Warmth floods to my face, the way it does whenever anyone finds out I’m a writer. It’s so personal, to have someone else know that I like to sit by myself and transfer my deepest, darkest desires to the page. “Um, yeah.”
Tommy throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me? We work on this movie together for two weeks and you don’t even mention you’re a writer?”
I shake my head. “I mean . . . it’s not . . . it’s not finished.”
Tommy leans forward, looking at my face until my eyes meet his. “Send it to me. I wanna read it, okay? No obligations, no strings, I just wanna see it.”
I nod quickly, my heartbeat speeding up. “Okay.”
Tommy takes another drink of his beer. “But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
My stomach drops as I think he’s about to fire me, but then I remember that filming is over.
“What are you doing after this?”
I pause. “Going home?”
Tommy shakes his head. “No, I mean after this job. What do you have lined up next?”
Startled, I laugh. “I hadn’t even really thought about it. It’s not like another movie’s going to film in Columbus anytime soon, so . . .”
Tommy narrows his eyes and looks irritated for the first time I can remember. “You’re good at this job, Annie, and a good assistant is hard to find. Sometimes even when you do find one, they leave you for an underwear model.”
“Truer words,” I say, assuming this conversation is over.
“I’m not saying you can’t work in entertainment at all in Columbus, but if you want to get serious, you need to go where they make TV and movies. You’ve gotta move to a bigger city.”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” I say, even though, in true Tommy fashion, he didn’t suggest so much as demand. “But I don’t think I can leave Columbus.”
Tommy leans forward and looks into my eyes with a level of scrutiny I find unnerving. “What’s here for you?”
I blanch. “Uh, my life? Don?”
“Nah,” Tommy says, grimacing like he’s got a bitter taste in his mouth. “Donny doesn’t want you to spend your whole life waiting on something to fall into your lap. He’ll never have this conversation with you, and that’s why I’m doing it. Tough love. You want to work in movies, right?”
I nod.
“You’re never gonna get a job on a movie set if you don’t leave the house. Move somewhere else, get a job.”
Perhaps I should be annoyed at Tommy for overstepping his professional boundaries, but maybe he’s right. Uncle Don wouldn’t ever have a conversation like this with me. We primarily talk about his feelings regarding spoilers for new Star Wars films, not the state of my employment opportunities. I wonder if, this whole time, Uncle Don has been waiting for me to make a move, thinking I’m some big loser for spending so much time writing internet content.
“But it’s not that easy,” I say to Tommy. “I can’t just move somewhere and poof, someone offers me a job.”
“Not to toot my own, but . . .” Tommy holds up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. “Toot toot, I won an Oscar. I have connections. I make a damn fine recommendation.”
I can’t help laughing.
“Listen, Annie, I’m not saying this is your only chance, but you’ve got some experience now. If you want to try something new, you can. All right, then.” He slams a hand on the table. “How are things going with Drew?”
I raise my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
Tommy smiles. “Ah, come on. You think I haven’t seen the way you two have been looking at each other since the first day on set? You’re talking to a guy who makes love stories for a living. I know one when I see it.”
I shake my head. “Drew and I are not— Wait. When you sent us to dinner together, was that like . . . a setup?”
Tommy smiles. “Just call me your fairy godmother, sweetheart.”
Emboldened by our conversation, and uncomfortable by the way Tommy has been meddling in my love life like he’s turning me into his own personal rom-com, I say, “You know, you really shouldn’t call women sweetheart. Or honey. Or dear.”
He looks at me in confusion. “You mean you don’t like that?”
“No,” I say. “We’re having a cultural moment, Tommy. You’ve gotta keep up.”
“Huh.” Tommy leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. “You learn something new every day.”
“An old-fashioned for the lady,” Drew says, appearing with our drinks. “And, Tommy, can I get you anything?”
“No, no, no,” Tommy says, vacating Drew’s seat. “The old man’s getting out of here to let you kids have a good night. But promise me you’ll think about it, Annie.”
