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 door.
“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.