Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 2

  “They aren’t!” I start to protest, but Chloe cuts me off.

  “I’m not trying to insult them, because I know you love them and I’m sure the rom-com you write is going to be a cinematic masterpiece, but you can’t live your life by their rules. I mean, I don’t let what I watch affect my life.”

  “That’s because you mostly watch documentaries about murder,” I point out.

  “True. And I guess I have changed a lot of my actions. I don’t wear a ponytail anymore, that’s for sure. Makes it easier for some guy to yank it and pull you into a darkened alley,” she says, pulling a pretend ponytail.

  “Just because I’m looking for what I know I deserve doesn’t mean I’m being unrealistic,” I say primly, as if this is all a joke for me, but really it isn’t. I have so little of my mom, but this—her movies, her insistence that I not settle—is what I remember.

  “Join the rest of us here on planet Earth,” Chloe whispers, grabbing my hands. “We get free drinks from men and enjoy commitment-less sex. It’s great.”

  “I’m not interested in meaningless sex,” I say, trying to focus on my laptop. “I want a connection.”

  “Re-download Tinder and I can help you find a connection,” Chloe says, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “I’m not hearing this,” Nick says from behind the counter, turning on the espresso machine.

  “Nick,” Chloe says with a sugary-sweet smile as soon as the machine shuts off. “Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?”

  “You mean your suggestion that I change the name of my place?” Nick asks, rubbing one hand over the brown scruff on his chin. Nick’s in his early thirties, lanky, and one of those guys whose face is covered in a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, even at ten in the morning. “Nick’s my name. I own the shop. It makes sense.”

  Chloe sighs in exasperation, pursing her pink-glossed lips. “Haven’t you ever heard of puns, Nick?”

  “I hate puns,” Nick says, handing the espresso to a regular customer named Gary, an older guy who always wears a beat-up Ohio State baseball cap.

  “The Daily Grind! Thanks a Latte!” Chloe shouts.

  “Brewed Awakening,” says Tobin. Nick shoots him a dirty look.

  “Pizza My Heart,” Gary says as he takes a seat, and we all turn to look at him.

  “I mean, you’d have to become a pizza place for that one to work,” he says, taking a sip.

  Nick shakes his head. “I trusted you, Gary.”

  “I think it’s a great suggestion,” Chloe says, beaming at Gary. With her cute blond milkmaid braid and her flowered apron, she looks like some sort of adorable coffee angel.

  “Why are you sitting down, again?” Nick asks. “Instead of, I don’t know, working?”

  “I’m on my break!” Chloe says, pulling out her phone. “And hold on, I’m trying to help Annie Cassidy find true love.”

  Chloe doesn’t only work at Nick’s, although dealing with Nick’s endearing grumpiness could be considered a full-time job. She also goes to business school, where she’s been taking classes super slowly at night since most of her time and money goes toward her dad and the payments for his memory-care facility. Because I know she’s busy, I try to discourage her from making my quest for love her side hustle, but so far I haven’t had any luck.

  “Thank you for your efforts,” I say, “but that isn’t how this works. I’m not going to find my Tom Hanks by actively looking for him, which is why all the dates you’ve set me up on or that I’ve found through whatever app you made me download that week have been miserable failures. I just have to find him, through fate or luck or—”

  “Oh, my God.” Chloe slams a hand down on the table, making coffee slosh over the edge of my mug. “Have you read the Dispatch today?”

  “Why?” Nick asks, uninterested. “Does it have a headline about Annie’s love life?”

  “There’s going to be a movie filming here, in German Village!” Chloe says.

  Nick wipes down a counter. “Big deal. Remember when Bradley Cooper filmed a movie here? All that happened was his bodyguards camped out all day to use the Wi-Fi and they never ordered anything. Also they peed on the toilet seat.”

  “They were so cool,” Tobin says wistfully.

  “Oh, my God, it’s a romantic comedy from Tommy Crisante, and filming starts next week,” Chloe continues, her eyes scanning the article on her phone.

  “Was he the guy who directed all those cheesy movies in the ’90s?” Nick asks, because Tommy Crisante is Steven Spielberg–level famous. Everyone knows his name.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” I say, my mouth going dry. A romantic comedy filming here, blocks from my house?

