Waiting for Tom Hanks Read online

  I should go change, but I’m almost running late, so I don’t.

  I’m grateful that my walk to the coffee shop is short, because my sheer black tights do almost nothing to insulate my legs against the cold as I carefully maneuver the brick sidewalks in my heeled booties. “I should’ve worn something else,” I mutter as I walk-run to the coffee shop.

  When I get there, I pause for a moment to check my reflection in the window, but then, through the glass, I see him. Drew. Sitting at that same table in the back, the one he was at during my disastrous date with Barry, and for a moment I forget that I’m not meeting him. For one tiny little moment, I let myself imagine that I am. That I’m rushing here in the only sexy article of clothing I own to meet Drew Danforth. I’d walk over to the table and he’d stand up and kiss me, casually, because of course in this scenario we kiss all the time so we don’t need to flaunt our PDA in the middle of Nick’s. And we would argue about rom-coms and everything else, but it would be fun and invigorating and not annoying, not even a little bit. And we’d eat whatever Chloe baked, and he’d love it and then, I don’t know, we’d probably go back to his place and watch something on Netflix before having totally amazing sex.

  A blush creeps over my cheeks as I realize that my fantasy about dating Drew Danforth, a man I find extremely infuriating, is far too detailed. And then, as if he can feel me watching him, he looks up. With that ridiculous cocky smile of his, he waves, and that’s what makes me finally remember that I’m standing in front of a coffee shop window, staring like a creep, fogging up the glass with my breath after imagining having sex with a literal movie star. Oh yeah, and I’m about to go on a date with a real person, one who has emotions and also a human child.

  I shake my head and walk inside.

  “Decide to give Barry another chance?” Drew asks, because of course I walk straight to him, like he’s a fridge and I’m a free magnet from a local health clinic.

  “No,” I say, standing beside his table. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m meeting someone else. Someone who drinks hot liquids.”

  Drew’s eyes widen. “A high bar to clear. Who is this mystery man?”

  “You might know him, actually. He works on lighting for the movie. Carter Reid?”

  Drew sits up straighter. “Wait—that guy? The gaffer?”

  “That guy, indeed.”

  Drew looks distraught for some reason, but then I notice him staring at the revealing neckline of my dress. “Uh, hello. My eyes are up here. Stop staring at my boobs.”

  Drew’s eyes shoot to mine. “I’m not staring at your boobs. I was staring into space.”

  “A space that my boobs happen to occupy. Convenient.”

  Now, Drew looks me in the eyes. “You’re only a face to me now. Just a disembodied head. You might as well not even have boobs, or a torso for that matter. That’s how little I notice the rest of you.”

  I sigh and stare back at him, but the moment starts to turn thick and heavy, the two of us staring at each other while a song by the National plays (on Nick’s playlist, not Chloe’s, clearly).

  “I’m getting a table,” I say, because I don’t want Carter to walk in here and see Drew and me playing some sort of weird and unsettling staring game.

  “Have a nice date,” Drew says, but I don’t turn around as I walk to my table.

  * * *

  • • •

  Carter shows up right on time. Of course, he does. So would Tom Hanks.

  Like many of the crewmembers, he lives here in town, so unlike certain movie stars I could name, he understands why Columbus is one of the best cities in the country. He’s kind and considerate, he buys me a drink right away, and he even gets one of Chloe’s tri-citrus bars for us to split.

  “It’s orange, lemon, and grapefruit,” I say, pointing to the bar with my fork. “Chloe wanted to mix up the traditional lemon bar.”

  Carter smiles. “It’s great. You guys seem like you’re really good friends.”

  “Best friends,” I say, beaming. “What are your friends like?”

  He winces. “Working so much and having a kid doesn’t leave a lot of time for friendships, you know? It sucks, but most of them have fallen by the wayside.”

  He takes another bite. “That probably makes me seem like an asocial loser, right?”

  I shake my head and swallow. “Not at all. Lots of men have a hard time maintaining friendships. I mean, that’s the entire point of the movie I Love You, Man.”

