Waiting for Tom Hanks Read online

  He walks toward me, the coffee shop floorboards creaking. “Coffee Girl!” he says easily. “In your natural habitat, I see.”

  “Hello,” I say, lifting my chin and trying to appear confident. “Guy Who Just Looks Like Drew Danforth.”

  He bites his lower lip. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  Then he takes a glance at my laptop screen. I follow his eyes.

  “Oh. No. Oh, no,” I say, hurriedly closing the gossip site about Drew.

  “Were you . . .” he says slowly.

  “No.”

  “Were you googling me?” He looks at me again, eyebrows raised.

  “I wasn’t. I was . . .” I angrily click out of two more tabs with pictures of Drew. “I was . . .”

  I stare at my screen in disbelief. How can this be happening?

  “At-Home Hemorrhoid Relief,” Drew reads, leaning in as if to get a closer look at my screen.

  “This is for work,” I say, snapping the laptop shut. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I don’t know.” Drew shrugs. “It seems pretty informative.”

  “Black coffee,” Nick calls, and Drew turns around to grab his cup. Chloe hands him a paper bag containing his cherry-almond bar and smiles so sweetly that I start to think she’s going to curtsy.

  “Have a good night,” Drew says to Nick and Chloe as he heads toward the door. Right before he opens it, he meets my eyes and says, “Good luck with your work. I think it’s gonna help a lot of people.”

  I don’t say anything as the door jingles shut. For a moment, the coffee shop is mostly silent, save the murmurs of the Monopoly players.

  “What. The hell. Was that?” Chloe asks, ripping off her apron and walking out from behind the counter.

  “I don’t know!” I say. “He came in here, made fun of my work—”

  “No,” she says, sitting down across from me. “I mean what the hell did you just do?”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “You have a chance to star in your very own rom-com,” she says, pointing at me like she’s a mother lecturing a child, “and instead you decide to be combative?”

  “Chloe!” I say. “This isn’t a rom-com. He was being a jerk. He was mocking me. Like, sorry, I don’t make a million billion dollars, and instead I have to write ridiculous internet content and bring coffee to directors.”

  She waves a hand. “It was playful banter.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t like that guy. Tom Hanks would never do this.”

  “Wasn’t he kind of a jerk to Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail?” Chloe asks.

  “Outwardly. But he had a heart of gold and he cared about his family and—”

  “Did he have a dog?” Chloe asks flatly. “A big, fluffy dog to show that he truly cared about someone other than himself?”

  “Yes,” I say icily. “He had a lovely golden retriever.”

  “Well, maybe Drew Danforth also has a heart of gold,” Chloe says. “You don’t know.”

  I think about what I read about him online, all that stuff I already know about him making everything a joke. And about him making out with a literal model. But then there was that picture of him and his sick grandfather, so out of place among everything else.

  “I kind of doubt it. Anyway, he saw me writing about at-home hemorrhoid relief, and I’m pretty sure no romantic comedy has ever mentioned hemorrhoids.”

  “I don’t know.” Chloe tilts her head, walking slowly back to the counter. “Maybe something by Judd Apatow.”

  “Hemorrhoids aren’t anything to be embarrassed about,” Gary says from the Monopoly table. “Half of people over the age of fifty have them.”

  “Thanks, Gary,” I mutter, and I’m kind of being sarcastic but not really because I can use that in my article.

  “Listen, I’m happy that you had your sweet meet or whatever,” Nick says.

  “Meet-cute,” Chloe corrects him.

  “Sure. But I’m not jazzed that Drew Danforth is waltzing in here. Remember when Bradley Cooper was here? We had people walking in for weeks, camping out at the tables and waiting for him to show up. They didn’t order anything.”

  Chloe waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s like that time Taylor Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal visited a coffee shop and people were really into maple lattes for a while, but everyone soon forgot about it. Except for Taylor. She wrote, like, an entire album about it.”

  Nick stares at her. “Sometimes it’s like you’re speaking a foreign language.”