  “We have to get you onto that set,” Chloe says, and hearing her say the thought I hadn’t yet formed makes me realize how ridiculous it is.

  “Why?” I ask, shutting my computer. “I don’t want to be in a movie. I want to write one.”

  “Yeah, but,” Chloe continues, “if you could weasel your way onto set, wouldn’t this be such a great learning experience? If you won’t move out of Ohio—not that I want you to leave my side literally ever, but come on, you know this isn’t exactly the cinematic hub of the country—then this could be your chance to actually be involved in a movie!”

  I nod, but I’m thinking Sure, Chloe. Because what am I supposed to do? Send a letter to the director that reads, “Rom-com fanatic with zero experience and an unused, dusty film-studies degree seeks literally any job on your film”? That’s, like, the world’s worst personal ad.

  Then Chloe lets out a low whistle. “And—whoa, okay, apparently the lead is Drew Danforth, that hot guy from that sitcom. Have you even seen what he’s looking like these days?” She turns her phone so I can see the screen, which is showcasing a picture of a very shirtless, very muscled man.

  But I already know who he is. Everyone does.

  If there was ever a man who was the complete and polar opposite of Tom Hanks, it would be Drew Danforth. Where Tom Hanks is known for being humble and respectful, Drew Danforth is known for acting like none of his acting success matters and like he’s way too good for Hollywood traditions. He’s always showing up in gossip columns for doing ridiculous things like pratfalling whenever he sees the paparazzi taking his photo. Once, he went on Late Night with Seth Meyers wearing sweatpants and with uncombed hair, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to look presentable. And then there was the time he did an entire day of press while wearing a fake mustache, but never acknowledged it, or the time that he recited the Declaration of Independence on the red carpet instead of answering reporters’ questions.

  He’s known for not taking anything seriously, and the last thing this all-too-rare studio rom-com needs is some jerk who probably thinks the entire genre is formulaic and beneath him.

  I take another glance at the picture, staring at it a little longer than I need to. Sure, he looks good, but romantic comedy leads are usually more cute than sexy, and they definitely don’t spend a lot of time showing off their abs (unless we’re talking about a rom-com starring Chris Evans, in which case he will be shirtless 90 percent of the time).

  “Okay, first of all, rom-com leads don’t have to be muscular. And this guy doesn’t take anything seriously—everything is a joke to him. There’s no way he’s going to treat a romantic comedy with respect.”

  Chloe turns her phone back toward her and reads. “Whatever. He could treat me with respect, if you know what I’m saying. I guess after he was in that sitcom, he was in some action movie so he got, like, super ripped.” She looks up at me with wide eyes. “Oh, my God, Annie. What if your life isn’t a Nora Ephron romantic comedy? What if it’s Notting Hill, and you’re supposed to end up with Drew Danforth?”

  “That’s not how this works. My Tom Hanks doesn’t have to be a celebrity.”

  “But it couldn’t hurt!” Chloe says. “Just think about it . . . Annie and Drew. Your celebrity name would be Andrew.”

  “I’m not a celebrity . .
. and I’m pretty sure his full name is already Andrew.” I open up my laptop and find the Dispatch’s website.

  Gary drains his cup, then stands up and puts on his coat. “You’ll find your Tom Hanks, Annie, just like I found mine. Her name is Martha.”

  “How did you meet?” Chloe asks, turning around and leaning over the back of her chair. She may not believe in fairy-tale love for herself, but don’t think I haven’t noticed she loves hearing other people’s stories.

  Gary wraps his scarf around his neck. “She was married to my brother, but she decided she liked me better.”

  Chloe slumps back in her chair. “Oh. Geez, Gary.”

  “Love’s weird,” he says, and with a wave he leaves.