He looks at me meaningfully, and at first I think he’s talking about Drew. But of course he’s talking moving, about taking a big risk, and a wave of something—excitement? nausea?—washes over me. I just nod, and then he walks away.
Drew gestures toward him with his bottle. “What the hell was that about?”
“Why did you tell Tommy I’m working on a screenplay?!” I ask.
Drew takes a drink. “Uh, because you are, and because friends help each other out with their careers?”
Friends, I think. Right.
“But now I have to send it to him,” I say.
“The horror! Forced to let a world-famous director read your screenplay.” Drew reaches across the table and grabs my hands. “Annie, will you ever accept my apology for ruining your life?”
I hold back a smile. Even though Drew’s joking, he kind of is ruining my life. In a couple of days he won’t be around anymore, but I’ll be stuck here, forced to see him occasionally on TV or movie posters, a constant reminder of what I kind of, sort of, almost never had.
“I forgive you,” I say softly. To my chagrin, he lets go of my hands.
We each have another drink and talk about things other than my screenplay. About how Drew doesn’t think Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan are right for each other in When Harry Met Sally . . . (“They’re annoyed with each other, like, most of the time!”), even though he is obviously very wrong. About how I heard a rumor there’s going to be a Frasier reboot, and Drew says he would do just about anything to get cast in the smallest part.
I’ve had two old-fashioneds, and for a lightweight like me who’s only had an apple and a bagel today, that’s a lot. I’m already feeling it when Tarah comes over to say hi and, from the way she’s utterly unfazed by Drew’s presence, I can tell that they weren’t lying to me. There’s definitely nothing between them.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I say, and tilt myself off the chair. I float rather than walk toward the back hallway to the restrooms.
When I’m done, I inspect myself in the mirror. I’m not drunk, not yet, but I’m definitely on the road there. I’m right at that alcohol crossroads where if I don’t have anything else to drink I’ll sober right up, but if I have another I might become really and truly plastered. I should probably leave now, before I have another drink and embarrass myself in front of Tommy and ruin any chance I have to use his connections and promise of a recommendation.
My phone buzzes, and I expect to see a text from Chloe demanding updates, but instead it’s another text from Hollywood Gossip, asking if I have anything to share with them about Drew and reminding me that they pay for tips.
“Not now, Steve!” I mutter, shoving my phone back in my bag. If this is annoying for me, I can’t even imagine how terrible it must be for Drew.
I pat my fingertips under my eyes, cleaning up my smeared eyeliner, and dab on the tiniest bit more lipstick. Satisfied, I turn to leave and open the door just as Drew turns the corner into the hallway.
A very large part of me wants to turn around and run back into the bathroom, but I’m trying to act like an adult here, and part of that involves not hiding in public restrooms.
“Oh,” I say, brushing my hair out of my fa
ce. “Hello.”
“I almost punched Brody earlier,” he says, as if we’re in the middle of a conversation.
It’s quieter back in this hallway, so I can hear him even before he slowly takes a few steps toward me.
“Why?” I ask, flashing back to that weird moment when we first showed up.
“Because I thought you came here together,” he says, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “You guys walked in, his hand was on you, and even though I’m a modern guy and my parents raised me to be a feminist, it activated this caveman part of my brain.”
“He was only being friendly,” I say. “Trust me, I’ve lived in a world full of pervs for a long time, and I know when someone’s being a creep.”
Drew holds up a hand. “I know. I know. And it’s not like you have to explain anything or defend yourself to me. I’m not even the type of guy who gets into fights—unless it’s in a movie—but in that second, I could’ve punched him in the face.”
I laugh. “You would’ve destroyed him. I mean, look at you.”
And then I do look at him. He’s wearing this gray, long-sleeved thermal that clings to his chest in a way that is, frankly, obscene, and I’m struck by the desire to reach out and rub my hands across his torso. I shake my head quickly.
Drew leans down. He’s much closer to me than he should be. “I shouldn’t have worried. Brody knows about us.”
