Waiting for Tom Hanks Read online

  I can feel my face getting red, and I’m pretty sure Drew is making fun of me. I’m not sure how he even knows my last name—I thought I was just Coffee Girl to him. Is he learning personal details about me for the purpose of being kind of condescending? God, what in-depth jerkery this is.

  He gestures toward his apple pies, not noticing my silent seething. “You want one of these? I only ordered one, but the girl at the register gave me two for some reason.”

  I snort. “I wonder why?”

  He looks at me, genuinely confused.

  “Because that cashier wants to marry you and have, like, ten of your babies,” I say.

  He turns and looks toward the counter, where the cashier is staring at him. She quickly looks away.

  “And that table over there is definitely filming you on their phones,” I say, gesturing toward a table of teenagers who aren’t even bothering to hide their interest.

  “Hey,” Drew says, waving at them, then turns back to me.

  “You must love this, right?” I ask. “All the attention. The pictures. The extra apple pies.”

  He gestures toward me with his. “Who among us could resist this deep-fried perk?”

  Just like he does on the red carpet, he’s deflecting questions, not taking anything seriously. It’s more than a little infuriating. “Why are you even in this movie?” I ask, irritation dripping from my voice.

  Drew raises his eyebrows. “What?”

  I shrug. “I mean, you don’t want to talk to any of your coworkers, you hide in your trailer all the time—”

  “Who said I hide in my trailer all the time?”

  “Uh, anyone on set?”

  “I talk to people!” he says, indignant. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “Under duress.”

  “Oh yes, poor me,” he says. “Forced to eat Chicken McNuggets with a beautiful woman. My life is so rough.”

  I ignore the sarcastic comment about my appearance. “Do you even like romantic comedies?” I ask.

  “What?”

  I cross my arms and lean back in the booth. “What’s your favorite rom-com?”

  “What kind of question is—”

  I lean forward. “Answer me!”

  Drew sighs. “Her, I guess.”

  “The movie where Joaquin Phoenix falls in love with Siri?” I ask flatly.

  He nods. “Yeah. Why?”

  I shake my head quickly. “That’s not a— Wow, that’s not even remotely a romantic comedy. I mean, I guess it’s romantic, sort of, and I did laugh a couple of times. But it’s not a rom-com.”

  His mouth quirks up at the side, and he folds his hands on the table in front of him. “What, are you some kind of rom-com expert or something?”

  I raise my eyebrows and find myself mirroring his posture. “Kind of.”

  He smacks the table. “Qualifications. Go!”

  I hold up my fingers as I count. “One. I have seen the classic film You’ve Got Mail approximately one hundred times and can quote it on command.”

  Drew shakes his head. “That shows a depth of knowledge, not a breadth.”

  “Two,” I say, my voice more forceful. “I’ve seen every film on AFI’s list of the best romantic movies, even though some of them are more rom-drams than rom-coms. Three, I have a framed photo of Nora Ephron on my desk, because she’s my hero and I want to be her.”

  Drew nods.

  “And four,” I say, even though I wasn’t planning on sharing this with Drew, but somehow it slips out, “I’ve been working on my own rom-com screenplay for years, because I’m a writer.”

  “You’re writing a—” he starts, but I cut him off, already embarrassed that I mentioned something so personal to someone who will probably use it as ammunition to make fun of me later.

  “Moral of the story, I have serious doubts about your ability to do justice to the genre,” I say.

  He snort-laughs. “Okay then, wise one, tell me three movies I have to see, and I’ll watch them right away.”

  I exhale. “I mean, there are a million. But if we’re going for classics, you can’t get better than the Nora Ephron/Meg Ryan holy trinity. When Harry Met Sally . . . , Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail.”

  “All right,” he says, tapping them into his phone. “I will watch them and report back.”

  An electric thrill runs through my body at this, because it feels slightly like flirting. But it’s not, I remind myself. For starters, this guy is literally starring in a movie where he has to act like he’s falling in love with someone, so I can’t trust anything he says. And also because Drew has made it abundantly clear that he thinks I’m mostly mockable, certainly not someone to flirt with.

