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.
I may not have a secret pen pal, but what I do have is a man who demonstrated clear interest in me in my bedroom before having a lengthy conversation with my uncle. Yes, Drew and I had a rough time getting to know each other, but so did Tom and Meg, and look what happened there. A romantic kiss in the park, while a golden retriever ran around them. I’m not saying things with Drew are necessarily going to end like that . . . but, well, I haven’t spent all this time waiting for Tom Hanks for nothing.
It’s ridiculous, I think as I approach the coffee shop, all of German Village lit up and glowing in the dark, that someone decided twinkle lights are Christmas-only things, when we desperately need them to get through the bleakness of the post-holiday winter. January is almost over, but we still have February and March and possibly April full of darkness and snow and ice. Twinkle lights should be everywhere all the time.
That’s what I’m thinking about when I open the door, the bell jingling to announce my arrival over a Hall and Oates song.
“Twinkle lights!” I announce, and Chloe looks up from the textbook she’s reading at the counter.
“Is that your new greeting?” she asks. “Idiosyncratic, but I kinda like it.”
“Why don’t you have twinkle lights, Nick?” I ask, walking to the counter. “Don’t you think they’d really add something?”
“Yeah,” he says, handing me a cup. “Extra cost to my electricity bill. Here, try this lavender hot chocolate Chloe made.”
“It’s good, right?” Chloe shuts her textbook, then leans over the counter and peers at my face, gauging my reaction. “Like, Nick should put it on the menu, shouldn’t he?”
I take a sip. “I like it. It’s—”
Gary appears from behind me and grabs the cup from me. He takes a drink and says, “You know, I thought this was gonna taste like potpourri, but I actually like it.”
“Gary,” Nick says patiently. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t sample other customers’ food and drinks.”
“This isn’t a customer,” Gary says, handing the drink back to me. “This is Annie.”
“I’m not even offended,” I say. “Just think about the twinkle lights,