  I focus on the article, which runs through all the Drew Danforth facts we already know. He got famous when he was on a long-running sitcom about a restaurant called, creatively, Mike’s Restaurant. Everyone called it the next Cheers, and it was just as popular. He played the sweet restaurant owner who pined after a beautiful waitress for four seasons before they finally got together. He even won an Emmy for it (although, surprise, he didn’t attend the ceremony and had his then-seven-year-old brother accept the award for him via satellite). After that, he bulked up and tried to become an action star in some movie called The Last Apocalypse, which featured a lot of helicopter explosions. It was a huge bomb (the box-office-disaster kind, not the kind that blew up that helicopter), and I guess now he’s trying his hand at rom-coms.

  The article, of course, repeatedly refers to him as a “funnyman” and a “prankster,” because I guess that’s another way to say “an overgrown man-child who doesn’t appreciate his enormous privilege.”

  “Well, whether or not you go after Drew Danforth, I still think you should try to get on the set of this movie,” Chloe says. “You never know what could happen.”

  “Do you ever intend to get back to work?” Nick asks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and a small smile playing across his lips. I’ve long suspected that he and Chloe secretly have a thing for each other, which, in true rom-com fashion, is apparent in their constant bickering. In fact, although I would never tell either of them this, my screenplay is based on their relationship. He’s the gruff, rough-around-the-edges tough guy, and she’s the quirky, fun girl who teaches him to look on the bright side . . .

  I stop daydreaming long enough to notice that they’re both staring at me. “She’s doing the thing,” Chloe says, glancing at Nick. Then, one eyebrow raised, she asks me, “Were you imagining your life as a rom-com again?”

  “No,” I say smugly. I don’t bother to tell her that I was actually imagining her life as a rom-com.

  Then Tobin drops several mugs and, in the ensuing chaos, everyone forgets about me, and I’m able to get back to writing about easy ways to freshen your diaper pail.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Chloe’s insistence that I get a job on set. I have no idea how that would even be possible, but I don’t get my hopes up, because at this point, dating Drew Danforth seems more likely.

  Chapter Three

  Have you ever felt like you’re not the main character in your own story?

  I look at Chloe and I think, now there’s someone who could carry a movie. I mean, I am writing a movie about her, not that she knows that. She’s the one who’s cute and quirky, with those adorable braids and her vintage clothing and the various schemes she’s constantly getting herself into. Not that Chloe even believes in true love for herself, but she meets people everywhere.

  Of course, I don’t know if they count as meet-cutes if they’re only ever around for a week or two of sex, but that’s one of the many ways Chloe and I are different. I believe in long-term relationships, and she’s the proud queen of the one-night stand.

  Chloe and I walk home together after her shift. She lives in our carriage house, which is a pretentious way to say she lives in the small apartment over the detached garage. She’s been living there since we were undergrads, when she claimed that the nominal rent Uncle Don was charging her was way less expensive than the dorms, but I know the truth. She moved in there because she wanted to be able to watch over Uncle Don and me and occasionally make us her special Knock You Naked Cheesecake (it’s just a name and has never actually knocked anyone’s clothing off, although I certainly wouldn’t put it past Chloe to seduce someone with cheesecake).

  The truth is, Uncle Don and I could never afford to live here—in this exorbitantly high-priced neighborhood, in this giant brick house with its million rooms and cozy front porch and lovely landscaped lawn—if my mom hadn’t owned it outright when she died. I don’t exactly make a ton of money from writing, and Don only works part-time, but since we don’t have a mortgage, it works. Uncle Don and I quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm after he moved in. And then we both just . . . stayed.

  Which is yet another reason I couldn’t possibly fathom ever leaving Columbus. Not only do I have a giant house I don’t have to pay for, but Uncle Don and I are all we’ve got.

  I mean, besides Dungeon Master Rick.

  Chloe pokes me in the side with her elbow, which is surprisingly bony for someone who’s wearing a huge down coat. “You’re being a terrible conversationalist.”

  “Sorry,” I say, opening the wrought iron gate that leads to our small front yard. “Do you want to have dinner with us? Uncle Don’s cooking tonight.”

  “It is literally impossible for me to say no,” Chloe says. “My apartment is full of nothing but snickerdoodles, and I think I might barf if I don’t eat a real dinner soon.”

  The smell of garlic and onion greets me as soon as we walk in the door. “I’m home! Chloe’s here!” I call.

