Carter squints. “I think that might be his own weird way of hitting on you?”
I keep shaking my head, as if that will make everything he said go away. Against my better judgment, I turn to look at Drew, who’s sitting at his corner table and reading a newspaper—a newspaper, instead of reading his news on his phone like every other human being in the world. The edges of his lips slightly crook up at the edges, leading me to believe that he’s all too aware I’m watching him.
“No,” I say, turning back around to face Carter. “Not possible.”
“This is not a question I thought I’d have to ask, but since I’ve been totally honest with you so far, I’m gonna go ahead and ask it.” Carter leans forward. “Do you and the star of our movie, Drew Danforth, have something going on?”
I smile. “No. I can emphatically say that we do not. We went to McDonald’s once because Tommy made us, and that’s the extent of it. I am a hundred percent mentally, emotionally, and physically present here on this coffee date with you.”
Carter smiles. “Good. Because I’m having a good time, despite the fact that multiple men have apparently challenged me for your affections.”
“Most of the time it’s not like that for me. Most of the time I’m watching Netflix at home in my pajamas.” I cringe. “I didn’t mean to make myself sound pathetic.”
Carter laughs that deep, throaty laugh again, the one that makes me feel like I’m curled up in front of a fire. “Trust me, nothing you say could make you sound pathetic to me.”
I smile. “I’m having a good time, too, by the way.”
And I mean it when I say it, and I don’t even spend the rest of the night aware of Drew Danforth in the corner behind me, reading the paper with that infuriating smile on those infuriating lips.
* * *
• • •
I’m not a huge texter. Sometimes Uncle Don and I text each other reminders of what to pick up at the grocery store, or Chloe texts me about weird things Nick says, or one of my friends from college reminds me about an inside joke that feels a million years away now. But texting, with its unromantic immediacy, has never been my preferred form of communication.
So that’s why I’m extra surprised when I get a text from an unknown number, and it isn’t a reminder about a sale at Loft or a coupon for a pizza or yet another overdue book notice from the library. It’s also not Carter, although of course he sent me a considerate follow-up text after our date to make sure I got home okay and let me know he had a good time. It’s from a reporter at Hollywood Gossip.
Hi, this is Steve at Hollywood Gossip. Could you comment on your recent sightings with Drew Danforth? Thanks
It’s the emoji that really puts it over the edge. What is it about strange men that they think they need to add emojis to their texts? I don’t know this man; I don’t know how to interpret his emoji usage! I’ve never talked to him, and he’s assuming I’m going to send him personal details because he included a smiley face?
Another text pops up.
Of course, we do pay.
Wait, I’m supposed to share details about Drew for money? I laugh as I think about texting this guy Drew’s McDonald’s order. Probably not the hot dish he was expecting.
But what this means is that a) someone saw us together, b) someone presumably took a picture, and c) someone identified me. And gave this reporter my number. It’s kind of messed up.
I ignore the text, obviously, but not before I get another text . . . this time, from Chloe.
Have you checked Hollywood Gossip today?
I don’t know why she’s phrasing it like that. Other than my shameful researching-Drew binge, I don’t make a habit of reading gossip websites, and to the best of my knowledge, neither does she. Still, I pull up the page and see . . .
A photo of me.
Well, it’s not just me. It’s Drew and me sitting in our McDonald’s booth. One of those phone-wielding teenagers must have snapped our picture and sent it in.
“Damn those youths!” I mutter, then feel approximately one million years old.
There are only a few pictures, most of them kind of blurry, clearly taken by a kid who was startled to see a movie star inside a fast-food place. There’s one where I’m unflatteringly shoving a French fry in my mouth, which I don’t appreciate, but you can only see the sides of our faces, so I can’t complain that much. But it’s the caption that really gets to me.
Even Hollywood stars need fast food once in a while! Drew Danforth relaxes with local girl Annie Cassidy in Columbus on the set of the new Tommy Crisante film. Is he finally moving on from Gillian? Let’s hope so!
How do they know my name? Possibilities spin through my mind. Did Drew tell them? Does he have some sort of Kardashian-like setup where he leaks stuff to the tabloids? What’s going on?
I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Before closing the site, I take one more look at the pictures. There’s a reason people don’t do professional photo shoots in McDonald’s—that overhead lighting is far from flattering—but I zoom in on Drew’s face. He’s grinning at me, looking genuinely happy, his eyes on my face. I think of those old pictures of my mom and dad, the ones where he’s looking at her like she’s the most wonderful woman on the planet. In fact, if you didn’t know Drew was an actor who gets paid to look at women like this, you might even think there was something between us.
* * *
• • •
It’s impossible to talk to Drew on set that morning, which isn’t surprising since he spends all his time either acting or hiding, and anyway Tommy sends me on about fifteen coffee runs.
“Our little internet star!” Chloe says as she hands me yet another black coffee.
“How has this guy not combusted yet?” Nick asks. “Is it possible to OD on caffeine?”
“Once I drank five espressos in a row,” Tobin says. “All that happened was I finished a paper and then barfed.”
“Good to know, Tobin,” Chloe says with a grimace. “Have you asked Drew about the picture yet?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been able to talk to him. I don’t know what the deal is or how that picture got on Hollywood Gossip.”
Chloe shrugs.
“Wait a second,” Tobin asks. “Are you guys talking about Steve from Hollywood Gossip?”
Chloe and I both whip around to stare at him. Nick ignores us all.
“Yes,” I say slowly. There’s absolutely no way Tobin reads Hollywood Gossip because the only famous people he ever talks about are professional skateboarders. “How do you know about this?”
“Okay, so some guy called here?” Tobin says, his eyes darting between us like he’s not sure what’s happening. “And I guess he knew Drew Danforth came here sometimes? And he asked if I knew who he went to McDonald’s with?”
“You didn’t,” I whisper.
“So I was like, sure, her name’s Annie Cassidy and then he asked what your job was, but . . . I couldn’t remember.” Tobin shrugs.