  I zone out as Nick and Chloe keep talking. On paper, maybe Chloe’s right; maybe this would be a great romantic comedy. But Drew Danforth is a movie star, and I’m very much not, and he’s determined to repeatedly put me in my place. What kind of guy does that? Makes fun of a woman who makes possibly millions of dollars less than he does? Thinking about him makes me queasy and mad and nervous, and I don’t want to feel that way.

  “Chloe,” I say suddenly and with force. She stops arguing with Nick long enough to look at me. “Set me up again, okay? Didn’t you say there’s a guy in your class I would love?”

  She gasps, then claps. “His name’s Barry.”

  “Great,” I say, getting back to work on my article. “Give me his number.”

  I’ll text this Barry guy and talk to him about . . . whatever. It’s not romantic and it sure doesn’t feel like fate, but look at me! I can get dates, too. I might not be making bajillions of dollars on movies or dating models, but I can do this. Drew Danforth can suck it.

  Chapter Eight

  The only wrench in my “trying to forget about Drew Danforth and how much I hate him” plan is that I’m on the set of a movie he’s starring in, meaning I have to hear about him, oh, pretty much constantly.

  “Where’s Drew?” Tommy asks, his voice booming so loudly that he doesn’t need a megaphone.

  “His trailer,” Brody says, his mouth full of a burrito.

  “Are you ever not eating?” Tarah asks.

  Brody gestures to his body, ensconced in a puffy winter coat. “This takes work, okay? I’ve gotta maintain it with daily burritos.”

  Despite my general annoyance with Drew, I’ve developed a nice, casual relationship with both Brody and Tarah. Both of them are polite, genuine people, unlike some movie stars whose names rhyme with Schmew Schmanforth. Both of them seem to like Drew, though, and Brody is even one of his friends, which does make me question their judgment.

  “What’s he doing in his trailer?” Tommy ask-shouts.

  Brody shrugs, and Tommy turns to me. I certainly don’t know, or care, what Drew is doing, so I shrug, too.

  “Go check on him,” Tommy says, jerking his head in the direction of Drew’s trailer as he looks at his phone.

  My mouth twists into a frown, but as Tommy’s assistant I must assist him with anything he needs, which in this case apparently involves corralling diva actors.

  “You want a bite?” Brody asks, holding his burrito toward me.

  “Uh, no thanks,” I say before I stomp off toward Drew’s trailer.

  I hesitate outside the trailer door, hearing a voice on the other side. Should I knock? Should I barge in? What if he’s naked? The thought of Drew naked is not an altogether unpleasant one, because although I’m not impressed by muscles, I did see that shirtless picture Chloe sent me plus a few more when I googled him and it wasn’t like he was hard to look at . . .

  I shake my head. What the hell? Why would he be naked, Annie? Focus.

  I knock quietly. No response. I knock a little louder, and all I hear is a laugh. Frustrated, I push open the door.

  Drew is facing away from me, pacing the short length of his trailer, and he’s on the phone.

  “If anyone’s a turd burglar here, it’s definitely you, bud,” he’s saying with a laugh. “Yeah, I went there.”

  He turns around to pace back and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Good God!” he shouts as he drops his phone.

  “I knocked!” I yell. “Twice!�
��

  “I’m on the phone,” he says, exasperated, as he picks it up. Then, to whomever he’s talking to, he says, “Listen, I dropped the phone. Yeah, okay. Uh-huh. Tell Mom and Dad I love them. Later, loser.”

  He hangs up and looks at me expectantly.

  “Tommy needs you,” I say, then turn to leave.

  But before I step away from the door, he says, “I was talking to my brother. Not avoiding everyone.”

  I stop and look at him. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Yeah, but.” He pulls on his gloves. “I can tell you’re thinking that I’m some asshole hiding in his trailer and slowing down production. But my brother’s ten, and he’s dealing with some little shits bullying him because he has a speech impediment and he can’t pronounce his Rs, and I wanted to make him feel a bit better.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “By calling him a turd burglar and a loser?”

