Waiting for Tom Hanks

by Kerry Winfrey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A rom-com-obsessed romantic waiting for her perfect leading man learns that life doesn’t always go according to a script in this delightfully charming and funny novel.

Annie Cassidy dreams of being the next Nora Ephron. She spends her days writing screenplays, rewatching Sleepless in Seattle, and waiting for her movie-perfect meet-cute. If she could just find her own Tom Hanks — a man who’s sweet, sensitive, and possibly owns a houseboat — her problems would disappear, and her life would be perfect. But Tom Hanks is nowhere in sight.

When a movie starts filming in her neighborhood and Annie gets a job on set, it seems like a sign. Then Annie meets the lead actor, Drew Danforth, a cocky prankster who couldn’t be less like Tom Hanks if he tried. Their meet-cute is more of a meet-fail, but soon Annie finds herself sharing some classic rom-com moments with Drew.

Her Tom Hanks can’t be an actor who’s leaving town in a matter of days...can he?

Release date: June 11, 2019

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 288

Sample

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2018 Kerry Winfrey

 

Chapter One

I just thought I would’ve met Tom Hanks by now.

Not real Tom Hanks, the beloved actor. After all, he’s married to Rita Wilson, and I’m not the sort of monster who would want to break up what is perhaps Hollywood’s one truly perfect union. And anyway, I’m twenty-seven, so he’s a little bit old for me (no offense if you’re reading this, Tom).

The Tom Hanks I thought I’d meet is the Tom Hanks of romantic comedies. The Tom Hanks who starred in Nora Ephron films. The one who wrote about bouquets of sharpened pencils or told radio call-in show hosts how much he missed his wife. The one who lived on an unbelievably luxurious houseboat or called Meg Ryan “shopgirl.” The man with a heart of gold, the one I was meant to be with even if we lived on opposite coasts or owned competing bookstores.

I should have run into him by now, while I’m carrying a large, unwieldy stack of books and he’s hurrying to some important business meeting. Or maybe I should have tripped over my own feet and fallen right into his arms (note to self: start wearing more impractical footwear). Or maybe I should’ve bumped into him while Christmas shopping, when both of us spotted the very last fancy scarf and we each desperately needed to buy it for our own fancy-scarf-wearing relatives. And we would fight and get angry and hurl insults that neither of us really meant, but that underlying passion would translate into some fantastic flirty banter, and then that scarf would get written into our wedding vows in a hilarious-yet-touching surprise that wouldn’t leave a dry eye in the house.

Not that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, or anything.

It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of romantic comedies, and I can’t even blame that on Tom Hanks himself, as much as I would like to pin all of my problems on a celebrity.

No, I blame my mother.

She’s the one who indoctrinated me into the Cult of Ephron, the one who showed me When Harry Met Sally . . . when I was only nine years old and way, way too young to understand what Sally was imitating in that deli scene. She’s the one who spent Saturday nights sobbing over the end of Sleepless in Seattle, showing me that true love sometimes involved a little bit of light stalking and a lot of encouragement from Rosie O’Donnell. She’s the one who introduced me to the charms of Rock Hudson and Doris Day sharing a phone line and being incredibly deceptive in Pillow Talk.

And yes, only one of those films actually stars Tom Hanks, but that’s not the point. Tom Hanks isn’t a person so much as he is a representation of the kind of man I deserve, as my mom told me over and over. “Don’t settle for someone who doesn’t adore you,” she told me. “My favorite thing about your dad was that he worshipped the ground I walked on.”

She was kidding, but only sort of. Anyone who saw a picture of my dad and mom together would know that they were one of those golden couples, the ones who get together and stay together and end up like those old people talking to the camera in When Harry Met Sally . . . about how they met. And they would’ve been, if he hadn’t died when I was just a baby, before I even got a chance to remember him.

