“I’m fairly certain Tarah isn’t Drew’s sister.”
“It’s just an example. What I’m saying is that this is your rom-com misunderstanding, and you’ll resolve it and then ride off into the sunset and get married. There aren’t even any pictures, so who knows if this is true? It’s an anonymous tip.”
I shake my head. “Thanks for the pep talk, Chlo.”
Then Tobin wraps me in a hug from the other side, and Gary says, “Oh, all right,” and hugs all three of us. I steal a glance at Nick, and although he would never join in on a group hug, even he looks at me with eyes full of sympathy. It’s all too much.
“Actually,” I say, wriggling out of the hug, “I have to get home. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Okay,” Chloe says, watching me with concern. “I can come over tonight if you want?”
“Thanks, but I’m just gonna work and go to bed,” I say, and then I give her one more hug. “Bye, guys.”
The bell jingles as I walk out the door and into the night, where the street that looked so charming and lit up before now looks dingy and dark. This is it, I tell myself. This is your life.
It felt good to think, even for a day, that something magical could happen to me. That a movie star could come to town, and he could not only be good-looking but also sweet and sad and complicated, and that we would have a connection. But this is real life, not a movie, I remind myself as my boots hit the brick sidewalk. Drew Danforth is probably used to dating whoever he wants, whenever he wants, and anyway he’ll be gone in a couple of days.
And then, my sadness starts to morph into something more akin to rage. Because I broke up with Carter over this jerk. Sure, Carter didn’t make my heart flutter, but maybe that’s not what I wanted. Maybe I don’t need to feel like I’m constantly having heart palpitations! Maybe I should’ve gone for someone who was strong, steady, dependable, and I don’t know, NOT A MOVIE STAR.
“This is exactly why Hugh Grant should’ve stayed away from Julia Roberts,” I mutter under my breath as I step into the house.
“What’s that?” Uncle Don calls from the couch, where he’s working through yet another rewatch of the Merlin television series.
“Nothing!” I call as I hang up my coat.
I head to my room and stop as soon as I walk in. The thought that filled me with giddy elation this morning—“Drew was in this room!”—now fills me with incandescent fury. If I’d never met him, maybe what I had with Carter would’ve been enough. Oh, poor hypothetical Annie, forced to date a hot man with big arms who knows how to properly light a film set. How would I ever have survived?
But no. I had to meet stupid, flirty prankster Drew Danforth, a guy who will pull on your hair and make you think you’re having a movie moment even though he’s probably just thinking about making out with an impossibly beautiful actress.
I look at myself in the mirror, slumping when I see the sad remains of the lipstick I hopefully put on earlier, back when I imagined it would be smeared all over Carter’s face by the end of the night.
The only thing that cheers me up is the buoying effect of my own anger, which reminds me that I’ll be able to tell Drew exactly what I think of him tomorrow in a speech worthy of a movie.
“I hate you, Drew Danforth,” I whisper to my reflection with a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
In most romantic comedies, the first scene establishes why the female lead needs a change in her life. Maybe she’s barking orders at an assistant and sleeping at the office, so we know she’s a workaholic who needs to find love! Or maybe she’s on yet another terrible date, so we know she wants to get married and she needs to find love! Or maybe she lives alone and watches TV while eating dinner, so we know she’s lonely and she needs to find love!
The common denominator here (besides, you know, the whole “finding love” thing) is that no romantic comedy heroine’s life is perfect when the film starts. In fact, it’s usually pretty screwed up. Maybe it’s sad, or maybe it’s lacking meaning, or maybe there’s just a lot of bad sex. Either way, something is off, and we find out what it is right away, usually set to music and possibly in the form of a montage.
I thought I was already in my love story—at first I thought Carter could be my perfect man, and then I thought he was a rom-com red herring, meant to distract me from Drew. But I was wrong both times, because my love story hasn’t even begun yet. This is all backstory, yet another thing in a seemingly endless list of humiliations that will endear me to viewers, and while that might sound disheartening, it’s not. It means that my meet-cute and happy ending are still out there, waiting, and they’ll mean so much more because of everything I’ve gone through.
I just have to wait.
I walk downstairs, my ankle supporting my weight like a champ, and see Uncle Don standing with his arms crossed, staring at the Chewbacca costume spread out on the floor.
I stand beside him and look down at the costume. “What are we looking at?”
He looks over at me. “Is it a cliché to dress as Chewbacca for a con?”
I tilt my head. “Sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason . . . because they work. Maybe it’s just a great costume.”
He nods. “That’s what I thought. Dungeon Master Rick told me he thought it was hacky, but he’s only five foot six. I’m six foot two.”
“A much better height for Chewbacca,” I agree.
“The guys and I are leaving tomorrow morning for Chicago,” Don reminds me. “But tonight’s still D&D night.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late.” I head into the kitchen to grab a banana. “You don’t want to be crammed into Paul’s Subaru with a tired, cranky Dungeon Master Rick.”
I walk back into the room and see Uncle Don gathering the costume up off the floor. “You know what? I’m gonna go for it. I refuse to let Dungeon Master Rick get in my head.”
“Stay strong,” I say, toasting him with my banana. “Well, I have to get to work. See you tonight.”
As I walk down the street, I can’t stop myself from humming. After an endless winter, today’s warm weather feels like a gift made especially for me. The sun beats down on my head, and the sad piles of gray snow are turning into puddles. It’s easy to imagine I’m Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, walking purposefully with a Starbucks cup while the Cranberries play.
Except that I would never go to Starbucks because I wouldn’t want to hurt Nick’s feelings.
“How about this weather?” I burst through the door to Nick’s, the bell jingling in my wake. I slam my hands on the counter. “God, I love Kenny Loggins.”
Chloe side-eyes me. “Shush. Nick hasn’t noticed that I put on an all-Kenny playlist this morning, so don’t bring attention to it. Are you . . . okay?”
“Never better.” I smile. “One for me and one for Tommy, please.”
She fills two cups, still watching me out of the corner of her eye. The dulcet tones of “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend’” start playing, and I can’t help swaying back and forth.