  Drew smirks. “Terms of endearment in the Danforth family.”

  It is actually kind of sweet that he cares so much about his family. Tom Hanks, after all, is usually very good with children, whether they’re his own or his dad’s or grandfather’s much younger kids. I open my mouth to ask him more about his family, but then I hear someone burp outside through the thin walls of the trailer, and I remember that this isn’t a movie. This moment is not sound tracked by Harry Connick Jr. or Harry Nilsson or any other Harry who sings in a Nora Ephron film. This is depressingly real life, and Drew Danforth will be gone the second this movie is done filming.

  “You’d better hurry,” I say before I make my way down the stairs. The cold air hitting my cheeks helps bring me back to reality.

  * * *

  • • •

  By the time we’re done with the day’s scenes, I’ve made about a million phone calls, fetched about a hundred cups of coffee, and even (thrillingly!) helped Tommy make some minor script changes when he asked me which word was funnier, bozo or jackass. (Bozo, obviously. Duh.) Everyone’s exhausted, and I hear Brody and Tarah talking about going out to dinner somewhere. They bring up the names of a few places I know are good and decide on an Italian place before asking Drew to go with them.

  “Thanks, but I gotta pass,” he says, heading off toward his trailer.

  “He needs to have some fun,” Tarah says as he walks away, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm.

  “He needs to have some food,” Brody says, his hand in a bag of Fritos.

  “Annie, listen,” Tommy says, grabbing my arm and pulling me gently to the side. “Are you busy tonight? I need something.”

  “I’m not busy,” I say, shaking my head, because sure, I should be writing some internet content about how to properly use painter’s tape, but it can wait if Tommy needs me.

  He points a thumb toward Drew’s trailer, where the door has just swung shut. “I need you to take Drew out.”

  My mouth opens. Once I’ve regained the power of speech, I say, “I’m sorry, what?”

  Tommy waves his hand dismissively. “He’s spending too much time by himself, and I think he needs some human interaction.”

  I shake my head quickly. “I don’t think I can—”

  “Annie,” Tommy says, placing his hands lightly on my shoulders. “Are you my assistant?”

  I nod.

  “I need some assistance, please,” he says. “If you really can’t, then okay. But Drew’s performance is gonna be better if he doesn’t just head back to his hotel and spend his evening staring at a television, and if his performance is better, the movie is better. You care about the movie, right?”

  Well, he has me there, because I do care about this movie. My name will be in the credits . . . I mean, probably five minutes into the credits and so tiny that no one will ever see it, but still. I need the first movie my name is on to be as good as it can possibly be.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” I say.

  “He needs to be around someone who’s gonna take the piss out of him,” Tommy says. “And I have a feeling that’s you.”

  I frown. Going out to dinner with Drew Danforth? The guy who caught me googling him, made fun of my job, and seems amused by my general presence on this earth? I guess if we run out of conversational topics, I can always trot out some mortifying memories from my childhood. How about the time I puked on a field trip to the art museum? I’m sure he’d love that one.

  Tommy must be able to read the hesitation written on my face, because he claps me on the back like he’s a coach for a youth soccer team. “Live a little, okay? Go have some fun.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Chloe was excited when I texted her about this dinner—in fact, she called it a date, a designation I quickly denied. This is a work obligation. This is a cocky movie star who’s too good to even spend time with his castmates being stuck going to dinner with a lowly assistant. This isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, and it certainly isn’t “straight out of a rom-com,” as Chloe insisted.

  “You don’t even believe in love,” I texted.

  “Not for me,” Chloe texted back. “But you’re a hopeless romantic. Love exists for people like you. At least you’ll get to eat somewhere good.”

  She has a point there, I think as I slide into the passenger seat of Drew’s car. I don’t know the first thing about cars, but even I can tell that this is a lot nicer than Uncle Don’s Prius. If cars had names, Uncle Don’s would be Brenda, and she would be a sassy, no-nonsense HR manager. This car, whatever it is, would be named Cristal, and she would probably be an Instagram influencer.