My mom died much later, of a heart attack. I have a theory that you can react to tragedy in one of two ways: you either distract yourself from your pain with over-activity, or you make yourself a home inside your pain cocoon. In high school and college, my coping strategy was the former. Instead of thinking about how much I missed my mom, which could easily have been a 24/7 extracurricular, I threw myself into activities, clubs, and projects. I was valedictorian in high school and graduated summa cum laude in college with a degree in film studies. I studied movies, watched approximately one million of them, and dreamed of someday writing my own Nora Ephron style romantic comedy.

But after college, after I was done crossing off every item on my to-do list, my over-activity ground to a halt. I couldn’t bear to leave my childhood home, which my uncle Don moved into after my mom’s death so I wouldn’t have to change schools. I didn’t have anything to do after I hung my graduation robe up in the closet, but I knew one thing: Tom Hanks would be able to solve this.

Again, not Tom Hanks himself, although he does seem like a very smart man, and I’m sure that if he can write a short-story collection or direct the film That Thing You Do! then he could probably figure out a way to fix my life. But in most romantic comedies, the female lead is floundering. Maybe she’s adrift, maybe she’s lonely, maybe she’s a workaholic who needs to learn how to love! But no matter what, she has some sort of dream she’s working toward, and she just can’t figure out how to get there. But then she meets him—Tom Hanks or Rock Hudson or the rapper Common in the way underrated basketball rom-com Just Wright—and it all clicks into place. She figures it out. She gets stronger and smarter and she achieves her dreams, plus she finds love.

But I’m starting to think that the movies I’ve dedicated my life to may have lied to me. Nora Ephron herself may have indirectly lied to me. Tom Hanks, as much as I’ve trusted him, may have lied to me.

Because I have it all: the sympathetic backstory, the montage of humiliations minor and major, unrealized career aspirations, the untamed pre-makeover hair. But still, I wait. Single, lonely, Hanksless.

I can’t help but think that a large part of my current state of Hanklessness is due to the fact that I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman who shares a Victorian house with her uncle.

I let myself into the house as quietly as I can, slipping off my boots to avoid tracking slush through the house. It’s the middle of January, and the Columbus snow long ago ceased to be the sparkling, magical holiday treat it is in so many Hallmark Christmas movies. Now it’s just gray and gross, and it’s depressing to look at it and know there are months left of this. Ohio winters are an endurance test, not necessarily in how much snow you can handle, but in how many gray, sunless days you can take before you flee to a warmer climate.

I hang up my coat and try to creep through the living room and upstairs without being noticed, but then I hear Uncle Don’s voice ring out. “Annie!”

I turn to my right, where four fifty-something men are crowded around our dining room table.

I wave and step into the dining room, which is lined with dark wainscoting and the same red floral wallpaper my mom installed when I was a baby. “Hey, guys.”

This is Uncle Don’s Dungeons and Dragons group. Every Thursday night they meet to—well, honestly, I’m not 100 percent sure what the game entails. I hear snippets—stuff about orcs and werewolves and ice lords—but personally, I wouldn’t know a wizard from a warlock, so I figure this is Uncle Don’s version of book club and try to stay out of it. Mostly I think it’s kind of sweet that these four men have been getting together almost every week for going on twenty years. And other than his part-time job at the gaming store, The Guardtower, Uncle Don doesn’t really get out much, so it’s nice that he has some built-in socialization.

“How was the library, sweet pea?” Uncle Don asks, ignoring the glare from his friend Rick. Rick is the Dungeon Master, aka the boss of the game, which you would know if you saw the shirt he wears every Thursday that proclaims, “When the Dungeon Master smiles, it’s already too late.” I have no idea what this means, but since Dungeon Master Rick hates distractions, I’ve never asked for an explanation.

“Good,” I say. “I got a lot done.”

Even though I’ve been attempting to write my own rom-com for years, right now I’m working as a freelance writer. Well, that makes it sound a little more glamorous than it is, seeing as I write “web content” with titles like, “The Five BEST WAYS to Unclog a Toilet” and “Ten of Jennifer Lawrence’s Hottest Hairdos!” I may not be winning any awards anytime soon, but it pays (and you’d be surprised how often you use that toilet unclogging advice when you live in a house with old pipes).

