Georgie propped the phone between her ear and shoulder, so she could type. “That was nice of you. Did you get to talk to the girls?”

“I talked to Neal,” her mom said again. For emphasis. “He told me you guys are spending some time apart.”

“Mom,” Georgie said, bringing her hand back to the receiver. “Only the week.”

“He said you were splitting up for Christmas.”

“Not like that—why’re you making it sound like that? Something just came up for me at work.”

“You’ve never had to work on Christmas before.”

“I don’t have to work on Christmas. I have to work around Christmas. It’s complicated.” Georgie resisted checking to see if Seth was listening. “It was my decision.”

“You decided to be alone on Christmas.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”

“But, honey, we’re spending the day with Kendrick’s family—I told you that—and your sister’s going to her dad’s. I mean, you’re welcome to come to San Diego with us. . . .”

“Never mind, I’ll figure it out.” Georgie glanced around the room. Seth was throwing grapes in the air and catching them in his mouth. Scotty was sprawled out miserably, like he had menstrual cramps. “I have to get back to work.”

“Well, come over tonight,” her mom said. “I’ll make dinner.”

“I’m fine, Mom, really.”

“Come over, Georgie. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“There’s no ‘right now,’ Mom. I’m fine.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll make dinner—come.” She hung up before Georgie could argue any more.

Georgie sighed and rubbed her eyes. Her eyelids felt greasy. Her hands smelled like coffee.

“I can’t do this,” Scotty moaned. “Everyone can tell I have a secret.”

Seth glanced up at the door—it was closed. “So? As long as they don’t know what the secret is . . .”

“I don’t like it,” Scotty said. “I feel like such a traitor. I’m Lando on Cloud City. I’m that guy who kissed Jesus.”

Georgie wondered if any of the other writers actually did suspect something. Probably not. Georgie and Seth’s contract was up soon, but everybody assumed they were staying. Why would they leave Jeff’d Up after finally dragging it into the top ten?

If they stayed, they’d get raises. Giant, life-changing raises. The sort of money that made Seth’s eyeballs pop out like Scrooge McDuck whenever he talked about it.

But if they left . . .

They’d only leave Jeff’d Up now for one reason. To start their own show. The show Georgie and Seth had been dreaming about practically since they met—they’d written the first draft of the pilot together when they were still in college. Their own show, their own characters. No more Jeff German. No more catchphrases. No more laugh track.

They’d take Scotty with them if they left. (When they left, Seth would say. When, when, when.) Scotty was theirs; Georgie had hired him two shows back, and he was the best gag writer they’d worked with.

Seth and Georgie were better at writing situations. Weirdness that twisted into more weirdness, jokes that built and built, and finally paid off big after eight episodes. But sometimes you just needed somebody to slip on a banana peel. Scotty never ran out of banana peels.

“Nobody knows you have a secret,” Seth told him. “Nobody cares. They’re all just trying to get their shit done so they can get out of here for Christmas.”

“So what’s the plan, then?” Scotty propped himself up in the chair. He was a smallish Indian guy, with shaggy hair and glasses, and he dressed like almost everybody else on the writing staff—in jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and stupid-looking flip-flops. Scotty was the only g*y person on their staff. Sometimes people thought Seth was gay, but he wasn’t. Just pretty.

Seth threw a grape at Scotty. Then another one at Georgie. She ducked.

“The plan,” Seth said, “is we come in tomorrow as usual, and we write. And then we write some more.”

Scotty picked his grape up off the floor and ate it. “I just hate to abandon everybody. Why do we always move as soon as I make friends?” He shifted to sulk in Georgie’s direction. “Hey. Georgie. Are you okay? You look weird.”

Georgie realized she was staring. And not at either of them. “Yeah,” she said. “Fine.”

She picked up her phone again and thumbed out a text.

Maybe . . .

Maybe she should have talked to Neal this morning before he left. Really talked to him. Made sure everything was okay.

But by the time Neal’s alarm went off at four thirty, he was already out of bed and mostly dressed. Neal still used an old Dream Machine clock radio, and when he came over to the bed to turn it off, he told Georgie to go back to sleep.

“You’ll be a wreck later,” he said when she sat up anyway.

Like Georgie was going to sleep through telling the girls goodbye. Like they weren’t all going to be apart for a week. Like it wasn’t Christmas.

She reached for the pair of glasses hooked over their headboard and put them on. “I’m taking you to the airport,” she said.

Neal was standing outside his closet with his back to her, pulling a blue sweater down over his shoulders. “I already called for a car.”

Maybe Georgie should have argued then. Instead she got up and tried to help with the girls.

There wasn’t much to do. Neal had put them to bed in sweatpants and T-shirts, so he could carry them out to the car this morning without waking them.

But Georgie wanted to talk to them, and anyway, Alice woke up while Georgie was trying to slide on her pink Mary Janes.

“Daddy said I could wear my boots,” Alice croaked.

“Where are they?” Georgie whispered.

“Daddy knows.”

They woke Noomi up, looking for them.

Then Noomi wanted her boots.

Then Georgie offered to get them yogurt, but Neal said they’d eat at the airport; he’d packed snacks.

He let Georgie explain why she wasn’t getting on the plane with them—“Are you driving instead?” Alice asked—while he ran up and down the stairs, and in and out the front door, double-checking things and rounding up bags.

Georgie tried to tell the girls that they’d be having such a good time, they’d hardly miss her—and that they’d all celebrate together next week. “We’ll have two Christmases,” Georgie said.

“I don’t think that’s actually possible,” Alice argued.

