couldn’t do that,” Nick says. “I’ll just stay wimpy and skinny. It’s fine.”
“You’re not wimpy,” Don says, giving Nick a pat on the back. “Every body type deserves love.”
“Oh, my God, you guys,” I hiss. “I’m trying to focus on what I’m going to say to Drew, and I can’t when you’re having a body-positivity workshop behind me.”
“Annie,” Drew says once he makes his way to me. He hops over the gate. “What are—how did you—?”
I look at his face, at those soft brown eyes, his hair that’s gelled a little more than usual to stand up to the slight wind today, those lips that I spent hours kissing, and everything I wanted to say floats away like a piece of paper in the breeze.
“I wanted to tell you something,” I squeak. And then I clear my throat. I didn’t fly all the way from Ohio to New York to give Drew some half-assed, weak declaration of like. I came here to make a declaration of love, dammit.
I look over my shoulder at Chloe, and she gives me a thumbs-up, which is all that I need to go on. Because I know that, Drew or not, I’m not lonely like a rom-com heroine. I have Chloe and Uncle Don, and I always will, even if eventually we don’t all live on the same property.
I turn my face back to Drew, who’s looking at me expectantly.
So I open my mouth and start talking.
“I wanted to have some big speech for this moment, because that’s what this is supposed to be, right? Matthew McConaughey on a bridge telling Kate Hudson not to leave? Adam Sandler singing Drew Barrymore a song? Or Katherine Heigl interrupting a wedding to tell James Marsden that she’s falling in love with him in 27 Dresses?”
“Oh, I love that movie!” says Orange Windbreaker.
“It’s underrated, right?” I say.
“So underrated,” she murmurs.
I look at Drew, the confusion on his face, and remember what I came here to do.
“If this was a movie,” I continue, “I’d have some beautiful, poetic speech that has that one really great line people quote years later. But what I recently found out is . . . this isn’t a movie. My life is just my life. Maybe it doesn’t have that perfect narrative arc or characters who are just lovably quirky. Maybe it has some people who have actual flaws, like the really big glaring kind. Maybe people are going to let me down, and I’m going to let them down, and things aren’t necessarily going to end with a slow pan out and a sweeping instrumental score. And that’s okay! Because what I’m trying to say is . . .”
I take a look around me. Orange Windbreaker is looking at me in wonder, her mouth open like everyone else in the crowd, including . . .
Oh, God, there are camerapeople here now. I look into the camera for a second and freeze, then shake my head. I have to keep going.
I look back at Drew and block out everything else—the crowd, the camera, my fear—and keep going.
“Maybe not everything about romantic comedies is real, and maybe Tom Hanks is just an actor playing fictional characters. But what they taught me about love, and about being honest, and about growing as a person . . . that feels pretty real to me. And I’d rather have you than Tom Hanks any day, because . . .”
I take a deep breath and say what I came here to say.
“I love you. It’s ridiculous and we haven’t known each other for long and I know there’s a chance it won’t work out, but I love you, all right? I’m ready to move out of Columbus, and not because I’m following you like a creepy stalker or an obsessed fan,” I say, shooting a pointed look to the security guard, “but because I want to take a chance. I want to work in movies and I want to do scary things and I want to be with you.”
Drew still doesn’t say anything, and a bloom of worry blossoms in my chest. This was a mistake. He’s going to turn me down and it’s on camera and this is going to go viral. Now I’m The Girl Who Got Turned Down by Drew Danforth on Live TV, and this rejection is going to follow me around for the rest of my life.
But then I see that he’s smiling—looking right at me and grinning, the kind of grin someone has