Waiting for Tom Hanks Page 20

  I crawl carefully down the ladder, clutching the letters in one hand. Chloe is still in the kitchen, and before she comes back into the living room, I throw the letters into the fire, then watch as they curl and turn black.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  My phone buzzes, and through the haze of sleep, I reach for it on my nightstand. But when my hand grabs on to nothing, I open my eyes. I’m not in my bed; I’m on the couch, and when I try to move my legs, I realize that Chloe’s head is at the other end, her legs draped across mine. My phone buzzes again, insistent, but Chloe doesn’t stir—she’s always been a heavy sleeper, the kind of girl whose face you could draw things on during a sleepover.

  After some digging and trying to avoid jostling Chloe too much, I find my phone under one of the couch cushions. My blurry eyes see the time on the phone before the text registers. Two A.M. We must’ve fallen asleep after watching the most ridiculous TV we could find late into the night, drinking too much wine, and eating an entire pizza.

  Of course, I’m the person who doesn’t make reckless romantic decisions while heartbroken . . . just indigestion-inducing ones.

  I rub my eyes and focus on the text, then almost drop my phone when I see that it’s from Drew. “Holy moly,” I say at full volume, and Chloe moves a little bit. With my hand over my mouth, I open the text and read the full thing.

  Annie, I’m sorry about the way I left. I know you’re not the kind of person who would send my picture to some gossip site. Can we talk?

  And then, as I’m still trying to comprehend that text, another one:

  Please?

  Before I can even think of a response, I throw my phone across the room. It clatters to a rest somewhere near the TV (thank God I didn’t hit the TV—Uncle Don would be seriously pissed).

  I rest my head in my hands. There is a part of me that wants to respond to Drew, that wants to hear what he has to say. Part of me wants to think that, sure, we’ll kiss again as a stirring instrumental score plays and everything’s going to magically work out, because love conquers all or some bullshit like that. Part of me still wants to believe that this is a movie, that he’ll give me some big speech about the depth of his feelings for me and I’ll fall for it.

  But the rest of me knows that this doesn’t mean anything. Soon he’ll head off to New York or LA or wherever he’s going and he’ll be surrounded by people who have personal trainers and professional hair and makeup teams and he’ll forget all about the sad, lonely girl in Ohio whose hopes he trampled all over.

  I know what believing in love did to my mom. It left her heartbroken, right before she died. And frankly, I wasted too much of my life watching a bunch of ridiculous movies that gave me some pretty unrealistic ideas about life to let myself end up like her.

  There’s a tiny pang, a sharp inkling that I might be doing the wrong thing by ignoring Drew’s text, but no. I don’t want to deal with this. Now that the curtain is pulled back, now that I’m no longer wearing my heart-shaped, rose-colored glasses, I can’t believe in this anymore. I can’t believe that love or like or whatever this is will be enough.

  And who knows? With my luck, Drew doesn’t even want to apologize or make out or ride off together into the metaphorical sunset. Maybe he wants some closure, to tell me in person that it’s never gonna happen. And that is, perhaps literally, the exact last thing I need right now.

  I let out a loud, frustrated groan, and Chloe rolls over. Without opening her eyes, she croaks, “You tell Dolly Parton I’m not making her any donuts.”

  It’s been a while since Chloe and I had a sleepover, so I’d forgotten about her habit of a) sleep talking and b) having vivid, nonsensical dreams.

  I stand up and pull a blanket over Chloe. “I’ll tell Dolly to leave you alone.”

  I switch off the lamp and head upstairs, thinking, just for a moment, about how I did almost this exact same thing with Drew last night.

  But that was before I knew what love really did to people.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When I wake up, the air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, butter and bacon. Even from my bedroom, I can hear pans clank and the telltale gurgle of the coffeepot. A glance at the clock shows that it’s already 4 P.M.; apparently, I was exhausted from staying up half the night, or my brain was trying to avoid thinking about the shitshow of my life.