  Carter smiles. “Well, that and showcasing Paul Rudd’s agelessness.”

  I exhale in relief. He knows rom-coms. Well, one rom-com. One extremely accessible, dude-oriented rom-com, but still, I’ll take it.

  “So,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “What do you do on the rare occasion that you’re not working?”

  Carter shrugs. “Nothing all that exciting. My son is absurdly interested in monster trucks, something I never in my life imagined I’d have to know about, so we spend a lot of time going to rallies . . .”

  I smile, imagining this rugged, attentive man taking a small child to a monster truck rally. It’s sweet.

  “And I always love to get up to the lake. We have a place up there—well, I don’t want to mislead you. It’s not a beach house so much as it’s a small houseboat.”

  My mouth goes dry, and I quickly take a drink of my coffee. “A small . . . what?”

  “A houseboat?” He looks at me as if it’s possible I’ve never heard of the concept. “You know . . . a house on a boat? Like the movie Houseboat? Sort of like an RV on the water?”

  “No, I’m familiar,” I say, perhaps too loudly. “Could you hold on a second? I’m going to get a second coffee.”

  My coffee is still halfway full, but I book it to the counter all the same. “Chloe!” I hiss.

  She closes the baked-goods case and gives me a concerned look. “What’s happening? Is this a repeat Barry situation? Do I need to fake an emergency call or something?”

  “Carter. Has. A. Houseboat,” I whisper, leaning over the counter.

  Chloe walks closer to me and leans forward so our heads are practically touching. “What?”

  “A houseboat.”

  Chloe shuts her eyes and sighs. “Oh no.”

  Someone clears their throat behind me. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  Chloe and I look toward the sound of that voice, and I stand up straight in disbelief.

  “Barry?” I ask. “Why . . . what . . . how . . .”

  “Why are you here, dude?” Chloe asks, leaning on one arm on the counter.

  “We’ve gotta stop playing this game,” Barry says, gesturing between him and me. “You and me, Annie.”

  I blink a few times. “I was unaware we were playing a game.”

  He tilts his head and gives me a smile, like this is another part of our so-called game. “You know. You acting like there’s no connection between us? Like we’re not meant to be?”

  I look at Chloe for help, but she’s staring at Barry with her mouth open.

  “Barry,” I say, looking right into his eyes. “I want to be as gentle but as firm as possible: I can say with complete certainty that we’re not meant to be.”

  “You don’t really think that,” he says, leaning forward to grab my hands, which I instantly pull back.

  “We just . . . have a lot of differences,” I say. “I love coffee. And water with fluoride in it. And . . . not eating bagels out of the dumpster.”

  “I don’t even have to keep eating the dumpster bagels!” he says, his voice growing loud enough that several people, including Carter, look over. Carter gives me a look that manages to instantly communicate, “Uh, do I need to come over there?” but I shake my head.

  “It’s more than dumpster bagels,” I say. “We just don’t have a connection, and that’s okay. I know there’s someone out there for you, someone who likes you the way you are.”

  Barry sighs, then turns to Chloe. “Are you free—”<
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  “No,” Chloe says, wiping off the counter without looking at him.

  “Well then,” Barry says, giving me a resigned look. “You can’t say I didn’t try.”

  “I certainly can’t,” I say with a small smile. “Good luck, Barry.”

  We watch him walk out of Nick’s, the bell ringing as the door swings open and closed, and I can’t help feeling a little bit sorry for him. I mean, this sucks, this whole “search for a soulmate” thing. Sure, Barry was . . . well, Barry, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to be lonely. I hope he does find someone, and I also hope he expands his beverage choices.

  “I’ll take another coffee, please. And, uh, another one of those citrus bars.”

  I turn to see Drew standing right beside me, not looking at me at all. I wonder if it’s an intentional not looking at me or a completely unintentional “wow-I-genuinely-care-so-little-about-you-that-I-didn’t-even-notice-you-there” not looking at me. Not that I would care if it were the latter, because I’m on a date with a very hot, slightly older houseboat owner.

