection. But this is real life, not a movie, I remind myself as my boots hit the brick sidewalk. Drew Danforth is probably used to dating whoever he wants, whenever he wants, and anyway he’ll be gone in a couple of days.
And then, my sadness starts to morph into something more akin to rage. Because I broke up with Carter over this jerk. Sure, Carter didn’t make my heart flutter, but maybe that’s not what I wanted. Maybe I don’t need to feel like I’m constantly having heart palpitations! Maybe I should’ve gone for someone who was strong, steady, dependable, and I don’t know, NOT A MOVIE STAR.
“This is exactly why Hugh Grant should’ve stayed away from Julia Roberts,” I mutter under my breath as I step into the house.
“What’s that?” Uncle Don calls from the couch, where he’s working through yet another rewatch of the Merlin television series.
I head to my room and stop as soon as I walk in. The thought that filled me with giddy elation this morning—“Drew was in this room!”—now fills me with incandescent fury. If I’d never met him, maybe what I had with Carter would’ve been enough. Oh, poor hypothetical Annie, forced to date a hot man with big arms who knows how to properly light a film set. How would I ever have survived?
But no. I had to meet stupid, flirty prankster Drew Danforth, a guy who will pull on your hair and make you think you’re having a movie moment even though he’s probably just thinking about making out with an impossibly beautiful actress.
I look at myself in the mirror, slumping when I see the sad remains of the lipstick I hopefully put on earlier, back when I imagined it would be smeared all over Carter’s face by the end of the night.
The only thing that cheers me up is the buoying effect of my own anger, which reminds me that I’ll be able to tell Drew exactly what I think of him tomorrow in a speech worthy of a movie.
“I hate you, Drew Danforth,” I whisper to my reflection with a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
In most romantic comedies, the first scene establishes why the female lead needs a change in her life. Maybe she’s barking orders at an assistant and sleeping at the office, so we know she’s a workaholic who needs to find love! Or maybe she’s on yet another terrible date, so we know she wants to get married and she needs to find love! Or maybe she lives alone and watches TV while eating dinner, so we know she’s lonely and she needs to find love!
The common denominator here (besides, you know, the whole “finding love” thing) is that no romantic comedy heroine’s life is perfect when the film starts. In fact, it’s usually pretty screwed up. Maybe it’s sad, or maybe it’s lacking meaning, or maybe there’s just a lot of bad sex. Either way, something is off, and we find out what it is right away, usually set to music and possibly in the form of a montage.
I thought I was already in my love story—at first I thought Carter could be my perfect man, and then I thought he was a rom-com red herring, meant to distract me from Drew. But I was wrong both times, because my love story hasn’t even begun yet. This is all backstory, yet another thing in a seemingly endless list of humiliations that will endear me to viewers, and while that might sound disheartening, it’s not. It means that my meet-cute and happy ending are still out there, waiting, and they’ll mean so much more because of everything I’ve gone through.
I just have to wait.
I walk downstairs, my ankle supporting my weight like a champ, and see Uncle Don standing with his arms crossed, staring at the Chewbacca costume spread out on the floor.
I stand beside him and look down at the costume. “What are we looking at?”
He looks over at me. “Is it a cliché to dress as Chewbacca for a con?”
I tilt my head. “Sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason . . . because they work. Maybe it’s just a great costume.”
He nods. “That’s what I thought. Dungeon Master Rick told me he thought it was hacky, but he’s only five foot six. I’m six foot two.”
“A much better height for Chewbacca,” I agree.
“The guys and I are leaving tomorrow morning for Chicago,” Don reminds me. “But tonight’s still D&D night.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late.” I head into the kitchen to grab a banana. “You don’t want to be crammed into Paul’s Subaru with a tired, cranky Dungeon Master Rick.”
I walk back into the room and see Uncle Don gathering the costume up off the floor. “You know what? I’m gonna go for it. I refuse to let Dungeon Master Rick get in my head.”
“Stay strong,” I say, toasting him with my banana. “Well, I have to get to work. See you tonight.”
As I walk down the street, I can’t stop myself from humming. After an endless winter, today’s warm weather feels like a gift made especially for me. The sun beats down on my head, and the sad piles of gray snow are turning into puddles. It’s easy to imagine I’m Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, walking purposefully with a Starbucks cup while the Cranberries play.
Except that I would never go to Starbucks because I wouldn’t want to hurt Nick’s feelings.
“How about this weather?” I burst through the door to Nick’s, the bell jingling in my wake. I slam my hands on the counter. “God, I love Kenny Loggins.”
Chloe side-eyes me. “Shush. Nick hasn’t noticed that I put on an all-Kenny playlist this morning, so don’t bring attention to it. Are you . . . okay?”
“Never better.” I smile. “One for me and one for Tommy, please.”