  In the kitchen, I put my arms around Chloe. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  She pretends to think. “Not frequently enough, actually. Anyway, I know that basically the entire day is gone, but I made you breakfast for dinner because I think you need it.”

  “Wait a second.” I step back and look at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be working all day?”

  She flips a pancake. “I called off. Tobin was happy to fill in for me, and Nick understood. I said it was a family emergency.”

  “He probably thought something was wrong with your dad!”

  She waves me off, unconcerned. “He knows you’re family, too.”

  Maybe this is what my movie should be about, I think as I lean against the counter and Chloe hands me coffee in Uncle Don’s favorite TALK WOOKIEE TO ME mug. Maybe it should be about the power of female friendship, not an unbelievable love story. Because this I can count on; at least I know Chloe isn’t going anywhere.

  “Oh, PS, your phone kept buzzing, and I crawled around on my hands and knees looking for it and finally found it under the TV cabinet.” She hands it to me with eyebrows raised.

  I grab it, a little too quickly, and scroll through my texts. They’re all from the library, reminding me of the books that are due this week.

  “Expecting something?”

  “Nope.” I slide the phone into my pocket. “Certainly not.”

  “Convincing. So,” she says, her eyes on the pancakes, “how are you feeling?”

  I take another sip of coffee. “Like I’ve had way too much wine two nights in a row and I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

  “No.” She looks up. “I mean, about . . . Drew. And the whole thing with your mom.”

  I shrug. “It is what it is.”

  She drops the spatula. “Whoa. You must really be feeling bad, because the writer I know would never use a terrible cliché like that.”

  I sigh. “Give me a break.”

  “No, I’m serious. What does that even mean? It is what it is? Like, of course it is what it is! No shit!”

  “Okay! Fine! I meant ‘it is terrible and shitty but I have to deal with it because that’s life, dude.’”

  Chloe nods. “Better, but definitely isn’t gonna fit on a throw pillow.”

  “Are my pancakes ready yet?”

  “Patience!” she says, and I sip my coffee and she cooks in companionable silence until we hear the front door opening.

  “Is someone breaking in?” I whisper.

  “Oh no.” Chloe waves the spatula in faux-concern. “They’re going to steal all the pancakes.”

  “Hide! Turn off the oven! Seriously, why are you not more concerned?”

  But before I can duck behind the island, Uncle Don walks into the kitchen.

  “Hey there, girls,” he says, gesturing to a petite purple-haired woman in horn-rimmed glasses who trails behind him. “This is Tyler.”

  I can’t say anything for a few moments. Tyler is a woman—a woman who, if I’m judging correctly, appears to be about Uncle Don’s age but considerably prettier. I’d always assumed Tyler was a man, but now that I think about it, Don never specifically said so.

  “But what are you doing home?” I ask, because ‘why is there a woman with you?’ seems like a rude question. “I thought you weren’t getting back until Monday morning.”

  “I decided to leave early,” Don says, his eyes cutting to Chloe.

  “I called him,” she says, and gives me a not-all-that-apologetic shrug. “I figured he’d want to know if his niece was having a crisis of faith.”

  “Tyler was nice enough to come with me,” Uncle Don
says, putting his hand on her elbow in a way that seems very familiar, “so we caught a flight home and left Earl, Paul, and Dungeon Master Rick there. They’ve gotta bring the Wookiee costume home, but oh well.”

  “But . . . why?” I ask.

  Don looks around the kitchen, then says, “Ladies? Could you give me and Annie a moment to talk privately?”

  Realizing that there are things that should be said privately is kind of new for Uncle Don, so I’m worried about how bad this conversation is going to be, but Chloe winks and leads Tyler out of the room. Chloe could make conversation with a cast-iron skillet, so I’m not at all concerned about leaving her alone with a relative stranger.