My mouth drops open. “Knows what about us?”
“That we’re friends,” Drew says, his voice low in an almost Bill-Pullman-in-While-You-Were-Sleeping growl. “Very, very good friends.”
Someone walks past us, headed to the men’s room, and Drew scoots even closer to me to let the man pass. I force myself to keep my eyes on his, to not let my gaze stray down to his lips or his chest or his anything else.
“I’m glad you didn’t come here with Brody,” Drew says, never taking his eyes off mine. I can hear all the sounds from the bar, the laughs and shouts and clinks. I swallow, hard.
The dude who went into the bathroom comes out and brushes past us, and Drew takes the opportunity to get even closer to me, so that our bodies are now fully touching.
“I’m fairly certain that guy didn’t even wash his hands,” I whisper, which isn’t the sexiest thing to whisper in this circumstance, but I’m not trying to be sexy here. Am I?
I gasp when he reaches out to touch my hand, and it’s easier for me to watch our hands than it is to look into his eyes. He circles his fingers on my palm, and even though we’re in a public place and I’m wearing the world’s largest, grayest sweater, it feels so outrageously sexual that I know I’m blushing.
“I know you said you wanted to be friends,” Drew says in a low murmur as I watch his fingers move. “And I respect that. But would it be okay if I—”
His face is so close to mine that it’s no effort at all for me to close the gap between our mouths and press my lips onto his. Both of his hands press into my back, pulling me toward him with urgency. His tongue is in my mouth and, God, we’re in a hallway directly beside bathrooms, but I don’t even care. I’m kissing Drew Danforth. I’m kissing Drew Danforth and he’s beautiful and he’s everything and he’s gone in two days and—
“Oh, God.” I pull away from him and shake my head. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Let’s keep up this streak of unbelievable activity,” Drew says, his eyes on my mouth as he leans in again. I kiss him back and then break away again.
“We are in public!” I whisper-hiss. “By bar restrooms.”
“Well, you have fully scandalized me,” Drew says with the hint of a smile on his face. “I was a good Southern boy before you, Ohio temptress, kissed me in this most sordid of places.”
“Drew!” I slap his arm. “I . . . I . . .”
There are a million things I want to say. That I don’t normally kiss guys in bars. That I’m not looking for a one-night (or two-night, or three-night) stand. That there aren’t a lot of rom-coms about people who live hours away from each other, and even in Sleepless in Seattle we don’t get to see how they work out the logistics of being together. That I don’t even know if he wants to be together, or if I even want to. That kissing him made me almost forget about everything else I wanted to say.
“I should go home,” I say finally. “Before I embarrass myself any further.”
“I don’t consider this embarrassing,” Drew says. “That time you threw coffee on me? A little embarrassing. This? Not so much.”
I look up at him, since he’s a half foot taller than me and he’s leaning over my face, and shake my head. “What are you even doing?”
“Wow, if that’s not obvious, then I’m striking out pretty hard. Maybe this is embarrassing. I’m kissing a pretty girl.”
“Is that a line from a movie?”
“Maybe your problem is that you spent so much time thinking about your past that you didn’t spend any time thinking about your future,” Drew says with sudden passion, then relaxes into a smile. “That’s a line from our movie.”
I give him another small smile. Oh, I like this guy. He’s funny and he’s sweet and he’s a good kisser with a body that makes me want to rub my hands all over it the same way I compulsively need to touch those sequined mermaid pillows when I see them at Target. Why does he have to be a famous actor who’s only in town for a short period of time?
“I’m gonna go,” I say, pushing myself off the wall. I don’t look back at him as I walk toward the bar, because I know if I do I’ll never leave. I’ll just make a new home there by the bathrooms, kissing Drew Danforth and pausing only to eat the occasional buffalo wing.
I find Tommy and say goodbye. He gives me a hug and a pointed, paternal look, reminding me of our conversation from earlier. “You’re a good assistant, Annie. Unlike certain assistants I could name, who left me for underwear models.”
