“Good,” I say. “I got a lot done.”
Even though I’ve been attempting to write my own rom-com for years, right now I’m working as a freelance writer. Well, that makes it sound a little more glamorous than it is, seeing as I write “web content” with titles like “The Five BEST WAYS to Unclog a Toilet” and “Ten of Jennifer Lawrence’s Hottest Hairdos!” I may not be winning any awards anytime soon, but it pays (and you’d be surprised how often you use that toilet-unclogging advice when you live in a house with old pipes).
“What did you write about today?” asks Earl.
“Is It Expired? What to Keep and What to Throw Out!” I say with wide eyes and jazz hands, trying to mimic the excitement of the headline.
“Did I ever tell you guys,” Paul says, wiping his glasses on his shirt, “about that time I accidentally ate a yogurt that expired in 2007?”
“Ugh!” I say as Don asks, “What happened?”
Paul shrugs, putting his glasses back on. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“But he did throw up for the better part of three days,” says Paul’s husband, Earl, who rounds out their gaming foursome. The two of them met through D&D, which would be a great meet-cute for a rom-com if I knew enough about D&D to write it.
“Excuse me,” says Dungeon Master Rick. “But unless the evil gnome that’s currently trapping your party in a cave can be vanquished by dairy, I don’t really want to discuss yogurt right now.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Paul says. “See you later, Annie.”
Uncle Don waves, rolling his eyes at Dungeon Master Rick, who’s already describing the various gnome inventions scattered throughout the cave.
I smile and head upstairs to my room, the same one I’ve had since I was a child. Although it’s changed a little—now I have soft pink walls instead of kitten wallpaper, and framed photos of my parents (and, okay, one of Nora Ephron, too) instead of posters of whatever guy I thought was cute at the time. But other than that, it’s pretty much the same. My twin bed, my refinished antique desk, the green glass lamp that used to belong to my grandma.
In other words, this isn’t the kind of bedroom you can bring a man back to. Other than the regrettable sex I had with my high school boyfriend right after my mom died in the hopes that it would make me feel better (spoiler alert: it did not!), I’ve never even had sex in this room. I mean, how would that even work? Would I introduce a dude to all the D&D guys, then excuse us with a line like, “Well, I’m going upstairs to try to bone this guy as quietly as possible, but everything in this house squeaks because it’s a million years old, so sorry, I guess!” I don’t even know how a full-size man would fit into that twin bed; his feet would probably hang off the end.
But I haven’t done anything to change my situation, and that’s because I’m still waiting for Tom Hanks. And sure, he hasn’t found me yet, but it’s okay, because I’m just at the beginning of my rom-com, the part with a montage that demonstrates how sad, lonely, and down-on-her-luck our leading lady is.
My Tom Hanks is out there, and I’m not going to settle until I find him.
Chapter Two
“I’m not saying you have to settle,” my best friend, Chloe, says as she sits down across from me at the wobbly table. “I’m just saying you should give some of these guys a chance.”
Nick’s coffee shop is the perfect place to get some writing done. It’s within walking distance of my house, there are plenty of outlets to plug in my laptop, and the ambient noise of people talking and cups clinking is the perfect soundtrack for working. I guess what I’m saying is that it would be the perfect place to work if Chloe wasn’t a barista there and we didn’t spend most of my work time talking.
Well, she calls herself a barista. Nick Velez, the owner, simply refers to her as an “employee” because words like barista and latte art make him cringe. Nick’s other employee, Tobin, is a college student who rarely, if ever, shows up on time and usually drops more cups than he serves, but he has a good heart, and Nick keeps him around, despite always threatening to fire him.
“I give every guy I go out with a chance,” I say, “but the last guy I went out with smelled like Funyuns.”
Chloe wrinkles her nose. “You mean onions?”
“No,” I say. “That would’ve been better. He smelled specifically like the snack food Funyuns.”
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, what about that guy?”
She points to a dude in his late twenties wearing headphones and sitting at a table in the corner. I shake my head.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks, exasperated. “He’s cute!”
“First off, he doesn’t give off ‘lives on a houseboat with his young son’ vibes,” I say. “And secondly, he’s just . . . sitting there. Big deal.”
Chloe stares blankly at me.
“Where’s the intrigue? The mystery? The part where we’re secretly pen pals but also own rival businesses?”
Chloe shakes her head. “I always think you’re exaggerating, but you’re literally in love with a fictional man. You know those movies aren’t real, right? They’re made up! I’ve watched about ten thousand more rom-coms than I ever wanted to see because of you, and I can definitely say that they’re all bullshit.”
“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.”