  “You never answered my question. Why are you even in this movie?” I ask, sounding like a pouty child.

  “Well, in case you didn’t notice,” Drew says, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket, “The Last Apocalypse was an embarrassing dud, and it’s been a couple of years since Mike’s Restaurant ended.”

  I roll my eyes. “So even though you think rom-coms are beneath you, they’re all you could get.”

  “Let me finish, okay? And because I like Tommy, and I know he’s a great director, and I know that this movie will make people happy. Did you know that there are almost no big-budget romantic comedies with interracial couples?”

  I mean, yes, of course, I know that. Anyone who likes romantic comedies know that there are plenty of criticisms lobbed at the genre, like that the films are vapid or sexist, or that they create unrealistic relationship expectations or encourage abusive behavior. None of those criticisms mean anything to me because I don’t think they’re true. But it stings when people complain about the genre’s lack of diversity because they’re obviously correct. There are romantic comedies about people who aren’t white and straight—lots of amazing ones—but they typically have small budgets and even smaller marketing campaigns, so people often don’t know they exist. It’s awesome that successful rom-coms like Crazy Rich Asians and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before are changing things, but there’s no denying that the rom-com classics of my youth are pathetically homogenous.

  But Drew Danforth probably doesn’t care about my thoughts on this, so I just nod.

  “Tommy’s wife is black, and he wanted to make a movie that reflected their relationship, so that’s why he was drawn to this movie even though he hasn’t done a rom-com since the ’90s.”

  “Oh,” I say, impressed that Drew knows all this.

  “Plus,” he says around his straw, “who could miss the chance to hang out in beautiful Columbus, Ohio?”

  “Need I remind you that going to McDonald’s was your decision?” I ask. “Columbus has plenty of fine dining. And museums! And parks! And an award-winning zoo! And—”

  He holds up a hand, annoying smile back on his face. “I was kidding, Annie.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. Something about the way my name rolls off his tongue, so familiar, makes me feel like I’ve already heard him say it a thousand times before, instead of just once during this conversation.

  I shake my head. “I hate city snobs like you. The ones who act like everyone who isn’t from New York or LA is some kind of hick. You probably use the phrase ‘fly-over country,’ don’t you?”

  “I don’t . . . no! For God’s sake, I’m from Shreveport, Louisiana!” Drew says, eyes wide. “For the record, Columbus is now my favorite city in the world.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Don’t overdo it.”

  “I love it here. I’m going to move here,” he says. “I want to be buried here.”

  “In this McDonald’s? If you keep eating like that, it might be a possibility.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get out of here. Early call time tomorrow.”

  He grabs my tray before I can make a move for it. On our way out, he stops to shake hands with the table of teenagers.

  “I can see how much you hate the attention,” I say as we go out the doo
r.

  “I’m being nice,” he says, giving me a wry look.

  “Right,” I mutter as I get back into his absurdly fancy car.

  Chapter Nine

  I pregame for my date with Barry by watching The Shop Around the Corner. It might seem like a bad idea to watch a romantic comedy before a date, and it’s certainly setting a high bar to expect Barry to have the charm of an in-his-prime James Stewart, but it’s one of my favorites. It’s the original You’ve Got Mail, but with letters instead of dial-up internet.

  Through a series of nondescript texts, Barry and I agree to meet at, where else, Nick’s. Barry doesn’t do anything egregious, like use that weird winking emoji or request nudes, but he also isn’t exactly a master of the form. I know I shouldn’t be expecting The Shop Around the Corner letters or You’ve Got Mail e-mails, but in a perfect world, I would like something a little more than “hey, waz up?”

  Waz up. A truly baffling spelling in this, the age of the predictive text. I’ll be wondering how and why he spelled it like that all night.

