“Love’s weird,” he says, and with a wave he leaves.
I focus on the article, which runs through all the Drew Danforth facts we already know. He got famous when he was on a long-running sitcom about a restaurant called, creatively, Mike’s Restaurant. Everyone called it the next Cheers, and it was just as popular. He played the sweet restaurant owner who pined after a beautiful waitress for four seasons before they finally got together. He even won an Emmy for it (although, surprise, he didn’t attend the ceremony and had his then-seven-year-old brother accept the award for him via satellite). After that, he bulked up and tried to become an action star in some movie called The Last Apocalypse, which featured a lot of helicopter explosions. It was a huge bomb (the box-office-disaster kind, not the kind that blew up that helicopter), and I guess now he’s trying his hand at rom-coms.
The article, of course, repeatedly refers to him as a “funnyman” and a “prankster,” because I guess that’s another way to say “an overgrown man-child who doesn’t appreciate his enormous privilege.”
“Well, whether or not you go after Drew Danforth, I still think you should try to get on the set of this movie,” Chloe says. “You never know what could happen.”
“Do you ever intend to get back to work?” Nick asks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and a small smile playing across his lips. I’ve long suspected that he and Chloe secretly have a thing for each other, which, in true rom-com fashion, is apparent in their constant bickering. In fact, although I would never tell either of them this, my screenplay is based on their relationship. He’s the gruff, rough-around-the-edges tough guy, and she’s the quirky, fun girl who teaches him to look on the bright side . . .
I stop daydreaming long enough to notice that they’re both staring at me. “She’s doing the thing,” Chloe says, glancing at Nick. Then, one eyebrow raised, she asks me, “Were you imagining your life as a rom-com again?”
“No,” I say smugly. I don’t bother to tell her that I was actually imagining her life as a rom-com.
Then Tobin drops several mugs and, in the ensuing chaos, everyone forgets about me, and I’m able to get back to writing about easy ways to freshen your diaper pail.
But I can’t stop thinking about Chloe’s insistence that I get a job on set. I have no idea how that would even be possible, but I don’t get my hopes up, because at this point, dating Drew Danforth seems more likely.
Chapter Three
Have you ever felt like you’re not the main character in your own story?
I look at Chloe and I think, now there’s someone who could carry a movie. I mean, I am writing a movie about her, not that she knows that. She’s the one who’s cute and quirky, with those adorable braids and her vintage clothing and the various schemes she’s constantly getting herself into. Not that Chloe even believes in true love for herself, but she meets people everywhere.
Of course, I don’t know if they count as meet-cutes if they’re only ever around for a week or two of sex, but that’s one of the many ways Chloe and I are different. I believe in long-term relationships, and she’s the proud queen of the one-night stand.
Chloe and I walk home together after her shift. She lives in our carriage house, which is a pretentious way to say she lives in the small apartment over the detached garage. She’s been living there since we were undergrads, when she claimed that the nominal rent Uncle Don was charging her was way less expensive than the dorms, but I know the truth. She moved in there because she wanted to be able to watch over Uncle Don and me and occasionally make us her special Knock You Naked Cheesecake (it’s just a name and has never actually knocked anyone’s clothing off, although I certainly wouldn’t put it past Chloe to seduce someone with cheesecake).
The truth is, Uncle Don and I could never afford to live here—in this exorbitantly high-priced neighborhood, in this giant brick house with its million rooms and cozy front porch and lovely landscaped lawn—if my mom hadn’t owned it outright when she died. I don’t exactly make a ton of money from writing, and Don only works part-time, but since we don’t have a mortgage, it works. Uncle Don and I quickly fell into a