  “You drive yourself, then?” I ask, clicking my seat belt into place. “No drivers or limos?”

  I don’t look right at Drew, but I can tell he’s looking at me with that infuriating smirk on his face. “I think you might have a slightly inflated sense of my net worth.”

  And you definitely don’t understand how little I get paid for writing articles about DIY bathroom renovations, I think.

  He insisted on driving, even though I offered—it’s not like he knows his way around, but perhaps he was feeling chivalrous or, more accurately, thought I was incapable of operating a motor vehicle or doing anything other than fetching coffee. As his phone calls out lefts and rights, I finally ask him where we’re going.

  “Oh,” he says, his voice sounding both teasing and ominous, “you’ll see.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s McDonald’s. Drew Danforth, star of screens both large and small, takes me to the home of the McNugget.

  “This is a joke, right?” I ask as I stare up at the golden arches, but he’s out of the car before he even hears me. Of course, when Drew has a chance to go somewhere good—to take me, someone who rarely goes to fancy restaurants, to a nice place—he decides it would be oh-so-funny to visit a fast-food joint.

  “Oh, my God,” I mutter, and I’m about to swing my door open when he opens it for me.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I snap, about to tell him not to make fun of me by opening the door as if I’m the famous person and he’s my driver. Then I remember that I promised Tommy I would keep Drew company. I can do this, for the good of the movie, because it’s part of my job.

  “I’m fully capable of opening my own doors,” I say in a more measured tone.

  “What can I say?” Drew says, smiling. “It’s these Southern manners. My mom drilled them into me, and now I can’t ditch them, even if I try.”

  We walk inside, and I remember, from my ill-fated research, that Drew is from Louisiana. Apparently he managed to drop his accent much easier than the manners.

  As McDonald’s go, this is one of the better ones. It’s clean and bright and appears to be both staffed and patronized largely by teenagers. Drew strolls up to the counter and orders, unaware of stares from the employees, then motions for me to do the same.

  After we get our food and sit down, Drew immediately takes a huge bite of his Big Mac. “Oh, God,” he groans, and it sounds so inappropriate
that I have to look away from his face. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  The Big Mac isn’t the only thing he ordered. His plastic tray also contains a ten-piece order of Chicken McNuggets, the biggest order of fries I’ve ever seen, two apple pies, and a hot fudge sundae. The cashier, a cute girl in her early twenties, claimed the ice-cream machine was broken, but one smile from Drew and it magically worked.

  “So you . . . like fast food?” I ask, dipping a Chicken McNugget in honey.

  “I don’t like it.” He shakes his head. “I love it. But this is the first time I’ve had it in . . . two years, maybe? I was on this intense high-protein diet when I was filming The Last Apocalypse, and I had to eat, like, fifteen chicken breasts a day. No carbs.”

  “That sounds disgusting,” I say, feeling sympathy for Drew for the first time ever. “No fast food?”

  “No sugar.” He holds up a hand, ticking things off with his fingers. “No pasta, no bread, no beans, no oats, no potatoes.”

  “Just chicken breasts?”

  “Chicken breasts and broccoli. It was harrowing. And then even when we were done filming, I had to promote the movie so I still had to eat pretty healthy,” he says, dipping a fry into his sundae. “I mean, sure, I was a hundred percent muscle, but now that I’m not working out three times a day, my soft, doughy middle is going to return.”

  I try to stifle a laugh and it comes out as an unappealing snort, which makes Drew smile. Not that I noticed or cared.

  I think back to the pages of Drew pictures I scrolled through online. Honestly, he looked better when he was in Mike’s Restaurant, back when his face was rounder and he was surrounded in appealing baby fat. He looked . . . sweet.

  “You looked fine before,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows. “You think I looked fine?”

  “Fine like okay. Not fine like a ’90s R&B song.”

  He clutches his chest. “Wow. Be still, my beating heart, the great Annie Cassidy deigns to pay me a compliment.”