“What did you write about today?” asks Earl.

“Is it Expired? What to Keep and What to Throw Out!” I say with wide eyes and jazz hands, trying to mimic the excitement of the headline.

“Did I ever tell you guys,” Paul says, wiping his glasses on his shirt, “About that time I accidentally ate a yogurt that expired in 2007?”

“Ugh!” I say as Don asks, “What happened?”

Paul shrugs, putting his glasses back on. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“But he did throw up for the better part of three days,” says Paul’s husband, Earl, who rounds out their gaming foursome. The two of them met through D&D, which would be a great meet-cute for a rom-com if I knew enough about D&D to write it.

“Excuse me,” says Dungeon Master Rick. “But unless the evil gnome that’s currently trapping your party in a cave can be vanquished by dairy, I don’t really want to discuss yogurt right now.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Paul says. “See you later, Annie.”

Uncle Don waves, rolling his eyes at Dungeon Master Rick, who’s already describing the various gnome inventions scattered throughout the cave.

I smile and head upstairs to my room, the same one I’ve had since I was a child. Although it’s changed a little—now I have soft pink walls instead of kitten wallpaper, and framed photos of my parents (and, okay, one of Nora Ephron, too) instead of posters of whatever guy I thought was cute at the time. But other than that, it’s pretty much the same. My twin bed, my refinished antique desk, the green glass lamp that used to belong to my grandma.

In other words, this isn’t the kind of bedroom you can bring a man back to. Other than the regrettable sex I had with my high school boyfriend right after my mom died in the hopes that it would make me feel better (spoiler alert: it did not!), I’ve never even had sex in this room. I mean, how would that even work? Would I introduce a dude to all of the D&D guys, then excuse us with a line like, “Well, I’m going upstairs to try to bone this guy as quietly as possible, but everything in this house squeaks because it’s a million years old, so sorry, I guess!” I don’t even know how a full-size man would fit into that twin bed; his feet would probably hang off the end.

But I haven’t done anything to change my situation, and that’s because I’m still waiting for Tom Hanks. And sure, he hasn’t found me yet, but it’s okay, because I’m just at the beginning of my rom-com, the part with a montage that demonstrates how sad, lonely, and down-on-her-luck our leading lady is.

My Tom Hanks is out there, and I’m not going to settle until I find him.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

“I’m not saying you have to settle,” my best friend Chloe says as she sits down across from me at the wobbly table. “I’m just saying you should give some of these guys a chance.”

Nick’s coffee shop is the perfect place to get some writing done. It’s within walking distance of my house, there are plenty of outlets to plug in my laptop, and the ambient noise of people talking and cups clinking is the perfect soundtrack for working. I guess what I’m saying is that it would be the perfect place to work if Chloe wasn’t a barista there and we didn’t spend most of my work time talking.

Well, she calls herself a barista. Nick Velez, the owner, simply refers to her as an “employee” because words like “barista” and “latte art” make him cringe. Nick’s other employee, Tobin, is a college student who rarely, if ever, shows up on time and usually drops more cups than he serves, but he has a good heart, and Nick keeps him around, despite always threatening to fire him.

“I give every guy I go out with a chance,” I say. “But last guy I went out with smelled like Funyuns.”

Chloe wrinkles her nose. “You mean onions?”

“No,” I say. “That would’ve been better. He smelled specifically like the snack food Funyuns.”

Chloe rolls her eyes. “Okay, well, what about that guy?”

She points to a dude in his late twenties wearing headphones and sitting at a table in the corner. I shake my head.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks, exasperated. “He’s cute!”

“First off, he doesn’t give off ‘lives on a houseboat with his young son’ vibes,” I say. “And secondly, he’s just . . . sitting there. Big deal.”

Chloe stares blankly at me.

“Where’s the intrigue? The mystery? The part where we’re secretly pen pals but also own rival businesses?”