“He says that to all the girls,” says a voice from behind me, and I turn to see Brody.
He gives me a quick hug, says it was nice to work with me, and then says, “Listen, be gentle with Drew, okay?”
I cackle-laugh at that, but he continues giving me a serious look. “Wait, you’re not kidding?”
Brody shrugs and turns to talk to someone else.
I’m grabbing my coat from coat check when Drew appears. “I’m gonna walk you home,” he says, getting his coat as well.
A full-body tingle washes over me. This is a bad idea, or maybe it’s a good one, but all of a sudden I don’t care because I want it to happen. Drew Danforth is walking me home. A beautiful, funny, smart man who kissed me in public is walking me home and maybe this isn’t a romantic comedy and maybe it’s going to end with me being a lot more upset but right now, I just don’t care.
Chapter Seventeen
Drew opens the door for me, and an honest-to-God blizzard greets us. “Holy moly,” I say.
“Holy moly,” Drew repeats with a smile. “You’re so Midwestern.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” I say as I start walking toward home.
“I’m not making fun of you.” Drew bumps his shoulder against mine. “It’s cute.”
I think about heading back toward Nick’s with Drew to blow Chloe’s mind, but she’d be able to tell we kissed just by looking at me (and she’d ask me too many questions about his penis that I don’t know how to answer). I’ll tell her tomorrow, but for now, I want to keep this one thing to myself, something private between me and Drew. One little moment that’s a bit like magic.
But this, right now, is a little magical, too. We walk down the sidewalk, the bricks covered in fresh snow, the kind that’s so fluffy it makes a satisfying crunch under our shoes. The snow tumbles down underneath the streetlights, getting caught in my eyelashes and my hair. As we turn to walk through the park, it all seems so cinematic. This is the scene in my rom-com when the characters realize they love each other.
“This is really pretty,” Drew says. “I kind of love snow.”
“Spoken like s
omeone who grew up without it,” I say. “It’s beautiful right now, but tomorrow, when it’s all packed down and brown and covering your car, it kind of sucks.”
He brushes a snowflake off my face. “That’s fine. I’ll take it, if it means I get to walk through the park with you right now when it looks like this.”
I don’t know how to respond to his comment, so instead I try a classic Drew Danforth tactic and ask a question. “Hey, that thing you do when people are taking your photo, when you fall down?”
“Pratfalling.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah. When did you learn to do that?”
He laughs. “In junior high. Pretty impressive, right?”
“It’s actually a little—”
I scream as Drew drops to the ground, looking for all the world like his feet go over his head.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He pops back up and brushes the snow off of his coat. “I’m fine. Don’t worry—I’m a professional.”
“Oh, my God.” I smack him on the arm. “You scared me! Why do you even do that?”
He smiles as we start walking again. “Kind of a long story, but believe it or not, I wasn’t always this perfect specimen of manhood.”
He gestures to himself, and I can tell he’s kidding, but . . . well.
“In junior high, I was awkward in just about every way a kid can be awkward, and it wasn’t like kids bullied me, necessarily, but they definitely made fun of me on a regular basis and made me hate going to school.”
“I think that’s the definition of bullying.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, nothing I could do would make them stop laughing at me, so I thought, what if I was making them laugh? Like, what if I was so weird and so goofy that they thought I was hilarious and laughed with me?”
“And that worked?” I ask, incredulous.
“Were you or were you not amazed by my ability to pratfall back there?”
“Amazed. Terrified. Same difference.”
Drew shrugs. “Now that kids at school are bothering Ryan, I keep telling him to make it a joke. That all of this doesn’t matter in the long run. But the thing is, it’s kind of hard to tell a kid that what they’re experiencing won’t always be happening, because it’s all they know. But maybe when he grows up one of his bullies will send him a Twitter DM to try to get tickets to his movie premiere, and he’ll get to be like, ‘No way, loser.’”
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 17
