“Are you sure?” Annie asks. “I mean, you have a lot on your plate . . .”
“Well, let’s add a side dish of folded tissue paper, because mama’s hungry,” I say. Annie stares at me until I add, “This is why you’re the writer, not me.”
I tie my ruffled apron around my waist and leave Annie to her laptop. Back behind the counter, I salute Nick. “Reporting for duty.”
He snorts. “It’s a good thing you’re not in the military. You’d be a god-awful soldier.”
I place my hand over my heart. “Excuse me? I’d be a great soldier. I’d keep morale up and, you know, I’m sure all the other soldiers would appreciate a piece of lemon cream pie.”
Everything feels so normal that I think the curse of the movie may be broken; maybe we’re back to our typical banter and I can forget that the entire rom-com-loving Internet thinks we’re meant to be.
But then Nick turns to look at me and stares. Again, longer than is necessary. I count one breath, two breaths, and we’re still looking at each other, like this is a thing regular people do. It’s like we’re communicating with our eyeballs but I have no idea what we’re saying and I need to do something fast to end this silence so—
“I mean, unless they were lactose intolerant. In which case I’d make them a dairy-free lemon cream pie, which I know sounds impossible because it’s, y’know, in the name. Lemon cream. But I bet with a little bit of online research I could figure out a suitable substitute and oh look! A customer!”
I shake my head quickly and paste on my customer service smile, taking an order for a butterscotch latte from a regular. I don’t let myself turn around to look at Nick, because I’m afraid he’ll still be there, looking at me, letting me stammer on for minutes about the possibility of dairy-free pies.
The customer pays and Annie catches my eye. What was that? she mouths, and I shake my head. I finally look over my shoulder and practically slump with relief when I see that Nick isn’t standing there anymore; he must’ve gone into the kitchen. Now I don’t have to think about his hot face or his expressive eyes or that stupid scruff on his chin that should not even be this much of a turn-on.
I don’t get awkward. I don’t stammer. I certainly don’t ramble about desserts.
But something about this ridiculous movie is making everything go haywire.
Chapter Five
As usual, I have about ten million things to do, but when Milo asks me to help him move into Mikey Danger’s guest room, I say yes. This is how it’s always been. Milo says jump, I say how high. Or, more accurately, Milo whines at me to jump and I bitch at him for a few minutes and then do it anyway, because family comes first.
Blessedly, Milo and Fred crammed very few personal belongings into the tiny rental car they drove from wherever they lived in Brooklyn (I know it’s not accurate, but after watching so many sitcoms I imagine everyone in Brooklyn lives in a giant loft), so we borrow Nick’s truck and load their boxes into the back. Of course, the Ohio skies pick this day to release a torrential downpour, so we secure an ugly bright blue tarp to protect everything.
“Damn,” Milo says, crammed behind me in the back seat of the truck’s cab. “Your boss has a nice truck.”
“I didn’t know you cared about trucks,” I say.
“I don’t, but I can appreciate a quality ride when I see it,” Milo says, sounding offended. He continues muttering to himself as I drive slowly, trying to avoid harming Nick’s spotless truck. “It’s positively roomy back here.”
I tear my eyes away from the road long enough to shoot an eyebrows-raised glance at Fred in the passenger seat, and he smiles back at me.
“Is his name really . . . Mikey Danger?” Fred asks in a low voice.
“It wasn’t the name his parents gave him,” I say, “but if he’s anything like he was ten years ago, I think you’ll agree with me that he’s always been Mikey Danger at heart.”
Mikey lives right by Ohio State University on a street full of duplexes inhabited by constantly inebriated college students. I suspect the reason Mikey, a man who is almost in his thirties, chooses to live among twenty-one-year-olds is that he has the soul of a twenty-one-year-old.
The three of us ring the doorbell and huddle on Mikey’s front steps as raindrops pelt our one umbrella. I kick a crumpled can of Bud Light off the steps, then feel bad and pick it up. I look out over the yard full of overgrown weeds and say, “Milo, there has got to be somewhere else you guys can live.”
“Where else are we supposed to go?” Milo asks. “We spent last night on your floor and I would be happy to stay there, but honestly you didn’t project a welcoming spirit toward us.”
“We don’t want to sleep on your floor,” Fred reassures me.
“It’s just nice to be asked,” Milo mutters.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I think—”
The door swings open to reveal Mikey Danger, in the flesh. A lot of flesh. He’s wearing shorts and no shirt, despite the fact that the sky is currently spitting cold rain. He smells like weed and he looks like a less-good-looking version of Jake Gyllenhaal. Like, if Jake Gyllenhaal were making a surprising cameo in an indie comedy as a hilarious stoner? That’s Mikey Danger’s look.
He squints at all three of us in turn, then shoves a twenty at us.
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“Keep the change,” he reassures me as he starts to shut the door. He stops, opens it again, shakes his head. “Oh. Duh. I didn’t even get my food.”
“Mikey,” Milo says patiently, adjusting his glasses. “We’re not delivery people. It’s me, Milo. My boyfriend and I are staying with you?”
Mikey’s eyes widen as the realization dawns. “Oh! This makes so much more sense. I was like, ‘When did restaurants start sending three delivery people?’”
“It’s raining,” I state, and Mikey nods before moving aside so we can enter.
With all of us crammed into the dirty kitchen, Milo introduces Fred and points to me. “And you remember Chloe.”
Mikey looks me up and down. “Chloe. Yeah. I remember Chloe.”
“Hi, Mikey,” I say. I don’t know what he’s remembering, since the extent of our interaction was working together on a Revolutionary War project in ninth grade that involved me doing all the work. However, I am unfortunately forced to admit that “less-good-looking Jake Gyllenhaal” is a vibe that I’m into.
This kitchen, though? Not so much. There’s an overwhelming amount of stuff in such a small space; Milo attempts to lean against a counter and knocks over several empty soda bottles. He leans over to pick them up and Mikey murmurs, “Don’t worry about it.”