Waiting for Tom Hanks - Kerry Winfrey Page 0,65

to keep his hand high. He’s wearing a strong and spicy cologne that actually smells good, even though typically I hate cologne on men.

But Brody’s nice-smelling cologne aside, he isn’t who I care about tonight. No matter how much I lie to myself, I know I’m looking for Drew.

Which is why I think he might be a figment of my imagination when he materializes right in front of us, looking down at Brody with steely eyes. “Hey,” he says.

“Annie’s here,” Brody says, his hand dropping from my back.

“I can see that,” Drew says, and still no one’s looking at me.

“Um,” I say, and both of their heads swivel to look at me. “Am I missing something?”

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” Brody says, shooting Drew another look. And then he’s gone.

Drew finally turns to me, and the second his eyes hit my face, he smiles, and it makes my heart break open. This is how I feel when Tom Hanks says, “Don’t cry, Shopgirl.” This is how I feel when Bill Pullman proposes to Sandra Bullock. This is how I feel when Billy Crystal gives Meg Ryan that impassioned New Year’s Eve speech about all of her weird and wonderfully annoying quirks. There’s a lifetime of wishing and hoping and dreaming in each one of Drew’s smiles.

You came here to tell him about your screenplay, I remind myself, so I say, “Hey, can we sit down for a sec?”

I head toward a high-top table while he grabs us drinks from the bar. As I wait for him, I look around the room, which is packed full. I see Brody taking a selfie with a cute girl and Tarah laughing with Angela, the wardrobe woman, about something. Even though this is just one movie, and even though my main contribution to it was keeping Tommy fed and hydrated, I’m still proud. I did it, Mom, I say in my head. I made a movie.

“Annie!”

I look to my left and see Tommy, giant beer stein in hand, his mouth wide open in a genuine smile.

“What are you doing over here all by yourself?” he asks in mock disapproval. “This is a party!”

“Drew’s getting us drinks,” I say, pointing toward the crowded bar.

“Ah,” Tommy says, then takes the seat across from me. “We have a second, then. So Drew told me you’ve got a screenplay.”

Warmth floods to my face, the way it does whenever anyone finds out I’m a writer. It’s so personal, to have someone else know that I like to sit by myself and transfer my deepest, darkest desires to the page. “Um, yeah.”

Tommy throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me? We work on this movie together for two weeks and you don’t even mention you’re a writer?”

I shake my head. “I mean . . . it’s not . . . it’s not finished.”

Tommy leans forward, looking at my face until my eyes meet his. “Send it to me. I wanna read it, okay? No obligations, no strings, I just wanna see it.”

I nod quickly, my heartbeat speeding up. “Okay.”

Tommy takes another drink of his beer. “But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

My stomach drops as I think he’s about to fire me, but then I remember that filming is over.

“What are you doing after this?”

I pause. “Going home?”

Tommy shakes his head. “No, I mean after this job. What do you have lined up next?”

Startled, I laugh. “I hadn’t even really thought about it. It’s not like another movie’s going to film in Columbus anytime soon, so . . .”

Tommy narrows his eyes and looks irritated for the first time I can remember. “You’re good at this job, Annie, and a good assistant is hard to find. Sometimes even when you do find one, they leave you for an underwear model.”

“Truer words,” I say, assuming this conversation is over.

“I’m not saying you can’t work in entertainment at all in Columbus, but if you want to get serious, you need to go where they make TV and movies. You’ve gotta move to a bigger city.”

“Thank you for the suggestion,” I say, even though, in true Tommy fashion, he didn’t suggest so much as demand. “But I don’t think I can leave Columbus.”

Tommy leans forward and looks into my eyes with a level of scrutiny I find unnerving. “What’s here for you?”

I blanch. “Uh, my life? Don?”

“Nah,” Tommy says, grimacing like he’s got a bitter taste in his mouth. “Donny doesn’t

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