But my daydream ends when I realize I’m not kissing Carter’s lips at all; I’m kissing his cheek, because he turned his head at the last minute.
“Annie,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders and pushing me gently away.
“Whoa,” I say. “Did I—did I misread something? I thought you wanted to kiss me. I thought that’s what was going on.”
“I do want to kiss you.”
“Oh no,” I say, placing a hand over my heart. “Am I . . . Barry?”
Carter laughs. “You’re not Barry.”
I press my hands to my hot cheeks, trying to cool them down. “I’m a total Barry. You don’t even want to be here tonight, do you?”
“Hey.” Carter puts a hand on my arm until I look at him, and the understanding in his blue eyes calms me down immediately. “I want to kiss you. I really do. But I have to ask you something first.”
“Okay,” I say with a little apprehension. It’s not like I have a ton of kissing experience, but I don’t think the act is usually preceded by an interview portion.
“I’m not trying to freak you out or anything, but you know I’m older than you.”
“Late-thirties isn’t that old.”
He winces. “Mid-thirties, okay?”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I’m having fun hanging out with you, and I think you’re having fun, too, right?”
I nod.
“But at my age, I can’t just have fun forever. I’m not asking you to marry me after a couple of dates or anything, but I have a kid. I can’t keep dating someone if I don’t think we have a future, so I guess what I’m asking you is . . . are you really into this?”
I freeze, then stare at a random couple coming out of the restaurant. His arm loops around her shoulders and she leans into him with the comfort of two people who’ve been together for a long time and plan to stay together. It looks nice. I glance back at Carter, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and I think about what it would be like to have that sort of life with him. Because the thing is, Carter is great. He’s nice and funny and, okay, super hot in a slightly-older-than-me way. To paraphrase Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, he’s got a head for lighting films and a bod for sin.
But have I ever once fogged up a coffee shop window while fantasizing about those strong, solid, dependable arms ripping off my clothing?
I open my mouth but don’t say anything, my heart breaking just a little as this one possible future dies.
“You can be honest,” Carter says gently.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as deflated as a helium balloon a week after a three-year-old’s birthday party. “I do like you, I swear, but—”
He holds up a hand. “You don’t have to justify yourself, really.”
“It’s just,” I continue trying to justify myself, despite his protest. “You’re great. You’re perfect. You’re literally everything I ever wanted in a man. You own a houseboat.”
“Still not getting why that’s such a thing for you,” Carter says.
But then I stop for a moment and think of the way I felt when Drew and I were alone in my room, when he was talking about my writing and standing so, so close to me and I know that what I feel for Carter is not the same. Sure, it’s absolutely ridiculous to turn down a real-life guy because of a movie star, like saving myself for one of the Jonas Brothers in junior high, but it’s how I feel.
“It just . . . wouldn’t be fair for us to keep going out,” I say quietly.
Carter nods. “I wanted it to work, but I could tell there was something holding you back. I think . . . maybe both of us wanted a connection, so we were trying to force one.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I feel bad for trying to force it.”
“I don’t think either of us should feel bad. We’re just two people trying to find someone . . . there’s nothing wrong with that.”
I nod. “Like Greg Kinnear or Bill Pullman.”
“Um . . . sure?” Carter’s knowledge of rom-coms apparently doesn’t extend to the Ephron canon.
He tilts his head, like he’s weighing what he’s about to say, but then he goes for it. “Listen, Annie. This might be overstepping a bit, since I don’t know if we’re at the level where we can give each other advice, but we’ve been pretty honest in the short time we’ve been hanging out.”
I nod, wondering what he could possibly be about to say.
He ducks his head a little bit to look me directly in my eyes. “If you’re as head over heels for Drew as you seem, you should go for it.”
My jaw drops like I’m a cartoon character. “Excuse me?”
Carter chuckles. “It’s . . . pretty obvious. You guys have something going on.”
I shake my head but don’t say anything.
“I’m not telling you what to do or anything, but I’ve never heard anything bad about Drew. And if you’re lucky enough to connect with someone in a world where that’s pretty hard to find . . . well, I think you should grab life by the balls. Metaphorically speaking.”
It’s alternately thrilling and misery-inducing that my feelings for Drew, the ones I don’t even entirely understand, are being broadcast so loudly that anyone can see them. This is how I felt in junior high when I heard someone talking about my crush (again, one of the Jonas Brothers and no, I don’t remember which one), just ecstatic and alive to even hear his name. But I’m also a little ashamed that I’ve been mooning around like a lovesick teenager.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I ask softly.
Carter shrugs. “The heart wants what it wants.”
“Like Selena Gomez said about Justin Bieber.”
Carter stares blankly at me.
“In her hit song . . . You know what, don’t worry about it,” I mutter.
Carter laughs again. “You’re really something, Annie Cassidy. I’m sorry this didn’t work out.”
“Yeah,” I say as he takes a step away from me. “Me, too.” And I mean it. I am sorry I can’t be with Carter, with his strong arms and his ready-made family and his politeness. It would be so nice to want a life with him. I wish with all my foolish, film-addled heart that I could fall for him, instead of pining over an almost-kiss with a cute and aggressively flirtatious man who recently met Dungeon Master Rick.
“Hey,” I say, just before he turns around. “One last thing.”
Carter stops moving. “Yeah?”
“We call you Sexy Gaffer,” I say. “Drew and I.”
Carter pauses, tilts his head to the side. “You know what? I’m gonna choose to be flattered by that.”
We look at each other for a moment, and then I say, “Bye, Carter.”
“Goodbye, Annie,” he says with a small wave, and then he turns and walks down the sidewalk, not looking back.
* * *
• • •
Since my date with Carter ended sooner than I expected, I head over to—where else—Nick’s. There’s a bounce in my step that you might not expect from someone who essentially got dumped after a mere two dates. But as breakups or almost-breakups go, that was about as good as it gets. I mean, that was a Nora Ephron–level, Greg-Kinnear-and-Meg-Ryan–caliber breakup—just two people who aren’t right for each other, doing what they know they have to do before they move on and find out that Tom Hanks has been their secret pen pal all along.