I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling. “Sure, Chloe, I’ll hook up with someone so I can tell you all about it later. That sounds like a great reason to form an emotional attachment to a man who’s leaving town in a matter of days.”
Chloe sighs and looks at the ceiling. “Okay, can I present a theory?”
I narrow my eyes. “What sort of theory is this?”
“What, do you think it’s about the origin of the universe? It’s about you. Duh.” She shifts her position so that she’s sitting on her feet. “Why do you like rom-coms so much?”
I tilt my head. “You know why, Chlo. Because they’re funny and there’s kissing and they’re full of hope.”
“Right.” She nods. “And you watch all these movies, and you say you want that Tom Hanks kind of love, but do you really?”
My eyes widen. “I mean . . . yes. Of course. If I didn’t care about finding true love, like my parents, like a movie, then I would be making out with a hot movie star right now.”
Chloe points at me. “Exactly.”
I blink a few times. “What point are you trying to make?”
“You have a reason to reject every guy you’ve ever met. Every date you go on, there’s some nitpicky reason why he’s not perfect.”
“Barry didn’t drink hot liquids, Chloe.”
“Not just Barry! Everyone. They don’t have the perfect quirky job, or they don’t have the perfect quirky hobbies, or they don’t have the perfect quirky living situation. For whatever reason, you didn’t even fall for Carter, and that man was basically a cardboard cutout of a rom-com hero. You find something wrong with every guy, and I wonder—”
She stops, sighs, and crosses her arms.
“What?” I ask.
“I just wonder . . . you watch all these movies and you say you want love, but do you, really? Or are you hiding behind rom-coms because you don’t want anything to change?”
I sit back and try to take a breath. “What do you mean?”
“Love is a risk, right?” Chloe widens her eyes and nods, like she’s explaining simple arithmetic to a small child. “Loving someone means you might lose them. And God knows you’ve already lost a hell of a lot, Annie. But I don’t want you to be so afraid of anything changing that you don’t take a good opportunity when it’s right in front of you.”
I bite my lip. “If I didn’t know you, I might take you for a hopeless romantic instead of a total cynic.”
“Hey,” Chloe holds a hand over her heart, mock-offended. “The opportunity I’m referring to is the one to jump Drew Danforth’s bones, okay? My status as your friendly neighborhood relationship cynic remains intact.”
I laugh.
“Seriously, though.” Chloe reaches out and squeezes my knee. “Romantic comedies are great, okay? And I know you’re writing a perfect one. But sometimes real life is a little more messy and confusing and you can’t necessarily plot it out with Save the Cat.”
“Do I really talk about Save the Cat that much? It’s just that it’s a great book and—”
Chloe holds up a hand. “Not helping. Just . . . I hope you’re able to open yourself up a little bit. This isn’t a sad rom-com montage, because you’re not a sad, lonely person. You always have me and Don, no matter what, because we’re not going anywhere.”
“Aw, shucks,” I mutter, looking at my feet on the sofa.
Don walks back in, dripping wet. “Well, it started raining and now the costume’s soaked, so we’re gonna smell like wet Wookiee all the way to Chicago.”
Chloe looks at me and I look at her and we both burst out laughing.
Don’s costume drips onto the living room floor as he looks at us, bewildered. “What? Did I say something funny?”
So it’s not like I’m going to listen to Chloe and attempt to hook up with Drew before he heads off to New York, but maybe she’s right about one thing. I might be lonely once in a while, but I’m definitely not alone.
Chapter Sixteen
I am, however, alone when I wake up on Friday morning. Uncle Don left way before the crack of dawn, and although it’s not like we always have conversations in the morning or anything, the house is strangely silent knowing I’m the only person in it.
I shuffle around the kitchen, grabbing an apple and thinking about how quiet it is here. When my mom was alive, there was always music playing or her off-tune humming or her laughter ringing through the house.
I know Chloe was right when she said that I wasn’t alone, but I hate this. This quiet. This solitude. I let my thoughts stray to what would happen if I didn’t live here anymore, if I moved to some other city or even some other house . . .
But no. Then Uncle Don would be by himself, rattling around in these empty rooms, and what way would that be to treat the man who dropped everything in his life to take care of me?
I crunch into my apple and think about it. Maybe I can’t leave or make a big change, but could I make a small one? I wouldn’t ever go off to LA or New York, but I could take Drew at his word—maybe he really could take a look at my screenplay, unfinished as it is. Sure, he’s not a writer, but he’s had a whole lot more experience in movies than I have.
See? I say to Chloe in my head. I’m not afraid of change or rejection. Look at me, asking change to come into my life! Courting rejection! Taking chances!
I toss my apple core into the garbage can and head off to set.
* * *
• • •
We’re even busier and more frantic than usual, since Tommy is trying to cram a lot into one day. It’s not the last day of shooting, since some of that will take place in other locations, but it is the last day of shooting here in German Village. I’m so busy running around and grabbing things for Tommy that I can barely even think, let alone focus on Drew.
At one point, Carter catches my eye from across the street. He waves and gives me a tiny smile before turning to do whatever it is he does. I never one hundred percent figured out what his job entails, which might make me a bad person, but that was probably a sign that we weren’t meant to be. It still stings just a little bit to see him, though, like lemon juice on a paper cut.