Chloe shakes her head. “I always think you’re exaggerating, but you’re literally in love with a fictional man. You know those movies aren’t real, right? They’re made up! I’ve watched about ten thousand more rom-coms than I ever wanted to see because of you, and I can definitely say that they’re all bullshit.”

“They aren’t!” I start to protest, but Chloe cuts me off.

“I’m not trying to insult them, because I know you love them and I’m sure the rom-com you write is going to be a cinematic masterpiece, but you can’t live your life by their rules. I mean, I don’t let what I watch affect my life.”

“That’s because you mostly watch documentaries about murder,” I point out.

“True. And I guess I have changed a lot of my actions. I don’t wear a ponytail anymore, that’s for sure. Makes it easier for some guy to yank it and pull you into a darkened alley,” she says, pulling a pretend ponytail.

“Just because I’m looking for what I know I deserve doesn’t mean I’m being unrealistic,” I say primly, as if this is all a joke for me, but really it isn’t. I have so little of my mom, but this—her movies, her insistence that I not settle—is what I remember.

“Join the rest of us here on planet Earth,” Chloe whispers, grabbing my hands. “We get free drinks from men and enjoy commitment-less sex. It’s great.”

“I’m not interested in meaningless sex,” I say, trying to focus on my laptop. “I want a connection.”

“Re-download Tinder and I can help you find a connection,” Chloe says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I’m not hearing this,” Nick says from behind the counter, turning on the espresso machine.

“Nick,” Chloe says with a sugary-sweet smile as soon as the machine shuts off. “Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?”

“You mean your suggestion that I change the name of my place?” Nick asks, rubbing one hand over the brown scruff on his chin. Nick’s in his early thirties, lanky, and one of those guys whose face is covered in a perpetual five o’clock shadow, even at ten in the morning. “Nick’s my name. I own the shop. It makes sense.”

Chloe sighs in exasperation, pursing her pink-glossed lips. “Haven’t you ever heard of puns, Nick?”

“I hate puns,” Nick says, handing the espresso to a regular customer named Gary, an older guy who always wears a beat-up Ohio State baseball cap.

“The Daily Grind! Thanks a Latte!” Chloe shouts.

“Brewed Awakening,” says Tobin. Nick shoots him a dirty look.

“Pizza My Heart,” Gary says as he takes a seat, and we all turn to look at him.

“I mean, you’d have to become a pizza place for that one to work,” he says, taking a sip.

Nick shakes his head. “I trusted you, Gary.”

“I think it’s a great suggestion,” Chloe says, beaming at Gary. With her cute blonde milkmaid braid and her flowered apron, she looks like some sort of adorable coffee angel.

“Why are you sitting down, again?” Nick asks. “Instead of, I don’t know, working?”

“I’m on my break!” Chloe says, pulling out her phone. “And hold on, I’m trying to help Annie Cassidy find true love.”

Chloe doesn’t only work at Nick’s, although dealing with Nick’s endearing grumpiness could be considered a full-time job. She also goes to business school, where she’s been taking classes super slowly at night since most of her time and money goes toward her dad and the payments for his memory-care facility. Because I know she’s busy, I try to discourage her from making my quest for love her side hustle, but so far I haven’t had any luck.

“Thank you for your efforts,” I say, “but that isn’t how this works. I’m not going to find my Tom Hanks by actively looking for him, which is why all the dates you’ve set me up on or that I’ve found through whatever app you made me download that week have been miserable failures. I just have to find him, through fate or luck or—”

“Oh my God.” Chloe slams a hand down on the table, making coffee slosh over the edge of my mug. “Have you read the Dispatch today?”

“Why?” Nick asks, uninterested. “Does it have a headline about Annie’s love life?”

“There’s going to be a movie filming here, in German Village!” Chloe says.

Nick wipes down a counter. “Big deal. Remember when Bradley Cooper filmed a movie here? All that happened was his bodyguards camped out all day to use the Wi-Fi and they never ordered anything. Also they peed on the toilet seat.”

“They were so cool,” Tobin says wistfully.

“Oh my God, it’s a romantic comedy from Tommy Crisante, and filming starts next week,” Chloe continues, her eyes scanning the article on her phone.

