Chapter One
I can tell what’s going on by the way the customer looks at me. The concentrated stare as I pour her coffee, the anticipatory smile as I put the lid on. This isn’t someone who’s only here for the caffeine hit. No, this is something different.
“Have a great—” I start as I hand her the drink, but she cuts me off.
“It’s you, right?” she asks, breathless, eyes wide. “From the movie?”
I’m always friendly—some might say too friendly—to our customers here at Nick’s coffee shop. It’s kind of my thing. I don’t even mind gruff patrons or rude comments; not because I’m a doormat, but because I’m genuinely not bothered by them. People have hard days, and while they definitely shouldn’t take them out on their baristas, I know it’s not about me.
But this . . . this is different. This couldn’t be more about me.
“Um, yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “It’s me.”
“There’s an article about you on People.com,” she says, the excitement palpable in her rushed words. “With . . . pictures.”
I see her eyes dart toward my boss, Nick, who’s tending to the espresso machine behind me. I wince before I can stop myself.
“Oh, is there?” I say, and before she can complete her nod, I smile brightly and say, “You know, I would love to chat more, but this is our afternoon rush and, whew, we’re swamped!”
She smiles and walks away, so starstruck she doesn’t notice that there’s no one else in line. I let out a long sigh, then pull up People.com on my phone.
There it is. “The Real-Life Love Story Behind the New Film, Coffee Girl!”
There’s a picture of me, one that I don’t remember taking and certainly didn’t give to People magazine, and there are a couple of pictures of Nick and me here, at work, behind the counter. The saving grace is that I was wearing an especially cute cardigan that day, one with little embroidered flowers and bees, so at least I look good, but that doesn’t take away the strangeness inherent in seeing a picture of yourself that you didn’t even know someone took.
But why am I, Chloe Sanderson, resident of Columbus, Ohio, and no one all that special, gracing the pages of People.com?
Because my best friend wrote a movie about me.
Okay, so Annie maintains that the movie isn’t about me so much as inspired by me, and she’s right. But anyone who knows me and sees the trailer can see the similarities. The movie’s lead character, Zoe (come on, Annie), has a stubbornly, almost annoyingly positive attitude, even in the face of rude customers or family tragedy. She works in a coffee shop. She takes care of her sick father, although Zoe’s father has cancer, while mine has Alzheimer’s.
But there are a few key differences between Zoe and Chloe. Zoe is at least four inches shorter than me, with hair that has clearly been professionally styled. She has a team of stylists picking out her artfully vintage clothing, whereas I stick to the Anthropologie sale rack, where all the truly bonkers stuff lives. Oh, and Zoe makes out, and falls in love, with her boss, Rick.
The names, Annie. You couldn’t have changed those names?
“Put your phone away. You’re working.”
Nick is so close I can feel his breath on my face. He smells, as usual, like coffee and this aftershave I’ve never smelled anywhere else, something that feels old-fashioned (like a grandpa) but kinda hot (not like a grandpa).
I jump, startled by his proximity, and shove my phone in my apron pocket. Nick and I do not talk about the movie; it’s like the elephant in the room, if that elephant were making out with one of its elephant coworkers.
There are a few people clustered around tables, but still no one in line. “Ah, yes, things are bustling,” I say, gesturing at the nonexistent line. “I wouldn’t want to ignore anyone.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” he says, staring at me for what seems like a beat too long. Or maybe it isn’t.
The thing is, this ridiculous movie my best friend wrote (wow, that sentence will never stop sounding weird) has really screwed up a lot of things for me. Things I never thought about before, like whether Nick is sexy or whether his smile means something or what his perpetual five o’clock shadow would feel like on my cheek . . . all of a sudden those thoughts are in my head, and I don’t like it. I’m just trying to work over here, you know? This is my job, and I need this to make money for the business classes I’m moving through at a glacial pace.
A new song starts playing: “Steal Away” by Robbie Dupree.
“Chloe,” Nick says, his voice a low growl.
I straighten an already straight stack of cups to avoid looking at him. Why is he so close to me? Why does his voice naturally sound like that? My mind jumps automatically to the listicle I read on Buzzfeed yesterday: “Ten Reasons Why Rick from Coffee Girl is #relationshipgoals.” Since the movie’s not out yet, it’s based entirely on the trailer, which I’ve watched approximately 9,756 times (give or take a few), mostly late at night when I’m trying to sleep and I feel like punishing myself. Reason #6: His voice sounds like he wants to argue with you and rip your clothes off. Maybe at the same time.
The stack of cups goes crashing to the ground.
Nick and I bend down at the same time to pick up the cups, our faces way, way too close to each other. He seems unaffected by my presence; maybe he hasn’t been reading the same Buzzfeed lists.
“Didn’t I explicitly ban your yacht rock playlist?” he asks. “Didn’t I tell you that if you played Robbie Dupree in this shop one more time, I wouldn’t be responsible for what I’d do?”
I stand up, and so does he. “I don’t remember any of those conversations. I only remember the vague sense of dread that overcomes me as I’m forced to reckon with my own mortality every time you play the depressing music you like.”
I smile at him, back in my element: making fun of him for his god-awful taste.
Nick sighs, then gives me another one of those looks. It’s kind of a smile but kind of a frown at the same time, which is a face he’s really good at. I widen my eyes back at him.
This is the fun part, the part I love about work. I like arguing with Nick because it’s not serious (I mean, I seriously do hate the music he listens to, but I don’t actually care that much), but we both treat it like it’s life and death. I don’t even know if I’d like yacht rock half as much if I didn’t have to defend it to him every day.
To Annie, a born-and-bred rom-comaholic, our playful banter means we’re destined to be together. Because that’s what happens in rom-coms, right? Two people who can’t stand each other are actually hiding deep wells of passion, and eventually all those pent-up feelings will explode in one of those make-out scenes where shelves get knocked over and limbs are flying and people are panting.