comfortable rhythm after he moved in. And then we both just . . . stayed.
Which is yet another reason I couldn’t possibly fathom ever leaving Columbus. Not only do I have a giant house I don’t have to pay for, but Uncle Don and I are all we’ve got.
I mean, besides Dungeon Master Rick.
Chloe pokes me in the side with her elbow, which is surprisingly bony for someone who’s wearing a huge down coat. “You’re being a terrible conversationalist.”
“Sorry,” I say, opening the wrought iron gate that leads to our small front yard. “Do you want to have dinner with us? Uncle Don’s cooking tonight.”
“It is literally impossible for me to say no,” Chloe says. “My apartment is full of nothing but snickerdoodles, and I think I might barf if I don’t eat a real dinner soon.”
The smell of garlic and onion greets me as soon as we walk in the door. “I’m home! Chloe’s here!” I call.
“Great!” Uncle Don says as we walk into the kitchen. As usual, he’s wearing a novelty Star Wars T-shirt, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t own any other kind of shirt. Sometimes Don feels less like my fifty-something uncle and more like a twelve-year-old boy who got a gift card to Hot Topic and went wild. “I made enough Cajun chicken pasta to feed an army of Orcs!”
“I don’t know what that means,” Chloe says, taking a seat at the island. “But I’ll gladly partake.”
Uncle Don heaps generous portions onto our plates, and we dig in.
“So how was your day?” Uncle Don says, standing across the island from us and chewing with his mouth open. It’s a habit I hate, but he spends most of his time with other men, and all of my attempts to make him more marriageable have failed. “You write about unclogging toilets?”
“Freshening diaper pails,” I say, pointing my fork at him.
“Forget diaper pails! God, now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say, but I mean it!” Chloe says. “Did you hear about the movie that’s filming here next week?”
“In my house?” Uncle Don asks.
I stifle a laugh. Again, perhaps the result of most of his socialization occurring with other fifty-something men, Uncle Don takes everything very literally.
“No, here in German Village!” Chloe says. She whips out her phone and reads from the Dispatch article for the second time today. “Directed by Tommy Crisante, the romantic comedy stars—”
Uncle Don stops with his fork in midair. “Tommy Crisante’s the director?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask. “Do you like his movies or something?”
“He was my college roommate!” Uncle Don says, throwing his hands in the air. “Freshman year at OSU! He had the top bunk! And then he transferred out to go to NYU.”
Chloe slams her hands on the island, making both Don and me jump. “You guys. Don. Knows. Tommy. Crisante.”
Don nods and takes another bite. “I do.”
She turns to me, a far-too-enthusiastic look in her eyes. “This is it, Annie. This is fate. This is a sign from a loving universe that you are supposed to work on this movie and/or fall in love with a movie star.”
“Chloe, how does that—” I start, but she’s not listening to me.
“Don, can you get Annie a job on set?” Chloe asks, turning to him.
“Right,” I say. “Because that’s how this works.”
Uncle Don shrugs. “Tommy and I haven’t talked in a few years, but I can try.”
“Uncle Don,” I say cautiously. “Seriously, I don’t have any experience, and I don’t expect—”
But he has his phone out, and he’s scrolling through his contacts, muttering, “Crisante, Crisante, Crisante . . . there he is.”
“Uncle Don, please!” I yelp as Chloe whispers, “Yessssss!”
“Tommy?” Uncle Don asks, putting his hand over his ear to block us out. “Yeah, it’s Don! I know, long time no talk!”
And with that, he walks into the pantry and shuts the door.
“What the hell?” I turn to Chloe and smack her arm.
She rubs her hands together, as if she’s a cartoon villain executing an evil plan. “You’re welcome.”
“For what? For embarrassing me in front of Tommy Crisante? For forever making my name synonymous with ‘girl who makes her uncle beg for a job for her’?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Chloe says, taking another bite of pasta.
“You’re calling me dramatic? You literally just rubbed your hands together like you’re a bad guy in Scooby-Doo. And how have I never known that Uncle Don is besties with a major American film director?” I ask, even though I know it’s because Uncle Don pretty much watches