Maybe the problem was that he’d been forced to read too many scripts with happy endings. Maybe he’d been in Hollywood for too long already. Graham had never been in love before, so he had no idea what to expect. Maybe this was it: you strike up a long-distance conversation with a girl, you enjoy talking to her more than anyone ever before, then you show up and she’s gorgeous, and you count yourself lucky.
But still, he thought there’d be something more. He thought that when he saw her, when their eyes first met, that it would feel different. That all those Hollywood clichés were clichés for a reason. It was supposed to be unmistakable, that feeling, wasn’t it? Like a punch to the stomach.
But here now in this restaurant, he was feeling curiously empty as he approached the table. When she turned around and their eyes met, there were no stars or fireworks or anything else. There was only the two of them, gazing at each other, each a little bit awkward in their nervousness.
“Thanks for coming,” he managed to say as he slid into his seat. As soon as he did, he realized he should have kissed her cheek, but the moment had already passed. He unfolded his napkin and looked at her from across the table, trying to match up the girl before him with the one who had written to him about how much she loved poetry.
“Did you have any trouble with the photographers?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky. He could tell she was anxious, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. The first few times he’d gone out with girls from home after his face started appearing in magazines, he’d tried to put them at ease by telling them not to be nervous, but this always seemed to have the opposite effect, and they’d just become more jangly, more pink-cheeked, more self-conscious. He watched now as she twisted a silver bracelet around her wrist, unable to quite sit still.
“They weren’t too bad,” he said. “Nothing like the ones in L.A.”
“I bet,” she said, and Graham picked up the menu, trying to think of a way to change the subject. He wasn’t sure how to tell her that he was the one she’d been talking to all these months. Should he drop a hint? Ask her about her mom or her dog, mention some random subject they’d already discussed, something more obvious than ice-cream flavors, like her childhood trips to Quebec or her end-of-term paper on Irish poetry?
His hands were growing damp with sweat as his mind raced through the possibilities. He’d imagined that once he sat down, the truth would come spilling right out of him. But now that he was here, there was something holding him back, and he swept his eyes around the restaurant and wiped at his forehead.
“So what’s good here?” he joked. “The lobster?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s their specialty.”
He glanced up at her and forced a smile. “I was only kidding,” he said, and she flushed a deep red. “I think I’ll get the surf ’n’ turf.”
“So have you ever been to Maine before?” she asked. “Or is this your first time?”
“First time,” he said. “Before I started acting, I’d never left the West Coast.”
“Wow,” she said. “I’ve never been to California.”
“Have you lived here all your life?” he asked, though he already knew the answer, that she’d been born in D.C. and moved up when she was little.
“Yes,” she said, and he snapped his chin up. “My parents too, and my grandparents. It’s sort of a family tradition, this town.”
Graham leaned his elbows on the table, frowning. “Really?” he said. “Your whole life?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving him an odd look.
Before he could say anything more, the waiter arrived with a shrimp cocktail. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, setting it between them and then lingering for a beat too long.
“Thanks,” Graham said, and to his surprise, the waiter—a lanky guy with curly blond hair and a crooked nose—gave him a menacing look in return.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, clearly making an effort to sound tough, though his voice was unsteady. He turned to head back to the bar, but the words that drifted behind him were unmistakable: “It’s really for Quinn.”
Even after he was gone, Graham found himself staring across the table in confusion, his eyes narrowed as he tried to locate his question.
“Sorry,” she was saying. “That’s just how it is in small towns. Everyone knows everyone else, and when you grow up with these guys, they can be a little overprotective…” She trailed off when she seemed to notice the look on Graham’s face. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Are you…?” he began, then shook his head. “I mean…”
“What?” she asked again, staring at him in confusion.
“Quinn?” he managed, and she nodded.
“Yes?”
“Your name is Quinn?”
“Um, yes,” she said, then something seemed to click and she threw her head back. “Oh man. Did I never actually introduce myself? I can’t believe I did that. I’m so sorry.”
Graham’s face was still twisted as he tried to work out what was going on. “But the shirt you were wearing earlier…”
Again, he could see a look of understanding pass across her eyes. “Ah,” she said. “I get it now.”
He waited for her to go on.
“I had a little run-in with a chocolate milkshake right before you came in,” she said, miming an explosion. “So I borrowed my friend Ellie’s.”
The name, when she said it, felt like something physical; it seemed to hit him square in the center of his chest. “So you’re not Ellie?”
She laughed. “No, I’m Quinn.”
“So we haven’t been writing e-mails to each other?”
Now it was her turn to look baffled. “Uh, no.”
Graham was shaking his head in a mechanical motion, and though he was aware of it, he seemed unable to stop. “You’re not Ellie O’Neill,” he repeated, and she nodded again. “And we haven’t been in touch.”
“What?” she said. “No. Why? Wait a minute. Does that mean you’ve been in touch with…” She let out a sharp laugh. “You’ve been in touch with Ellie?”
“Yes,” Graham said, suddenly unable to stop grinning. “Look, I’m sorry for the mix-up. I really am. I know this must seem really odd to you.”