I look back at Drew and block out everything else—the crowd, the camera, my fear—and keep going.
“Maybe not everything about romantic comedies is real, and maybe Tom Hanks is just an actor playing fictional characters. But what they taught me about love, and about being honest, and about growing as a person . . . that feels pretty real to me. And I’d rather have you than Tom Hanks any day, because . . .”
I take a deep breath and say what I came here to say.
“I love you. It’s ridiculous and we haven’t known each other for long and I know there’s a chance it won’t work out, but I love you, all right? I’m ready to move out of Columbus, and not because I’m following you like a creepy stalker or an obsessed fan,” I say, shooting a pointed look to the security guard, “but because I want to take a chance. I want to work in movies and I want to do scary things and I want to be with you.”
Drew still doesn’t say anything, and a bloom of worry blossoms in my chest. This was a mistake. He’s going to turn me down and it’s on camera and this is going to go viral. Now I’m The Girl Who Got Turned Down by Drew Danforth on Live TV, and this rejection is going to follow me around for the rest of my life.
But then I see that he’s smiling—looking right at me and grinning, the kind of grin someone has when they can’t believe their luck. That Drew Danforth smile, the one everyone’s seen a million times before, is real and it’s mine.
“Annie,” he says, and my name still sounds so much better coming out of his mouth, “that was the best speech I’ve ever heard in my life.”
He takes a step and closes the distance between us. Drew puts his hands on my face and leans in, so only I can hear, and says, “I love you, too.”
And if you’ve ever seen a rom-com, you know what happens next; he kisses me, and the crowd goes wild.
Drew pulls back, and both of us take in everything around us. The camera crew. Orange Windbreaker, who’s looking at us with misty eyes. Chloe, doing a wolf whistle. Nick clapping and Uncle Don dabbing at the edges of his eyes with a tissue. It’s not perfect, because my mom’s not here, but like I told Drew, this isn’t a movie. It will never be perfect, but at least it’s real.
“I’m really glad you ran into me that day,” Drew says.
And as he leans in to kiss me again, although I know it’s not possible, I swear I can hear the music start to play.
ONE YEAR LATER
DREW DANFORTH ENGAGED!
by Steve Babbitt for Hollywood Gossip
Well, we thought it would never happen, but it’s true! Hollywood prankster Drew Danforth has finally settled down, popping the question to his girlfriend, screenwriter Annie Cassidy. Drew is set to costar in the upcoming Frasier reboot, while Cassidy’s first film, Coffee Girl, is in preproduction. Congratulations to the happy couple!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Kerry Winfrey’s next contemporary romance . . .
NOT LIKE THE MOVIES
Coming soon from Jove!
Chapter One
I can tell what’s going on by the way the customer looks at me. The concentrated stare as I pour her coffee, the anticipatory smile as I put the lid on. This isn’t someone who’s only here for the caffeine hit. No, this is something different.
“Have a great—” I start as I hand her the drink, but she cuts me off.
“It’s you, right?” she asks, breathless, eyes wide. “From the movie?”
I am typically friendly—some might say too friendly—to our customers here at Nick’s coffee shop. It’s kind of my thing. And it’s not even a problem for me to let gruff patrons or rude comments roll right off my back; not because I’m a doormat but because I’m genuinely not bothered by it. People have hard days, and while they definitely shouldn’t take them out on their baristas, I know it’s not about me.
But this . . . this is different. This couldn’t be more about me.
“Um, yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “It’s me.”
“There’s an article about you on People.com,” she says, the excitement palpable in her rushed words. “With . . . pictures.”
I see her eyes dart toward my boss, Nick, who’s tending to the espresso machine behind me. I wince before I can stop myself.
“Oh, is there?” I say, and before she can complete her nod, I finish with, “If you don’t mind moving along, there are other customers I need to help.”
She smiles and walks away, so starstruck she doesn’t notice that there’s no one else in line. I let out a long sigh, then immediately pull up People.com on my phone.
There it is. “The Real-Life Love Story Behind the New Film Coffee Girl!”
There’s a picture of me, one that I don’t remember taking and certainly didn’t give to People magazine. And then there are a couple pictures of Nick and me here, at work, behind the counter. The saving grace is that I was wearing an especially cute cardigan that day, one with little embroidered flowers and bees, so at least I look good, but that doesn’t take away the weirdness inherent in seeing a picture of yourself that you didn’t even know someone took.
But why am I, Chloe Sanderson, resident of Columbus, Ohio, and no one all that special, gracing the pages of People.com?
Because my best friend wrote a movie about me.
Okay, so Annie maintains that the movie isn’t about me so much as inspired by me, and she’s right. But anyone who knows me and sees the trailer can see the similarities. The movie’s lead character, Zoe (come on, Annie), has a stubbornly, almost annoyingly positive attitude, even in the face of rude customers or family tragedy. She works in a coffee shop. She takes care of her sick father, although Zoe’s father has cancer, while mine has Alzheimer’s.
But there are a few key differences between Zoe and Chloe. Zoe is at least four inches shorter than I am, with hair that has clearly been professionally styled. She has a team of stylists picking out her artfully vintage clothing, whereas I stick to the Anthropologie sale rack, where all the truly weird shit lives. Oh, and Zoe makes out, and falls in love, with her boss, Rick.