  “What do you think?” Chloe asks, and at first I think she’s talking to me, but then I realize she’s asking Drew about the bars. “Is it one citrus too many?”

  “Not at all,” Drew says. “I could, and possibly will, eat an entire tray of these bad boys.”

  Chloe stands up straight and smiles so hard she’s practically radiating joy. How nice and not at all annoying that Drew Danforth has found the way to her heart: compliments about her baked goods.

  “Not too sour?” she asks, watching as he takes a bite.

  “Absolutely perfect,” he says, then turns to me. “So, Barry, huh?”

  “Leave me alone,” I say. “Barry’s trying to find a connection in a cruel world.”

  Drew shrugs. “It can’t all be citrus bars and dates with sexy gaffers.”

  “Would that it could,” Chloe says with a sigh, and both of us look at her. She looks startled. “Wait, I forgot that I have to do a thing in the kitchen. Bye.”

  “Leave my sexy gaffer alone,” I say, then shake my head. “I mean, he’s not my sexy gaffer; he’s just a man. A man I’m on a date with. And I don’t need you here messing everything up.”

  “How could my mere presence, tables away from you, be messing everything up?” Drew asks. “Unless you’re distracted by me.”

  I blink. “Why would I . . . why would I be distracted by you?”

  I guess I understood emotionally that Drew and I had some sort of annoying, angry chemistry thing going on, but I thought we were keeping that unspoken on account of he’s a hot movie star and I’m a weird Ohio freelance writer and never the twain shall meet. I didn’t know we were just saying it now, that he assumes I’m, like, head over high-heeled booties for him and I’m going to fall into his arms just because we had a weird moment in the Book Loft. Probably lots of people experience sexual tension in the Book Loft. It’s a confined space, and there are a lot of pheromones floating around in there. It’s not like it means anything.

  Anyway, it’s infuriating that he thinks I would want to be sitting with him instead of Sexy Gaffer, I mean Carter. Yes, I did have a sexual fantasy about him before I walked in here and yes, it is currently causing my face and other unnamed body parts to heat up, but he doesn’t know about that and he never will.

  “Carter and I were talking about romantic comedies,” I practically spit. “He’s seen I Love You, Man.”

  “Big deal,” Drew says with an unconcerned smile. “Every man who’s ever had a crush on Rashida Jones has seen that movie, and FYI, that’s ninety-five percent of straight men. And that’s not even considering the men who also have a crush, friend or otherwise, on Paul Rudd.”

  I stare at him, my mouth in a hard line.

  “Does that guy even age?” Drew asks, taking a sip of his coffee. “And anyway, I know rom-coms, too. I saw When Harry Met Sally . . .”

  I stiffen. “And?”

  Drew leans forward. “They were terrible for each other and they definitely get divorced years later and ruin their child’s life with the bickering.”

  “You take that back!” I say a little too loudly, then turn to see if Carter noticed. He did, and he’s giving me that “do I need to come help?” look for the second time with a second man. I shake my head and turn back to Drew.

  “I have a date, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “I wasn’t keeping you here,” Drew says, eyebrows raised. “Just take that invisible body back on over to your table with Sexy Gaffer. See if I care.”

  “What?”

  Drew draws a line across his neck. “I’m not seeing anything below your chin.”

  “Ugh,” I mutter, then walk back to my table. I slide into the seat and force a smile onto my face. “Sorry about that.”

  Carter furrows his brow, opens and closes his mouth a few times like he’s unsure what to say, then finally settles on, “Is it always like that for you in here?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I go to take a sip, then realize that in all the hubbub, I didn’t even get another coffee.

  He gestures vaguely toward the counter. “You know. Various men fighting for your affections.”

  “Oh.” I chuckle. “Barry. He’s, uh . . . he’s not exactly a threat. I mean, he’s sweet, but . . . you know what? He’s not even sweet. I went on one bad date with him.”

  “Not just Barry, though.” Carter meets my eyes, then says casually, “Mr. Movie Star’s got a thing for you.”

  My heart speeds up of its own accord. Slow your roll, heart. “What?”

