“I just think it will add a nice pop of color to the whole ‘abandoned warehouse’ vibe,” I say.

“It doesn’t look like an abandoned warehouse,” Annie says. “And you know I wanted to get married in the park, but it’s spring, and no one else wants to stand out there if it’s cold.”

“True,” I say. “I’m glad you’re keeping this wedding super small, but I wish Drew would invite more celebrities. Especially hot ones. Brie Larson seems nice.”

Annie presses her lips into a thin line, but I can tell she’s amused. “I don’t even know Brie Larson. I told you, we’re keeping this small. And secret.”

“I suppose that makes sense. But the pom wall. Think about it.”

Annie wrinkles her nose, then takes a sip of coffee. “I don’t know. That looks like a lot of work.”

I throw up my hands. “Exactly! It’s one of the most romantic things you can do with tissue paper!”

“And how many romantic things can you do with tissue paper?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“If you have to ask, you don’t want to know,” Gary, one of our regular customers, says from his table, where he’s clearly been listening to our entire conversation.

“Let me take care of the pom wall, okay?” I ask, getting up from the table.

“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.