The names, Annie. You couldn’t have changed those names?
“Put your phone away. You’re working.”
Nick is so close I can feel his breath on my face. He smells, as usual, like coffee and this aftershave I’ve never smelled anywhere else, something that feels old-fashioned (like a grandpa) but kinda hot (not like a grandpa).
I jump, startled by his proximity, and shove my phone in my apron pocket. Nick and I do not talk about the movie; it’s like the elephant in the room, if that elephant were making out with one of its elephant coworkers.
There are a few people clustered around tables, but still no one in line. “Ah, yes, things are bustling,” I say, gesturing at the nonexistent line. “I wouldn’t want to ignore anyone.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” he says, staring at me for what seems like just a beat too long. Or maybe it isn’t.
The thing is, this ridiculous movie my best friend wrote (wow, that sentence will never stop sounding weird) has really screwed up a lot of things for me. Things I never thought about before, like whether Nick is hot or whether he’s giving me a weird smile or what his perpetual five-o’clock shadow would feel like on my cheek . . . All of a sudden those thoughts are in my head, and I don’t like it. I’m just trying to work over here, you know? This is my job, the thing I use to make money for the business classes I’m moving through at a glacial pace.
A new song starts playing: “Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree.
“Chloe,” Nick says, his voice a low growl.
I busy myself with restacking the already-stacked cups, trying not to let my mouth twist into a smile. “Yes?”
“Didn’t I explicitly ban your yacht rock playlist?”
I tilt my head, thinking about it.
“Several times? With increasingly dire language?”
I shake my head. “It’s weird. I don’t remember any of those conversations. I just remember the vague sense of dread that overcome
s me as I’m forced to reckon with my own mortality every time you play the depressing music you like.”
Nick sighs, then gives me another one of those looks. It’s kind of a smile but kind of a frown at the same time, which is a face he’s really good at. I widen my eyes back at him.
This is the fun part, the part I love about work. I like arguing with Nick because it’s not serious (I mean, I seriously do hate the music he listens to, but I don’t actually care that much), but we both treat it like it’s life and death. I don’t even know if I’d like yacht rock half as much if I didn’t have to defend it to him every day.
To Annie, a born-and-bred rom-comaholic, our playful banter means we’re destined to be together. Because that’s what happens in rom-coms, right? Two people who can’t stand each other are actually just hiding deep wells of passion, and eventually all those pent-up feelings will explode in one of those make-out scenes where shelves get knocked over and limbs are flying and people are panting.
But listen, I get angry at Siri when she willfully misunderstands me, and that doesn’t mean I should marry my phone. Sometimes people just argue and don’t want to make out with each other, because life isn’t a rom-com (unless you’re Annie and you’re marrying a literal movie star).
Nick shakes his head and points toward the back of the store. “I’ll be in my office. Think you can handle it up here?”
I gesture once more toward the mostly empty shop. Business isn’t due to pick up for another hour. “Somehow, I’ll manage.”
I lean over the counter and pull out my phone again, but between you and me . . . yes, I do look up to watch Nick walk to his office. It’s like that old saying, “I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,” except that it’s, like, “I hate the depressing AF music you play, but I love to watch you leave because *fire emoji*.”
Although it pains me to admit it, Nick Velez is objectively hot. He’s tall and thin, with light brown skin, dark hair that’s not too long or too short, and the aforementioned persistent scruff on his face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick clean-shaven, and I regularly see him at five A.M. That’s just how his face looks, apparently.
But, unlike my romance-obsessed BFF, I am not someone who gets carried away by fantasies of love. Sure, Nick is hot, and okay, maybe I’ve had a couple of daydreams where he pins me against the brick wall of the coffee shop and rubs my face raw with his stubble, but there are lots of hot people in the world who aren’t my boss. And since I kind of need this job, and I really need to keep my personal life as drama-free as possible, I think I’ll stick to dating people who aren’t intertwined in any other area of my life. Because taking care of my dad is messy enough, and I don’t really need anyone else’s feelings to worry about.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. It’s Tracey, the receptionist at my dad’s care facility.
“Do you think you could check in for a minute when you get a chance? Your dad’s having an episode.”
Chapter Two
I summon Nick from his office and tell him I’m leaving. Another reason why Nick is a great boss, despite his abysmal taste in music: he’s always okay with me leaving, on no notice, to take care of my dad.
“Let me know how it goes, okay?” he says, one hand on my arm and concern in his deep brown eyes.
“Sure,” I say, pulling off my apron, already out of coffee-serving mode and into crisis mode.
A short drive later, I buzz the door at Dad’s facility and wait to be let in. The stress, the potential bad mood, is coming over me, so I take a deep breath. Inhale positivity. Exhale stress. I smile along with my exhale, willing myself to be Good Mood Chloe for my dad, regardless of what greets me on the other side of the door.
