Barry,” I say with a sigh.
“Hey! Barry, Gary. Our names rhyme. Gotta be a good sign.” Gary gives me a wink.
“Wow,” Barry says when I finally sit back down. “You were in there for a while.”
I think about explaining to Barry that remarking on the length of someone’s bathroom visit isn’t appropriate first-date small talk, but I decide against it.
“Do you, by chance, live in a houseboat?” I ask, hoping against hope that something can turn this around.
Barry shakes his head, unperturbed by this line of questioning. “Actually, I’m a proponent of what I refer to as ‘un-dwelling.’ I have no permanent address.”
“So where do you live?” I ask, then bite my lower lip.
He opens his arms in a gesture that takes in his surroundings. “Right here. I mean, not in this coffee shop. But everywhere . . . I’m a resident of this world.”
I nod slowly, and he adds, “Specifically, right now I’m sleeping on my ex-girlfriend’s couch.”
I can’t stop myself from grimacing. “Listen, Barry, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, but I don’t think we have a connection.”
He nods. “I get that a lot.”
“I’m gonna get home, but . . .” I start to feel guilty about cutting this short and want to offer to get him another glass of water, but I notice his is still full. “Was there something wrong with your water?”
Barry shakes his head. “The thing about fluoride is—”
I cut him off. “Have a nice night.” I give Nick a wave as I leave, the doorbell jingling. It’s just dark, the January evenings getting lighter and lighter as we make our way slowly toward spring, and I can’t help but replay my conversation with Drew. Mostly because I don’t want to replay my conversation with Barry (what I wouldn’t give to not think about him getting half-eaten bagels out of the dumpster), but also because I regret what I said—or at least how I said it. He seemed genuinely remorseful about his anti-rom-com comments, which ultimately weren’t that big of a deal—I mean, he’s allowed to have whatever opinions he wants about romantic comedies! They’re only movies!
But I know in my heart that they’re not only movies to me. They’re my family, memories of my mom, and comfort. And more than anything else, they’re what I told Drew: hope. Hope that someone like me, someone who’s lonely and searching, can find what she’s looking for.
I can’t expect Drew Danforth to understand that, I think as I walk in the front door. He’s spent his life surrounded by beautiful women who stroke his ego and, presumably, other things. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—get it.
I text Chloe to ask her why the hell she thought Barry would be a good idea and turn on Sleepless in Seattle. Barry and all real-life men may be disappointments, but you know who has never (and, God willing, will never) let me down? Tom Hanks. And I’d rather watch him slowly fall in love for the five hundredth time than think about my own nonexistent love life right now.
Chapter Ten
Chloe walks to set with me the next morning. I have to get to work at the crack of dawn to help Tommy with whatever he needs, so for once we’re on an almost identical schedule.
“I don’t really know Barry that well,” Chloe admits as we walk down the brick sidewalk. “He was in one of my business classes, and I had his number because we worked on a group project. He seemed nice!”
“Him being nice wasn’t the problem,” I say. “Lots of men are nice, and that doesn’t mean I want to date them. Tobin, Gary, and Nick are all nice. Even Dungeon Master Rick is nice. That doesn’t mean I should date any of them.”
Chloe makes a face. “Gary’s, like, sixty and Tobin’s about twenty. And isn’t Dungeon Master Rick kind of an asshole?”
I notice she doesn’t say anything about why Nick is undateable, but I just shrug.
“Maybe you guys got off on the wrong foot,” Chloe says. “Maybe you should give him another chance, and he’ll smell better next time!”
“Chloe,” I say, stopping outside Nick’s. “If you even have to specify that someone might smell better next time, that’s a pretty good indication that there shouldn’t be a next time.”
She sighs and shoves her hands into her coat pockets. “You’re right. I just . . . if I say something, will you promise not to get mad?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “That depends on what it