was a tiny kid, and even though it’s covered with a dingy rose print that looks like it’s straight out of the ’90s, neither Uncle Don nor I can bear to replace it.
This is where I watched all these movies with my mom. This is where she told me, while we were watching Sleepless in Seattle, to always keep hoping for a brighter tomorrow. At the time I was upset because I’d failed a spelling test (my spelling has since improved, thanks), and she, as usual, had found a way to compare everything to a romantic comedy.
“Tom Hanks is facing his darkest day here,” she said, staring at the screen. “But he doesn’t give up. And maybe not everything gets fixed—his wife doesn’t come back to life—but he’s happy again, eventually.”
Of course, that was just something to say to a small child who was upset about flunking a test—something that, ultimately, didn’t end up mattering all that much. What I wouldn’t give to hear what she had to say about this date.
But I do have Uncle Don, I remind myself as I get up and walk into the kitchen, where he’s banging a bunch of pots and pans around. Our kitchen probably wouldn’t be very impressive if it was on one of those house-selling shows where people always want “open floorplans” and “chef’s kitchens” even though they probably only cook dinner, like, once every two weeks. I mean, if this kitchen was on House Hunters, a disapproving wife would definitely tell her husband, “This entire thing needs to be gutted,” while a hopeful Realtor lies to them about how easy that would be.
But I love this kitchen as much as I love the rest of this house, because it’s suffused in memory and drenched in comfort. Sure, it doesn’t look like a kitchen Meryl Streep would use in a Nancy Meyers movie, and the cabinets are a deep green color instead of a trendy white, but it’s still where so many conversations and meals have happened. It’s home.
“Headed out?” Don asks, dumping chopped carrots and onions into a pot.
“I have a date,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
“Good for you!” Uncle Don says.
“Uncle Don,” I say, leaning against the island. “Blind dates are the worst. This is someone Chloe set me up with, and I don’t even know anything about him.”
“But you’re putting yourself out there,” he says. “And that’s what’s important.”
Right. Like Uncle Don knows anything about putting himself out there. He’s been just as frozen in time as I have.
“Oh,” he says, “I wanted to let you know that I’m gonna be gone next weekend. The guys and I are going to meet up with our friend Tyler at a con in Chicago.”
“Thanks for letting me know—now I can plan a huge rager,” I say.
“So how’s the job going?” Don asks, changing the subject.
I shrug. “Pretty good. Tommy’s not a bad boss. He’s demanding but not mean.”
Don nods. “He snores, you know.”
“I’m sure that information will come in useful on set.”
“I invited him to the next D&D night, but he’s pretty busy with the movie and everything,” Don says, stroking his chin. “Did you know he was a huge gamer in college?”
“Uh, no,” I say, because Tommy and I have mostly been discussing work, not his youthful enthusiasm for tabletop gaming.
“How’s everything else going?” Don asks. “Do you like the movie?”
“It’s hard to think about it like a movie when I see them filming bits and pieces out of order,” I say. “But yeah. Everyone seems to know what they’re doing, and . . .”
I think about Drew, and how he actually doesn’t know the first thing about rom-coms. Okay, so maybe not everyone knows what they’re doing.
“Whoa,” Uncle Don says.
“What?”
“You look like you just saw an abominable yeti,” Don says, and I’m assuming that means the look on my face when I thought about Drew wasn’t exactly a happy one.
I shake my head. “I have to get going or I’m going to be late,” I say.
But it turns out I shouldn’t have bothered, because Barry is twenty minutes late.
Five minutes late is basically on time. Ten minutes is fine. Fifteen minutes is really pushing it. But twenty? That’s almost half an hour, almost the length of a sitcom episode, and it’s getting into “definitely send a text, possibly even reschedule” territory. From my usual table, I watch customers walk in and out. Out the window, I see the Coatless Wonder stroll by, oblivious to the flurries swirling down