The last scene we film isn’t even an exciting one; it’s some conversation between Tarah and Drew on the sidewalk, and I watch it, watch him lean toward her and watch her smile up at him, and wonder.
And then, all of a sudden, it’s over. People clap and pack things up and I help Tommy with a million things. He grabs his beloved megaphone and yells, “Seven P.M.! We’re going to Victory’s, and we’re celebrating a job well done! If you can hear me, you’re invited. Well, not you.” He points to a person across the street. “But everyone else.”
“Are you going to be there tonight?” Tarah asks me, stopping me before I head off to Nick’s.
I nod. “Yeah, I think so.” My breath puffs out into clouds; even though it was warm and sunny yesterday, the air has turned bitterly cold, and the sky hangs heavy with the promise of snow.
“Great!” she says, with one of those megawatt smiles she’s known for. “I’m glad you understood that me and Drew—we’re not—” She shakes her head and grimaces. “I mean, I’m married. I’m not trying to move in on your guy.”
My eyes widen and now it’s my turn to shake my head. “Oh, no. He’s not my— I’m not— We’re not—”
She raises her eyebrows and laughs, a tinkly, wind-chime sound. “Whoa! I’m sure that defensiveness is definitely not a sign of any underlying feelings.”
“It’s not— I don’t—” I continue to stammer.
She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m kidding, Annie! I’ll see you tonight!”
And with that, she turns and walks away, and I’m left alone. How does she even know anything about me and Drew? All of our weird, sexual-tension-filled romantic-comedy almost-kisses have taken place at my house, not in public. Is Drew talking about me to people? WHAT IS GOING ON?
I look to my left and see Drew and Brody deep in conversat
ion about something, and right then they both turn and look at me. Brody waves as if this is totally normal, as if two famous men turn to stare at some random Ohio woman all the time.
I ignore him, look away, then turn and walk-run to Nick’s to dissect this entire day with Chloe.
* * *
• • •
“Come with me, Chloe!” I beg later that night. “Don’t you want to see what a Hollywood wrap party is like?”
“First off,” she says, handing a cup to a customer, “this isn’t Hollywood, it’s Columbus. Secondly, no way am I going to a party to be your female version of a cock block. Wait, what is the female version of a cock block?”
She pulls out her phone and scrolls through it.
“You won’t be my female cock block because you’re not blocking anything, metaphorical or otherwise,” I say, leaning against the bakery case. “I just want to ask Drew to take a look at my screenplay, but things are really weird between us and—”
“You mean that the air between you is full of sexual tension, and for some reason you won’t just put your mouth all over his,” she says, then looks back down at her phone. “These are—oh, God, these are really dirty. I can’t even say these out loud in here.”
She hands the phone to me, and I scroll through them. “Yeah, no, some of these don’t even make sense. ‘Pussy pass’ doesn’t remotely sound like ‘cock block.’”
I hand her phone back to her right as Nick walks behind the counter. “What are you doing?” he asks, leaning in and looking at her phone. “Wait, what—are you looking at porn at work?”
“No!” Chloe screeches, and Nick plucks her phone out of her hand.
“I’m gonna have to confiscate this,” he mutters, but he’s smiling as Chloe leaps onto him to grab it back. I make a mental note of their body language to include in my screenplay.
“Nick!” she wails, pretend-hitting him on the arm. He doesn’t seem to mind the extra physical contact.
“Fine, fine, fine,” he says, handing it back to her. “But I’m not paying you to look at BuzzFeed, okay?”
“What are you smiling so dopily about?” Chloe asks me when Nick walks into the back room.
I know better than to mention her getting together with Nick, because Chloe is like a small child in that she will immediately reject any idea given to her by someone else. She needs to come to it on her own, so she thinks it’s her idea. I just shrug.
Chloe glances at her phone once more before sliding it into her pocket. “Isn’t your super-sexy party starting, like, right now?”
“I’m trying to be fashionably late,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to another. “That’s still a thing, right?”
“Nick says no,” Tobin says, walking behind me with a load full of dirty cups and tiny plates. “At least, that’s what he said last week when I was late for every shift.”
He disappears into the back room and I’m forced to admit that I’ve stalled long enough. It’s time to go to this party, have a drink, ask Drew if he’s serious about looking at my screenplay, and then hightail it home to my big old empty house.
Chloe looks at me with concern, like she can read my mind and see how worried I am. “You’re gonna be fine! Promise. But be careful; aren’t we supposed to get, like, the blizzard of the century tonight?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, but snow is hardly the first thing on my mind right now. Mainly I’m thinking: if this is the last time I’m going to see Drew, then what should I do? I should play it safe, be professional, leave it at that. Right?
Or. Maybe Chloe’s right. Maybe this, all of this confusion, was our rom-com obstacle and I’m going to, improbably, have a happily-ever-after with this beautiful man who—
Is going to New York at the end of the weekend, I remind myself. After which he will definitely not be back in Columbus, because he doesn’t live here. I, meanwhile, have built my entire, unchangeable life here. I may not have access to a Magic 8 Ball right at the moment, but I know that if I were to shake it, it would say “Outlook Not So Good.”