  But I try my hardest not to judge. Although I fully believe that my Tom Hanks is out there somewhere, I have to live in the real world, like Chloe said. And maybe in the real world, most of the men are like Sandra Bullock’s weird neighbor in While You Were Sleeping, not like Bill Pullman in While You Were Sleeping. Maybe all the cute guys are actually big jerks who make fun of your job and your city and your totally normal romantic comedy obsession.

  As the movie ends, I have to fight the urge to stay home all evening. It’s just that the couch in our living room is truly one of my favorite places on this Earth. It’s big and so soft that you sink into it when you sit down, which means it’s easy to convince yourself you should stay put. It’s been here since I was a tiny kid, and even though it’s covered with a dingy rose print that looks like it’s straight out of the ’90s, neither Uncle Don nor I can bear to replace it.

  This is where I watched all these movies with my mom. This is where she told me, while we were watching Sleepless in Seattle, to always keep hoping for a brighter tomorrow. At the time I was upset because I’d failed a spelling test (my spelling has since improved, thanks), and she, as usual, had found a way to compare everything to a romantic comedy.

  “Tom Hanks is facing his darkest day here,” she said, staring at the screen. “But he doesn’t give up. And maybe not everything gets fixed—his wife doesn’t come back to life—but he’s happy again, eventually.”

  Of course, that was just something to say to a small child who was upset about flunking a test—something that, ultimately, didn’t end up mattering all that much. What I wouldn’t give to hear what she had to say about this date.

  But I do have Uncle Don, I remind myself as I get up and walk into the kitchen, where he’s banging a bunch of pots and pans around. Our kitchen probably wouldn’t be very impressive if it was on one of those house-selling shows where people always want “open floorplans” and “chef’s kitchens” even though they probably only cook dinner, like, once every two weeks. I mean, if this kitchen was on House Hunters, a disapproving wife would definitely tell her husband, “This entire thing needs to be gutted,” while a hopeful Realtor lies to them about how easy that would be.

  But I love this kitchen as much as I love the rest of this house, because it’s suffused in memory and drenched in comfort. Sure, it doesn’t look like a kitchen Meryl Streep would use in a Nancy Meyers movie, and the cabinets are a deep green color instead of a trendy white, but it’s still where so many conversations and meals have happened. It’s home.

  “Headed out?” Don asks, dumping chopped carrots and onions into a pot.

  “I have a date,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  “Good for you!” Uncle Don says.

  “Uncle Don,” I say, leaning against the island. “Blind dates are the worst. This is someone Chloe set me up with, and I don’t even know anything about him.”

  “But you’re putting yourself out there,” he says. “And that’s what’s important.”

  Right. Like Uncle Don knows anything about putting himself out there. He’s been just as frozen in time as I have.

  “Oh,” he says, “I wanted to let you know that I’m gonna be gone next weekend. The guys and I are going to meet up with our friend Tyler at a con in Chicago.”

  “Thanks for letting me know—now I can plan a huge rager,” I say.

  “So how’s the job going?” Don asks, changing the subject.

  I shrug. “Pretty good. Tommy’s not a bad boss. He’s demanding but not mean.”

  Don nods. “He snores, you know.”

  “I’m sure that information will come in useful on set.”

  “I invited him to the next D&D night, but he’s pretty busy with the movie and everything,” Don says, stroking his chin. “Did you know he was a huge gamer in college?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, because Tommy and I have mostly been discussing work, not his youthful enthusiasm for tabletop gaming.

  “How’s everything else going?” Don asks. “Do you like the movie?”

  “It’s hard to think about it like a movie when I see them filming bits and pieces out of order,” I say. “But yeah. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing, and . . .”

  I think about Drew, and how he actually doesn’t know the first thing about rom-coms. Okay, so maybe not everyone knows what they’re doing.

  “Whoa,” Uncle Don says.

  “What?”

  “You look like you just saw an abominable yeti,” Don says, and I’m assuming that means the look on my face when I thought about Drew wasn’t exactly a happy one.

  I shake my head. “I have to get going or I’m going to be late,” I say.

  But it turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, because Barry is twenty minutes late.