Because no matter what I find—no matter what condition my dad is in—this is my responsibility. It’s not my brother, Milo’s, because he lives in Brooklyn in an apartment I’ve never visited, on account of I can’t fathom leaving my dad that long. And it sure as hell isn’t my mom’s, considering that she bounced right out of our lives when she left us for some dude she met on the internet when Milo and I were ten.
It was the week before the fourth-grade Christmas pageant, aka the biggest event on my calendar at the time. Milo wasn’t involved, because even back then he was too cool for earnest performances, but I was an angel narrator that delivered a lengthy speech about the importance of the baby Jesus’s birth. (In retrospect, a public elementary school probably shouldn’t have been putting on such an explicitly religious production, but what can I say? It was the ’90s in Ohio, and anything went.) Mom was a fantastic seamstress who made most of her own clothing, and she promised to make me a costume that would leave all those donkeys and wise men in the dust, meaning that everyone in the audience would be unable to focus on anything but me, instead of the birth of our Lord and Savior. Mom might not have said it that way, but that’s the way I interpreted it.
But then she left with some dude named Phil, and I wasn’t about to bother Dad or Milo by telling them I needed a costume. Dad was shell-shocked, staring at the TV for hours, and Milo was alternating between preteen anger and sobs. The worst part was that online dating as we know it didn’t even exist back then, which meant that her leaving us for a guy she met online was Super Weird and basically a school-wide scandal. Everyone, even my teachers, looked at me with pity.
So I got shit done. I tore the white bedsheets off my bed and, using the most rudimentary of sewing skills, fashioned them into a sort-of-toga, sort-of-angel-robe. I’m not saying it was the best angel costume the elementary school had ever seen, but it worked, and it was the first time I realized two things: I can only count on myself if I want to get something done, and I’m capable of doing pretty much anything.
I’m still smiling and deep-breathing as the door clicks unlocked and I walk through quickly, right to the reception desk where Tracey’s waiting for me.
“Everything’s okay,” she says, hands out to calm me. “I just thought you might want to come see him.”
Tracey covers the front desk at Brookwood Memory Care, but she’s more than just an employee. She’s sort of my ex—we went on a few dates, years ago, before it quickly became apparent that she was looking for a relationship and I was . . . well, not. But we stayed friends, and she was able to get my dad into Brookwood, which is a huge step up from his previous facility.
“What happened?” I ask, nervously pulling at my tangled blond braid. When it comes to my dad, an “episode” can mean just about anything. There was the time he was convinced that the entire facility was being taken over by “the Mennonites” and wouldn’t stop yelling about it. Or the time he slapped another resident because he was certain he’d broken his television. Or the time he claimed to be “starving,” despite the fact that he’d eaten dinner just half an hour before, and went on an hours-long rant about how “this hellhole” was starving him.
Tracey sighs, clearly not wanting to be the one to break this news to me. But I’m glad she is; I’m glad I can count on her to give me the full story.
“He says someone stole his watch,” Tracey says. “He can’t find it anywhere.”
“And do you think someone really stole it?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
She shakes her head. “If you want to file a report, you can, but we’d have to involve the authorities, and—”
I hold up a hand. “No. I’ll go talk to him. Thanks, Tracey.”
I try to give her a look that says, “I value your friendship and appreciate you breaking this to me gently but also, man, this really sucks.”
I’m extremely grateful for my friendship with Tracey, because here’s the thing: sure, we didn’t date for long, but we transitioned fairly seamlessly from “two people who might make out at any moment” to “two people who talk about feelings and get lunch sometimes and call each other for emotional support.” I mean, I was there when she married her wife last year. But I’ve never—never—stayed friends with any man I’ve hooked up with. Just
a week ago, a guy who took me out on two uneventful dates two years ago walked into the coffee shop, saw me, and turned right back around and left.
I resent that, because I’m a wonderful friend. Attentive, loyal, helpful, ready to drop everything and get pizza at a moment’s notice if you need to have a lengthy, emotional chat over a slice of pepperoni. But apparently dudes can’t realize that . . . which is, of course, yet another reason I only date people who aren’t involved in my personal life. I can’t assume I’m going to meet another unicorn friend like Tracey.
The TV blares through my dad’s shut door. I knock three times, right on the name tag. Daniel Sanderson.
When he doesn’t answer, I slowly push open the door. “Dad?”
There’s no telling what I’ll find when I open his door. I’m not expecting full-scale catastrophe, of course, because the entire reason he’s here at Brookwood is so a team of nurses and other trained professionals can care for him around the clock. But I don’t know what his mood will be, how agitated he’ll get, until I see him.
Bracing for the worst, I find him sitting in his recliner, remote in hand. He looks up.
“Hi, sweetheart!” His smile is so big it just about breaks my heart, because it’s him. There he is. This is a good day, or at least a good moment.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, leaning over to give him a hug. “How’s it going?”
He gestures toward the TV, which is playing a rerun of Three’s Company. He may not remember what he had for breakfast or whether I called him this morning, but he definitely remembers how much he loves Three’s Company.
“Just catching up on TV. You ever see this show?”
“Uh, yeah, Dad,” I say, sitting down on the love seat as Jack Tripper concocts another sitcom scheme on screen. “Listen, I just talked to Tracey . . .”
Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 23