  He nods toward Drew’s table in the corner. “The man’s hitting on you, Annie.”

  I shake my head and sputter, “He’s not . . . he’s . . . he’s making fun of me and being kind of a jerk, but he’s not hitting on me.”

  Carter squints. “I think that might be his own weird way of hitting on you?”

  I keep shaking my head, as if that will make everything he said go away. Against my better judgment, I turn to look at Drew, who’s sitting at his corner table and reading a newspaper—a newspaper, instead of reading his news on his phone like every other human being in the world. The edges of his lips slightly crook up at the edges, leading me to believe that he’s all too aware I’m watching him.

  “No,” I say, turning back around to face Carter. “Not possible.”

  “This is not a question I thought I’d have to ask, but since I’ve been totally honest with you so far, I’m gonna go ahead and ask it.” Carter leans forward. “Do you and the star of our movie, Drew Danforth, have something going on?”

  I smile. “No. I can emphatically say that we do not. We went to McDonald’s once because Tommy made us, and that’s the extent of it. I am a hundred percent mentally, emotionally, and physically present here on this coffee date with you.”

  Carter smiles. “Good. Because I’m having a good time, despite the fact that multiple men have apparently challenged me for your affections.”

  “Most of the time it’s not like that for me. Most of the time I’m watching Netflix at home in my pajamas.” I cringe. “I didn’t mean to make myself sound pathetic.”

  Carter laughs that deep, throaty laugh again, the one that makes me feel like I’m curled up in front of a fire. “Trust me, nothing you say could make you sound pathetic to me.”

  I smile. “I’m having a good time, too, by the way.”

  And I mean it when I say it, and I don’t even spend the rest of the night aware of Drew Danforth in the corner behind me, reading the paper with that infuriating smile on those infuriating lips.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m not a huge texter. Sometimes Uncle Don and I text each other reminders of what to pick up at the grocery store, or Chloe texts me about weird things Nick says, or one of my friends from college reminds me about an inside joke that feels a million years away now. But texting, with its unromantic immediacy, has never been my preferred form of communication.

 
; So that’s why I’m extra surprised when I get a text from an unknown number, and it isn’t a reminder about a sale at Loft or a coupon for a pizza or yet another overdue book notice from the library. It’s also not Carter, although of course he sent me a considerate follow-up text after our date to make sure I got home okay and let me know he had a good time. It’s from a reporter at Hollywood Gossip.

  Hi, this is Steve at Hollywood Gossip. Could you comment on your recent sightings with Drew Danforth? Thanks

  It’s the emoji that really puts it over the edge. What is it about strange men that they think they need to add emojis to their texts? I don’t know this man; I don’t know how to interpret his emoji usage! I’ve never talked to him, and he’s assuming I’m going to send him personal details because he included a smiley face?

  Another text pops up.

  Of course, we do pay.

  Wait, I’m supposed to share details about Drew for money? I laugh as I think about texting this guy Drew’s McDonald’s order. Probably not the hot dish he was expecting.

  But what this means is that a) someone saw us together, b) someone presumably took a picture, and c) someone identified me. And gave this reporter my number. It’s kind of messed up.

  I ignore the text, obviously, but not before I get another text . . . this time, from Chloe.

  Have you checked Hollywood Gossip today?

  I don’t know why she’s phrasing it like that. Other than my shameful researching-Drew binge, I don’t make a habit of reading gossip websites, and to the best of my knowledge, neither does she. Still, I pull up the page and see . . .

  A photo of me.

  Well, it’s not just me. It’s Drew and me sitting in our McDonald’s booth. One of those phone-wielding teenagers must have snapped our picture and sent it in.

  “Damn those youths!” I mutter, then feel approximately one million years old.

  There are only a few pictures, most of them kind of blurry, clearly taken by a kid who was startled to see a movie star inside a fast-food place. There’s one where I’m unflatteringly shoving a French fry in my mouth, which I don’t appreciate, but you can only see the sides of our faces, so I can’t complain that much. But it’s the caption that really gets to me.