Or maybe it would say “Ask Again Later.” I tended to get that response a lot at sleepovers.
“What are you wearing?” Chloe asks, leaning over the counter.
“Um, this?” I say. I unzip the puffy black coat I wear from November through March and reveal the large gray sweater I’m wearing under it.
Chloe tilts her head and squints. “I can only assume you intend that sweater to function as a sort of chastity belt.”
I give her an angry look, but the truth is . . . well, kind of.
But at this point, I can’t stall any longer. “Well, I’m off, I guess.”
Chloe reaches across the counter and grabs my hands. “Good luck. Maybe you can drink so much that you get really sick and barf everywhere and Drew has to take care of you and in the process of nursing you back to health you’ll realize that—”
“Chloe! How have you absorbed so many rom-com plotlines?”
She shrugs. “Just text me if you guys hook up, and make sure to include lots of details. Circumcised, uncircumcised—”
“I’m not going to text you about his penis,” I say. “And on that note, I’m leaving.”
I wave as I walk past Gary, who gives me a salute, and out the door.
A few tiny flakes of snow are hitting the sidewalk, but nothing like the huge snowstorm that’s been promised. Either way, I’m glad that Uncle Don arrived safely in Chicago—he sent me a selfie of all the guys and their gear in their hotel room.
It’s one of those magical nights in the city, when the lights make the darkness look cozy instead of bleak. Those few snowflakes look almost like glitter raining down, and people walk past me holding coffee cups and bags of macarons from the bakery Pistacia Vera. The Coatless Wonder strolls by, hands in his pockets, unconcerned as ever about the cold.
At the bar, I hesitate with my hand on the door. I see the dim lighting inside, silhouettes of people moving, and I hear the clink of glasses and the gentle hum of conversation punctuated by an occasional sharp laugh. What if Drew says something like, “Ew, no, I don’t want to see your screenplay, I was only asking because I wanted you to sleep with me.”
Which, to be fair, doesn’t really sound like him, but you never know.
“Oh, hey.”
I turn around to see Brody standing behind me, a beanie shoved on his head and a scarf wrapped around his neck.
“Hi. Hey. Hello,” I say, startled.
“Are you, uh . . . not going in?” he asks, gesturing toward the door.
“Oh!” I look at the door as if it suddenly appeared and, wow, there’s a door here! Who knew! “I’m going in. I’m just . . .”
He leans forward. “Do you want someone to walk in with?”
That is what I want. Maybe one of the worst minor awkward situations is walking into a room where you know no one, or, in this case, walking into a room where you know a few people and searching the crowd for them with your eyes while trying to act like you’re totally comfortable.
“Yeah,” I say. “Actually, that would be really nice.”
His smile takes over his face and I can see why he’s famous. He’s a lot shorter and stockier than Drew, but he has an honest, open expression.
He walks around me and holds open the door, gesturing for me to go inside. The wave of sound crashes over me, the conversations and glasses much louder than they were outside. Brody places an arm lightly on my back, guiding me through the crowd, careful to keep his hand high. He’s wearing a strong and spicy cologne that actually smells good, even though typically I hate cologne on men.
But Brody’s nice-smelling cologne aside, he isn’t who I care about tonight. No matter how much I lie to myself, I know I’m looking for Drew.
Which is why I think he might be a figment of my imagination when he materializes right in front of us, looking down at Brody with steely eyes. “Hey,” he says.
“Annie’s here,” Brody says, his hand dropping
from my back.
“I can see that,” Drew says, and still no one’s looking at me.
“Um,” I say, and both of their heads swivel to look at me. “Am I missing something?”
“I’m gonna go get a drink,” Brody says, shooting Drew another look. And then he’s gone.
Drew finally turns to me, and the second his eyes hit my face, he smiles, and it makes my heart break open. This is how I feel when Tom Hanks says, “Don’t cry, Shopgirl.” This is how I feel when Bill Pullman proposes to Sandra Bullock. This is how I feel when Billy Crystal gives Meg Ryan that impassioned New Year’s Eve speech about all of her weird and wonderfully annoying quirks. There’s a lifetime of wishing and hoping and dreaming in each one of Drew’s smiles.
You came here to tell him about your screenplay, I remind myself, so I say, “Hey, can we sit down for a sec?”
I head toward a high-top table while he grabs us drinks from the bar. As I wait for him, I look around the room, which is packed full. I see Brody taking a selfie with a cute girl and Tarah laughing with Angela, the wardrobe woman, about something. Even though this is just one movie, and even though my main contribution to it was keeping Tommy fed and hydrated, I’m still proud. I did it, Mom, I say in my head. I made a movie.
“Annie!”
I look to my left and see Tommy, giant beer stein in hand, his mouth wide open in a genuine smile.
“What are you doing over here all by yourself?” he asks in mock disapproval. “This is a party!”
“Drew’s getting us drinks,” I say, pointing toward the crowded bar.
“Ah,” Tommy says, then takes the seat across from me. “We have a second, then. So Drew told me you’ve got a screenplay.”
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 16