“Was he the guy who directed all those cheesy movies in the 90s?” Nick asks, because Tommy Crisante is Steven-Spielberg–level famous. Everyone knows his name.

“Yeah, that’s him,” I say, my mouth going dry. A romantic comedy filming here, blocks from my house?

“We have to get you onto that set,” Chloe says, and hearing her say the thought I hadn’t yet formed makes me realize how ridiculous it is.

“Why?” I ask, shutting my computer. “I don’t want to be in a movie. I want to write one.”

“Yeah, but,” Chloe continues, “if you could weasel your way onto set, wouldn’t this be such a great learning experience? If you won’t move out of Ohio—not that I want you to leave my side literally ever, but come on, you know this isn’t exactly the cinematic hub of the country—then this could be your chance to actually be involved in a movie!”

I nod, but I’m thinking sure Chloe. Because what am I supposed to do? Send a letter to the director that says, “Rom-com fanatic with zero experience and an unused, dusty film studies degree seeks literally any job on your film”? That’s, like, the world’s worst personal ad.

Then Chloe lets out a low whistle. “And—whoa, okay, apparently the lead is Drew Danforth, that hot guy from that sitcom. Have you even seen what he’s looking like these days?” She turns her phone so I can see the screen, which is showcasing a picture of a very shirtless, very muscled man.

But I already know who he is. Everyone does.

If there was ever a man who was the complete and polar opposite of Tom Hanks, it would be Drew Danforth. Where Tom Hanks is known for being humble and respectful, Drew Danforth is known for acting like none of his acting success matters and like he’s way too good for Hollywood traditions. He’s always showing up in gossip columns for doing ridiculous things like pratfalling whenever he sees the paparazzi taking his photo. Once, he went on Late Night with Seth Meyers wearing sweatpants and uncombed hair, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to look presentable. And then there was the time he did an entire day of press while wearing a fake mustache, but never acknowledged it, or the time that he recited the Declaration of Independence on the red carpet instead of answering reporters’ questions.

He’s known for not taking anything seriously, and the last thing this all-too-rare studio rom-com needs is some jerk who probably thinks the entire genre is formulaic and beneath him.

I take another glance at the picture, staring at it a little longer then I need to. Sure, he looks good, but romantic comedy leads are usually more cute than sexy, and they definitely don’t spend a lot of time showing off their abs (unless we’re talking about a rom-com starring Chris Evans, in which case he will be shirtless 90 percent of the time).

“Okay, first of all, rom-com leads don’t have to be muscular. And this guy doesn’t take anything seriously—everything is a joke to him. There’s no way he’s going to treat a romantic comedy with respect.”

Chloe takes her phone back and reads. “Whatever. He could treat me with respect, if you know what I’m saying. I guess after he was in that sitcom, he was in some action movie so he got, like, super ripped.” She looks up at me with wide eyes. “Oh my God, Annie. What if your life isn’t a Nora Ephron romantic comedy? What if it’s Notting Hill, and you’re supposed to end up with Drew Danforth?”

“That’s not how this works. My Tom Hanks doesn’t have to be a celebrity.”

“But it couldn’t hurt!” Chloe says. “Just think about it . . . Annie and Drew. Your celebrity name would be Andrew.”

“I’m not a celebrity . . . and I’m pretty sure his full name is already Andrew.” I open the Dispatch’s website on my laptop.

Gary drains his cup, then stands up and puts his coat on. “You’ll find your Tom Hanks, Annie, just like I found mine. Her name is Martha.”

“How did you meet?” Chloe asks, turning around and leaning over the back of her chair. She may not believe in fairytale love for herself, but don’t think I haven’t noticed she loves hearing other people’s stories.

Gary wraps his scarf around his neck. “She was married to my brother, but she decided she liked me better.”

Chloe slumps back in her chair. “Oh. Geez, Gary.”

“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 that 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 manchild 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 a 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. After my mom died, Uncle Don moved in so I wouldn’t have to change schools. 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 th