  “So,” Uncle Don says, leaning against a counter and crossing his arms. “Chloe told me you found some letters.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Some letters. Yes. Some letters that informed me I never really knew my own mother.”

  He nods, and then I get it. “Wait. Did you also know that she had her heart trampled on by a married man?”

  Don nods again. “She was my sister. Sometimes we talked.”

  “But why didn’t I know?”

  Don smiles gently. “You were a kid. Most parents—most good ones, anyway—probably don’t have in-depth discussions with their kids about their romantic lives.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense!” I say, throwing up my hands in exasperation. “Mom believed in love. In true love. The kind she had with Dad and the kind that was in movies. Why would she have put herself in this shitty, not at all cinematic situation?”

  Don shrugs. “I try not to judge people who face situations I’ve never faced.”

  “Well, how wonderful that you’re so nonjudgmental,” I mutter, then add, “Sorry. That was unnecessarily mean.”

  He shrugs again. He’s doing a lot of shrugging today.

  “I don’t get it.” I slump over the counter. “This doesn’t even sound like Mom. I spent my entire life holding up her and Dad’s relationship as this ideal, of watching and rewatching the movies she loved because I thought they held some sort of secret, you know?”

  Uncle Don doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to go on.

  “Like if I could star in the perfect montage or have the ultimate sympathetic backstory, then that meant I would find love. And sure, there would be one big miscommunication, but nothing that couldn’t be solved with a romantic grand gesture set to a really great song.”

  Uncle Don smiles a little.

  “But that’s not how it worked out for Mom, is it?” I ask, my voice growing quiet. “She fell in love with someone who couldn’t even love her back, and it didn’t matter that she had the ultimate sympathetic backstory or whether she attempted any sort of grand gesture.”

  “Your mom did have a great love story,” Uncle Don says. “I wish you could remember more about your dad, kiddo, because he was really one of a kind. When your mom met him, she told me, ‘I just met the man I’m going to marry.’ She really knew. And you could tell whenever they were around each other that he adored her.”

  “But he died,” I say flatly.

  “And that sucks Ewok balls,” Uncle Don says. “But that doesn’t make their love any less real.”

  “Do Ewoks even have balls?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

  “It’s not explicitly discussed, but I assume. All I’m saying is . . . just because your mom’s love story ended doesn’t mean it wasn’t real or that it didn’t mean something. It meant everything to her.”

  “But then she died heartbroken,” I say. “And almost ruined another woman’s life.”

  “She died with one heartbreak, sure,” Don says. “And you know what? All of us are gonna deal with a bunch of heartbreaks throughout our life. But she also died knowing that she was truly in love once, and not everyone can say that.”

  “Geez,” I say. “What happened to you? You meet a woman and all of a sudden you turn into a relationship expert?”

  Uncle Don smiles, not meeting my eyes.

  “Speaking of which,” I say, way too eager to change the subject away from me, “you never told me Tyler was a woman.”

  Uncle Don shrugs. “You never asked, and I didn’t think it was important. She’s an important person in my life regardless of her gender.”

  “But is she . . . you know?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “An important part of your life?”

  “I like her quite a bit,” Uncle Don says, which for him is basically an admission of love. “We like the same things, and she’s a kindhearted person.”

  “Well, good,” I say, although I’m preemptively worried about what will happen on the eventual day that Uncle Don’s heart gets broken.

  As if he can tell what I’m thinking, he says, “I know you’re worried about me, because I have . . . limited dating experience.”

  “Try no dating experience,” I say. “Sorry for the burn.”

  “I don’t think it’s a burn if it’s the truth,” Don says. “And I know there are risks to falling in love. But a lot of the time in D&D, you know a situation is dangerous and you walk right into it anyway. Because who knows? Something pretty great could happen, too.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Or you could get eaten by dire wolves,” Uncle Don says. “Either way, you can’t stay in a tavern talking to people all the time, or the game would be pretty boring. Sometimes you have to get out there and take a chance.”