  “Great!” Uncle Don says as we walk into the kitchen. As usual, he’s wearing a novelty Star Wars T-shirt, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t own any other kind of shirt. Sometimes Don feels less like my fifty-something uncle and more like a twelve-year-old boy who got a gift card to Hot Topic and went wild. “I made enough Cajun chicken pasta to feed an army of Orcs!”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Chloe says, taking a seat at the island. “But I’ll gladly partake.”

  Uncle Don heaps generous portions onto our plates, and we dig in.

  “So how was your day?” Uncle Don says, standing across the island from us and chewing with his mouth open. It’s a habit I hate, but he spends most of his time with other men, and all of my attempts to make him more marriageable have failed. “You write about unclogging toilets?”

  “Freshening diaper pails,” I say, pointing my fork at him.

  “Forget diaper pails! God, now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say, but I mean it!” Chloe says. “Did you hear about the movie that’s filming here next week?”

  “In my house?” Uncle Don asks.

  I stifle a laugh. Again, perhaps the result of most of his socialization occurring with other fifty-something men, Uncle Don takes everything very literally.

  “No, here in German Village!” Chloe says. She whips out her phone and reads from the Dispatch article for the second time today. “Directed by Tommy Crisante, the romantic comedy stars—”

  Uncle Don stops with his fork in midair. “Tommy Crisante’s the director?”

  “Yeah, why?” I ask. “Do you like his movies or something?”

  “He was my college roommate!” Uncle Don says, throwing his hands in the air. “Freshman year at OSU! He had the top bunk! And then he transferred out to go to NYU.”

  Chloe slams her hands on the island, making both Don and me jump. “You guys. Don. Knows. Tommy. Crisante.”

  Don nods and takes another bite. “I do.”

  She turns to me, a far-too-enthusiastic look in her eyes. “This is it, Annie. This is fate. This is a sign from a loving universe that you are supposed to work on this movie and/or fall in love with a movie star.”

  “Chloe, how does that—” I start, but she’s not listening to me.

  “Don, can you
get Annie a job on set?” Chloe asks, turning to him.

  “Right,” I say. “Because that’s how this works.”

  Uncle Don shrugs. “Tommy and I haven’t talked in a few years, but I can try.”

  “Uncle Don,” I say cautiously. “Seriously, I don’t have any experience, and I don’t expect—”

  But he has his phone out, and he’s scrolling through his contacts, muttering, “Crisante, Crisante, Crisante . . . there he is.”

  “Uncle Don, please!” I yelp as Chloe whispers, “Yessssss!”

  “Tommy?” Uncle Don asks, putting his hand over his ear to block us out. “Yeah, it’s Don! I know, long time no talk!”

  And with that, he walks into the pantry and shuts the door.

  “What the hell?” I turn to Chloe and smack her arm.

  She rubs her hands together, as if she’s a cartoon villain executing an evil plan. “You’re welcome.”

  “For what? For embarrassing me in front of Tommy Crisante? For forever making my name synonymous with ‘girl who makes her uncle beg for a job for her’?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Chloe says, taking another bite of pasta.

  “You’re calling me dramatic? You literally just rubbed your hands together like you’re a bad guy in Scooby-Doo. And how have I never known that Uncle Don is besties with a major American film director?” I ask, even though I know it’s because Uncle Don pretty much watches Lord of the Rings and Star Wars over and over. Maybe I should ask him if he knows Peter Jackson or George Lucas.

  The door clicks open, and Uncle Don emerges from the pantry, then heads straight for his plate. He takes another bite as we stare at him. “What?” he asks when he looks up.

  “Well?” Chloe prods. “How did it go?”

  “Oh!” He brightens. “You got the job!”

  My heart stops. “What job?”

  “As Tommy’s assistant. His last one quit to go work for an underwear model. So, perfect timing, I guess.”

  Chloe raises her arms in the air and starts humming the theme song for Rocky, which is an annoying thing she does whenever she has a perceived victory, major or minor, in any area of her life. “This is it!” she squeals. “Annie, you’re getting a job on a movie! You can show Tommy your screenplay and meet your Tom Hanks!”