have to do. Don’t take
yourself
seriously, that’s the key. Let it all go. Don’t care for a second what people think of you. In fact, go out of your way to keep them guessing.”
We drive past a neighborhood park, and Dylan yanks on my arm and asks me to pull over. I lift Boba out of the car again and he walks about ten feet, until he finds the first spot of shade and slumps down from the overexertion. I sit down next to him and scratch his ears while Dylan investigates the park. There’s a cobblestone path that weaves around it, with a stone fountain in the middle. She studies the layout the way an artist examines a painting and then announces this would be a perfect shot for a movie ending.
“It looks like the end of a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan film,” she decides.
“Oh,” I say, “you mean one of those original endings where they meet for the first time and realize they’ve known each other all along?”
Dylan stands next to the fountain and nods in agreement. “Let’s act it out.”
Boba rests his heavy head in my lap. “Right,” I say.
She won’t be discouraged. “We’ll call it…
Christmas Cookies in July.
”
“Sounds compelling.”
“Come on, let’s do the end scene,” she says, and stands next to the fountain.
No way. I stare back at Dylan, waiting with her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. She’s caught on that today’s all about her, and now she’s going to milk my generosity it for all it’s worth. I glance around to make sure the park is completely abandoned before I agree to this. I stand up and walk out on the stone path. I pretend to look around for someone.
“Brinkley?” I yell. “Brinkley?!”
I hear Dylan laugh and I stare at her like I’m surprised she’s there.
“You’ve seen
You’ve Got Mail
?” she asks me, as if doubting my masculinity.
I narrow my eyes defensively. “My sister loved that movie. She made me watch it.”
“Sure, sure, whatever,” Dylan says. She stops laughing and clears her throat and goes back into character. She takes a hesitant step toward me and places a hand over her heart.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says. I take a step toward her. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Um, you look good, Meg,” I say, which sounds totally lame, but I suck at improv.
She frowns with disappointment.
“You don’t, Tom,” she says. “You have weird neck fat and your hairline is a mess and your face is all puffy. You’re aging badly.”
I take offense to this. “Hey, I have two Oscars. And how much Botox have you had, Meg? Let’s be honest. Your career’s as frozen as your face muscles. You can only do two expressions now—happy, sad, happy, sad, that’s all you’ve got.”
Dylan exaggerates a sad expression and I try not to laugh. “You know, that’s just like you. I knew I hated you, especially when you copied my bakery idea and sold Christmas cookies in July,” she says.
I shake my head. “You don’t own the rights to Christmas cookies. Besides, it isn’t personal, it’s business.”
Dylan looks around my feet. “Where’s Jonah?”
I fall out of character. “Huh?”
Dylan waves her hand in the air. “Oh, I guess you haven’t seen
Sleepless in Seattle.
”
Just when we’re about to hit the heavy make-out scene (the only reason I’m actually going through with this), a couple with a stroller wanders into the park and interrupts us. They see us holding hands next to the fountain and the woman smiles. The guy looks embarrassed for me. I wonder how much of our rehearsal they’ve witnessed. But I honestly don’t care. Maybe Dylan’s judgment-proof shield is wearing off on me.
We wave at the couple and leave the park with Boba shuffling behind us.
I look over at Dylan while we drive away. “Will you stay here forever?” I ask.
She smiles but doesn’t answer me, and suddenly her eyes turn sad because the answer is no. Reality starts to seep in and I remember that summer days never last long
yourself
seriously, that’s the key. Let it all go. Don’t care for a second what people think of you. In fact, go out of your way to keep them guessing.”
We drive past a neighborhood park, and Dylan yanks on my arm and asks me to pull over. I lift Boba out of the car again and he walks about ten feet, until he finds the first spot of shade and slumps down from the overexertion. I sit down next to him and scratch his ears while Dylan investigates the park. There’s a cobblestone path that weaves around it, with a stone fountain in the middle. She studies the layout the way an artist examines a painting and then announces this would be a perfect shot for a movie ending.
“It looks like the end of a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan film,” she decides.
“Oh,” I say, “you mean one of those original endings where they meet for the first time and realize they’ve known each other all along?”
Dylan stands next to the fountain and nods in agreement. “Let’s act it out.”
Boba rests his heavy head in my lap. “Right,” I say.
She won’t be discouraged. “We’ll call it…
Christmas Cookies in July.
”
“Sounds compelling.”
“Come on, let’s do the end scene,” she says, and stands next to the fountain.
No way. I stare back at Dylan, waiting with her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. She’s caught on that today’s all about her, and now she’s going to milk my generosity it for all it’s worth. I glance around to make sure the park is completely abandoned before I agree to this. I stand up and walk out on the stone path. I pretend to look around for someone.
“Brinkley?” I yell. “Brinkley?!”
I hear Dylan laugh and I stare at her like I’m surprised she’s there.
“You’ve seen
You’ve Got Mail
?” she asks me, as if doubting my masculinity.
I narrow my eyes defensively. “My sister loved that movie. She made me watch it.”
“Sure, sure, whatever,” Dylan says. She stops laughing and clears her throat and goes back into character. She takes a hesitant step toward me and places a hand over her heart.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says. I take a step toward her. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
“Um, you look good, Meg,” I say, which sounds totally lame, but I suck at improv.
She frowns with disappointment.
“You don’t, Tom,” she says. “You have weird neck fat and your hairline is a mess and your face is all puffy. You’re aging badly.”
I take offense to this. “Hey, I have two Oscars. And how much Botox have you had, Meg? Let’s be honest. Your career’s as frozen as your face muscles. You can only do two expressions now—happy, sad, happy, sad, that’s all you’ve got.”
Dylan exaggerates a sad expression and I try not to laugh. “You know, that’s just like you. I knew I hated you, especially when you copied my bakery idea and sold Christmas cookies in July,” she says.
I shake my head. “You don’t own the rights to Christmas cookies. Besides, it isn’t personal, it’s business.”
Dylan looks around my feet. “Where’s Jonah?”
I fall out of character. “Huh?”
Dylan waves her hand in the air. “Oh, I guess you haven’t seen
Sleepless in Seattle.
”
Just when we’re about to hit the heavy make-out scene (the only reason I’m actually going through with this), a couple with a stroller wanders into the park and interrupts us. They see us holding hands next to the fountain and the woman smiles. The guy looks embarrassed for me. I wonder how much of our rehearsal they’ve witnessed. But I honestly don’t care. Maybe Dylan’s judgment-proof shield is wearing off on me.
We wave at the couple and leave the park with Boba shuffling behind us.
I look over at Dylan while we drive away. “Will you stay here forever?” I ask.
She smiles but doesn’t answer me, and suddenly her eyes turn sad because the answer is no. Reality starts to seep in and I remember that summer days never last long
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