Noomi started crying because her sock was turned the wrong way around her toes. Georgie couldn’t tell if she wanted it seam-on-the-bottom or seam-on-top. Neal came in from the garage and whipped off Noomi’s boot to fix it. “Car’s here,” he said.

It was a minivan. Georgie herded the girls out the door, then knelt down next to the curb in her pajama pants, kissing both their faces all over and trying to act like saying good-bye to them wasn’t that big of a deal.

“You’re the best mommy in the world,” Noomi said. Everything was “the best” and “the worst” with Noomi. Everything was “never” and “always.”

“And you are the best four-year-old girl in the world,” Georgie said, smashing her nose with a kiss.

“Kitty,” Noomi said. She was still tearful from the sock problem.

“You are the best kitty in the world.” Georgie tucked Noomi’s wispy yellow-brown hair behind her ears and pulled her T-shirt smooth over her belly.

“Green kitty.”

“The best green kitty.”

“Meow,” Noomi said.

“Meow,” Georgie answered.

“Mom?” Alice asked.

“Yeah?” Georgie pulled the seven-year-old closer—“Here, give me all your hugs”—but Alice was too busy thinking to hug back.

“If Santa brings your presents to Grandma’s house, I’ll save them for you. I’ll put them in my suitcase.”

“Santa doesn’t usually bring Mommy presents.”

“Well, but if he does . . .”

“Meow,” Noomi said.

“Okay,” Georgie agreed, holding Alice in her left arm and scooping Noomi close with her right, “if he brings me presents, you take care of them for me.”

“Mommy, meow!”

“Meow,” Georgie said, squeezing them both.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Alice.”

“The true meaning of Christmas isn’t presents anyway, it’s Jesus. But not for us, because we’re not religious. The true meaning of Christmas for us is just family.”

Georgie kissed her cheek. “That’s true.”

“I know.”

“Okay. I love you. I love you both so much.”

“To the moon and back?” Alice asked.

“Oh my God,” Georgie said, “so much farther.”

“To the moon and back infinity?”

“Meow!”

“Meow,” Georgie said. “Infinity times infinity. I love you so much, it hurts.”

Noomi’s face fell. “It hurts?”

“She doesn’t mean it literally,” Alice said. “Right, Mom? Not literally?”

“No. Well. Sometimes.”

Neal stepped forward. “Okay. Time to catch a plane.”

Georgie stole half a dozen more kisses while she buckled the girls into their car seats, then stood by the side of the van with her arms folded nervously across her chest.

Neal stepped up to her and looked over her shoulder, like he was thinking. “We land at five,” he said, “Central time. So it’ll be around three here. . . . I’ll call you when we get to my mom’s.”

Georgie nodded, but he still wasn’t looking at her.

“Be safe,” she said.

He checked his watch. “We’ll be fine—don’t worry about us. Just do what you have to do. Rock your meeting.” And then he was hugging her, sort of, an arm around her shoulder, his mouth bumping against hers. By the time he said, “Love you,” he was already pulling away.

Georgie wanted to catch him by the shoulders.

She wanted to hug him until her feet left the ground.

She wanted to tuck her head into his neck and feel his arms a little too hard around her ribs.

“Love you,” she said. She wasn’t sure if he heard her.

“I love you!” she shouted at the girls, knocking on the backseat window and kissing it because she knew it made them laugh; the back windows of their Prius were covered in kiss smears.

They were waving at her like crazy. Georgie stepped away from the van, waving with both hands. Neal was in the front seat talking to the driver.

She thought he might have looked back at her once, before the van turned the corner—her hands froze in the air.

And then they were gone.

CHAPTER 3

“Do you need some help?”

Georgie blinked.

Seth was standing beside her. Tapping the top of her head with a folder. Jeff German wanted an episode rewritten before the writers all left for the holidays—and it was mostly Georgie’s job to finish it. (Because she didn’t trust anyone else to help.) (Which was her own issue. And not something she should be irritated about.)

The whole afternoon had been a blur of noise and food and Christmas carols. For some reason—well, for alcoholic reasons—everyone had decided to sing Christmas songs from two to three thirty. Then somebody, maybe Scotty, had tried to slide a shrimp tray under her office door. Now it was six, and quiet, and Georgie was finally making progress on the script change.

“No,” she told Seth. “I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

She didn’t look up from her screen. “Yep.”

He settled against the desk, her side of the desk, next to her keyboard. “So . . .”

“So what?”

“So,” he said, “they went to Omaha.”

Georgie shook her head, even though the answer was yes. “It made sense. We already had the plane tickets, and I’m going to be working all week anyway.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Seth nudged her arm with his leg. Georgie looked up. “What’re you gonna do on Christmas?”

“I’ll go to my mom’s.” It was only sort of a lie. She could still go. Even if her mom wasn’t home.

“You could come to my mom’s.”

“I would,” Georgie said. “If I didn’t have my own.”

“Maybe I’ll go to your mom’s, too.” Seth grinned. “She loves me.”

“That’s not much of a character reference.”

“You know, she called here three times this morning before you got in. She thinks you let your phone die on purpose. To avoid her.”

Georgie turned back to her screen. “I should.”

Seth stood up and slung his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. It was going to take Georgie another hour to rewrite this scene. Maybe she should just start over. . . .

“Hey. Georgie.”

She kept typing. “Yeah.”

“Georgie.”

She looked up one more time. He was standing at the door, studying her. “We’re so close,” he said. “It’s finally happening.”

Georgie nodded and tried to smile. It was another weak effort.

“Tomorrow,” Seth said, then thumped the doorframe with his palm and walked away.