  Five minutes late is basically on time. Ten minutes is fine. Fifteen minutes is really pushing it. But twenty? That’s almost half an hour, almost the length of a sitcom episode, and it’s getting into “definitely send a text, possibly even reschedule” territory. From my usual table, I watch customers walk in and out. Out the window, I see the Coatless Wonder stroll by, oblivious to the flurries swirling down from the sky.

  “Nick,” I say when I’m at the counter to get my second mocha, “did this guy bail on me?”

  Nick hands me my drink, unconcerned. “Maybe he’s caught in traffic.”

  I sit back down and consider this. If this was a rom-com, Barry’s bad first impression would only be a setup for our eventual love affair. It’s like When Harry Met Sally . . . I mean, even their names rhyme! Barry, Harry, it’s all pretty much the same, right?

  The bell above the door jingles and a man walks in. I immediately recognize him from the picture Chloe showed me.

  I wave as he crosses the room. “Hi, I’m—” I start, standing up and holding out my hand, but he pulls me into a hug.

  “Ooof,” I exhale into his puffy jacket.

  “Sorry, I’m kind of sweaty,” he apologizes, taking off his coat to reveal that he’s wearing extremely tight leggings and a sweat-soaked T-shirt. “I ran here.”

  “Oh, you . . . you run?” I ask, sitting down and trying not to focus on the sweat on his light-gray T-shirt.

  “Big time,” he says. “Do you?”

  “Oh, certainly not,” I say with a laugh. “Only if there’s a particularly great-looking donut across the street and time is of the essence.”

  He waves a hand. “I used to be like you. Inactive, a few pounds overweight, but running changed everything. You should give it a try.”

  I blink a few times and attempt a polite smile. Surely he didn’t mean to comment on my weight.

  “Right. Um, well, did you want to order something?”

  Barry squints toward the counter. “Do you think they have anything sugar-free?”

  I think about the case full of Chloe’s white chocolate macadamia-nut brownies. While I’m sure she’d be happy to bake something for someone with dieta
ry restrictions, I know that her personal beliefs tend toward butter and sugar. “To be honest with you, I highly doubt it. But you can grab a black coffee . . . Nick’s is the best.”

  Barry shakes his head. “I don’t do caffeine.”

  I nod slowly, wondering why he agreed to meet me at a coffee shop. “I think he has some herbal tea . . .”

  “I actually don’t like any hot liquids,” Barry says, leaning forward. “They slow down my metabolism.”

  “How about I grab you a water?” I ask, then bolt up to the counter before he can tell me anything more about his hydration preferences.

  “Nick,” I hiss. “This is a bust.”

  “Why?” Nick looks over at the table way too obviously, but luckily Barry isn’t paying attention. “He looks fine . . . wait, is that sweat?”

  “Yes. He ran here.”

  Nick looks at me in shock. “That’s what that smell is? Thank God. I thought the sewage pipe backed up again.”

  “Nope. That’s just the love of my life, stinking up the joint, telling me all about how he doesn’t drink hot liquids.”

  “Wait, what?” Nick asks.

  I shake my head. “Just . . . can I have a glass of water, please? Make it cold.”

  “Maybe you can toss it on him and wash off some of the stink,” Nick mutters.

  I sigh and glance down at my outfit. I dressed up for this. I’m wearing an adorable pair of booties and a comfortable-yet-cute sweater dress over thick tights. I was slightly inspired by Meg Ryan’s giant, neutral wardrobe in You’ve Got Mail, but hopefully my look is a little less ’90s and oversized. But it’s looking like I shouldn’t even have bothered; it’s not like Barry has noticed anything about me, other than the fact that he apparently thinks I should lose a few pounds.

  I sit down and hand Barry his glass of water, which he takes without a “thank you.” “So what do you do?” I ask, hoping to change my initial impression of him.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m into traditional ‘employment,’ per se,” he says, making air quotes. I hear the bell above the door jingle and Nick casually saying, “Hey, man.”