  I bite my lip. Maybe Uncle Don’s weird D&D metaphor is hitting a little closer to home than I would like. And then I remember the conversation that Tommy and I had at the wrap party, about how Don doesn’t want me to spend my whole life waiting for an opportunity to fall in my lap.

  “Do you . . . want me to leave?” I ask quietly.

  Don tilts his head. “Do I want you to leave? Of course not!”

  I look down at my feet. “Tommy was talking to me about taking risks and chances or whatever and he said I really need to move away from here if I’m ever going to get anywhere in film, and . . . well, he’s probably right.”

  I look up and see that Don’s nodding.

  “But I don’t want to leave you here,” I whisper, once again to my shoes.

  “Annie,” Don says, crossing the room to stand by me. “I love living here with you. You’re the best roommate a guy could have. You eat everything I make, and you never complain about Dungeon Master Rick coming over on a weekly basis, which would likely annoy most people.”

  “He’s an acquired taste,” I admit.

  “So no, I’m not exactly looking forward to the day you leave. But I know—and I think you do, too—that you can’t stay here forever. And I don’t want you to be worried about me, because I’m not alone. I have my job; I have the guys.”

  I nod toward the living room. “And Tyler.”

  He smiles, and it hits me how little credit I gave him. I always thought Uncle Don needed me, like he would fall apart from loneliness if I wasn’t around, but he has his own life, full of friends and work and Wookiee costumes and a girlfriend. It turns out he never really needed me so much as he just liked hanging out with me.

  “So where’s Drew, anyway?” Don asks, not even bothering to segue into the question.

  “We, um . . . we had a fight.” I cross my arms.

  “Did he do something wrong?” Don asks.

  I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. I’m not up for explaining how gossip sites work to Uncle Don, so I go for an abridged version of the story. “No, he didn’t. He thought I did something bad, and I tried to explain it was an accident. But then I ignored his texts when he tried to talk to me, and . . . I think I might’ve been kind of an asshole.”

  Don sighs. “Well, listen, kid . . . we all mess up. All the people you love are gonna let you down at some point. But until it’s game over, you can always fix your mistakes.”

  I stand up straight, thinking about Uncle Don’s words. About love being worth the risk, about taking chances, about knowing that heartbreak awaits most of us around eve
ry corner but about walking around that corner anyway.

  “You’re right,” I say, my voice full of confidence. “I need to go talk to Chloe.”

  We walk into the living room, where Chloe is talking animatedly to Tyler. “And then I said, Nick, you’re wrong, the Doobie Brothers are one of the greatest rock groups of all time and—”

  She breaks off when she sees me and makes a face when she sees my smile. But all I’m thinking about is how great it’s going to be when she figures out she totally has a thing for Nick.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asks, and I motion for her to join me upstairs.

  “Listen,” I say when we’re sitting on my bed. “I think I might’ve screwed things up with Drew.”

  She shakes her head. “He’ll come around and apologize. You’ll see.”

  “The thing is, he might’ve been trying to apologize already. Or not. I don’t know. He texted me.”

  She tilts her head. “And what did you say?”

  I study my cuticles. “I might not have responded.”

  Chloe grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “Were you out of your mind, woman?”

  “I got scared after reading Mom’s letters! Like, who am I to say that this isn’t going to end in heartbreak?”

  Chloe sighs with her whole body. “No offense, but duh. Any relationship could end in heartbreak, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying.”

  I nod. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what Uncle Don told me.”

  “Don said that?”

  “Well, he was talking about D&D, but I think it was supposed to be a metaphor.”

  Chloe sits up straight, pushing a pillow out of her way. “So where is Drew right now?”

  I check the time on my bedside alarm clock. “He said he has a flight late tonight because he’s doing a morning show tomorrow in New York to promote Christmas Zombies. I mean, Winter of the Undead. So . . . probably at his hotel?”