She fills two cups, still watching me out of the corner of her eye. The dulcet tones of “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend’” start playing, and I can’t help swaying back and forth.
“I’m saying this as your BFF,” Chloe says, popping lids on the cups. “You’re acting super weird. Weren’t you just, like, heartbroken?”
I shrug as she sets the cups on the counter. “Yeah, but then I realized: Drew is nothing. He’s insignificant. He’s the guy in the rom-com who treats me horribly before I meet Tom Hanks.”
Chloe thinks about this for a minute. “Yeah, but Greg Kinnear was pretty nice in You’ve Got Mail. Like, he was boring and loved typewriters too much, but he wasn’t mean.”
“Not in that movie.”
“And Bill Pullman was okay in Sleepless in Seattle. Again, kind of boring, and he had a lot of allergies, but it wasn’t like that was his fault.”
“Not the point, Chloe! We’ve seen other romantic comedies, okay? I’m not talking about Tom Hanks specifically in his Nora Ephron roles. I’m talking about the broader concept of Tom Hanks and what he represents.”
Chloe nods. “Tom Hanks as a symbol. Got it.”
“Anyway, I’m going to be fine.” I pick up the coffees with what I imagine to be an air of insouciance. “My rom-com hasn’t even started yet. Or maybe it has and this is still the opening montage where I fall down a lot and injure myself and meet terrible men and—”
A customer bumps into me and the coffees fall out of my hand, splashing all over the floor.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say as a few customers clap.
“Tobin!” Chloe calls. “Clean up!”
Tobin emerges from the back room, mop and bucket in hand. “On it.”
“Wow,” I say as Tobin starts cleaning up the mess. “What’s gotten into him?”
“I think he feels bad about killing all his mom’s plants,” Chloe says.
“I can hear you,” Tobin says. “I’m just working on my karma.”
I glance at the giant clock on the wall. I’m due on set basically now, and the thought of seeing Drew makes me feel as if a small but unusually active animal has taken up residence in my stomach. “Crap,” I say. “I have to go.”
“Hey,” Chloe says, carefully handing me two new cups. “Did you hear that we’re supposed to get a huge snowstorm tomorrow night?”
I shake my head. “I refuse to process that information. It’s fifty degrees right now, summer is here, and we’re about to bust out our bikinis and start playing the Beach Boys.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never better!” I say, although to be honest, a slightly manic energy is radiating off of me. “Now, I’m off to work. My montage continues!”
Chloe offers up a wave, her brow still furrowed. The bell jingles as I push my way through the door.
Okay, so I may be slightly exaggerating my good mood, but the point is: I’m fine, and I don’t want Chloe to worry about me. I am hurt, and I am sad, but this is okay.
But one thing’s for sure: if I talk to Drew Danforth today, he’d better watch out.
* * *
• • •
My eyes drift over to Drew and Tarah, who are filming a big fight scene today. Not, like, a punching-bad-guys fight scene—this isn’t that kind of movie—but one where their emotional barriers finally c
ome to the surface, and she yells a classic rom-com line at him: “And you know what? Maybe that’s your problem. You care so much about your past that you never think about your future.”
I’m a little bit jealous, because there are a few choice lines I’d like to yell at Drew Danforth. Not that one, of course, but maybe: You know what? Maybe that’s your problem. Hollywood Gossip caught you canoodling with your costar.
You know what? Maybe that’s your problem. You pretended like you were jealous of Sexy Gaffer, but apparently it was all some big game for you.
You know what? Maybe that’s your problem. You and your ridiculously perfect abs that you don’t even care about and that annoyingly swoopy hair and . . .
Oh, God. This isn’t helping, because now I’m feeling less “c’est la vie” and more “I want to dropkick Drew Danforth into the sun.” But honestly, I have very little lower-body strength, so I probably couldn’t even do that. Maybe I need to start going to self-defense classes or something.
Instead of thinking about every one of Drew’s infuriatingly perfect features that I now hate, I watch Tarah. While I wouldn’t say that we’re friends, we are on a friendly basis. Once she gave me an extra taco when she ordered too many from the taco truck that parks at the corner sometimes, and I can’t help but like anyone who shares their food.
But there’s no denying that we’re pretty different people. I mean, she’s almost impossibly beautiful, like a painting or a doll. Obviously I’ve seen her on screen, but in person she emits a glow that normal people don’t have. I search my heart for some sort of jealousy or anger toward her, and I can’t find any; how could I compete with her anyway? She’s a famous, talented, beautiful actress. We’re not on the same playing field. We’re not even playing the same sport—it’s like she’s in the WNBA, and I’m playing with a child-sized Fisher-Price basketball hoop.
As the scene cuts and they pull away from each other, I watch them for some sign of chemistry, for some evidence of the canoodling Hollywood Gossip talked about. But they step away from each other immediately and get absorbed into a conversation with Tommy.
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 14
