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  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 gay 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?”r />
  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.

  Georgie was on her way home when her sister called.

  “We ate without you,” Heather said.

  “What?”

  “It’s nine o’clock. We were hungry.”

  Right. Dinner. “That’s okay,” Georgie said. “Tell Mom I’ll call tomorrow.”

  “She still wants you to come over tonight. She says your marriage is over, and you need our support.”

  Georgie wanted to close her eyes, but she was driving. “My marriage isn’t over, Heather, and I don’t need your support.”

  “So Neal didn’t leave you and take the kids to Nebraska?”

  “He took them to see their grandmother,” Georgie said. “It’s not like he’s fighting me for custody.”

  “Neal would totally get custody, don’t you think?”

  He totally would, Georgie thought.

  “You should come over,” Heather said. “Mom made tuna mac.”

  “Did she put peas in it?”

  “Nope.”

  Georgie thought about her empty house in Calabasas. And the empty suitcase sitting next to the closet. Her empty bed.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Do you have an iPhone charger?” Georgie dropped her keys and her phone on the kitchen counter. She never carried a purse anymore; she kept her driver’s license and a credit card out in the car, shoved in the glove compartment.

  “I would if you bought me an iPhone.” Heather was leaning on the counter, eating tuna mac out of a glass storage container.

  “I thought you already ate,” Georgie said.

  “Don’t talk to me like that. You’ll give me an eating disorder.”

  Georgie rolled her eyes. “Nobody in our family gets eating disorders. Stop eating my dinner.”

  Heather took another giant bite, then handed Georgie the container.

  Heather was eighteen, a change-of-life baby—meaning, Georgie’s mom had decided to change her life by sleeping with the chiropractor she worked for, and accidentally got pregnant at thirty-nine. Her mom and the chiropractor were married just long enough for Heather to be born.

  Georgie was already in college by then, so she and Heather only lived in the same house for a year or two. Sometimes Georgie felt more like Heather’s aunt than her big sister.

  They looked enough alike to be twins.

  Heather had Georgie’s wavy, browny-blond hair. And Georgie’s washed-out blue eyes. And she was built like Georgie was in high school, like a squashed hourglass. Though Heather was a little taller than Georgie. . . .

  That was lucky for her. Maybe someday, when Heather got pregnant, the babies wouldn’t beat out her waist like a Caribbean steel drum. “It’s those C-sections,” Georgie’s mom would say. As if Georgie had chosen to have two C-sections, as if she’d ordered them off the menu out of sheer laziness. “I had you girls the natural way, and my body bounced right back.”

  “Why are you staring at my stomach?” Heather asked.

  “Still trying to give you an eating disorder,” Georgie said.

  “Georgie!” Her mom walked into the room, holding a small but very pregnant pug up to her chest. Georgie’s stepdad, Kendrick—a tall African-American guy, still in his dusty construction clothes—wasn’t far behind. “I didn’t hear you come in,” her mom said.

  “I just got here.”

  “Let me heat that up for you.” Her mom took the tuna casserole and handed Georgie the dog. Georgie held it away from her body; she hated touching it—and she didn’t care if that made her the villain in a romantic comedy.

  Kendrick leaned over and took the dog from her. “How’re you doing, Georgie?” His face was entirely too gentle. It made her want to shout, “My husband didn’t leave me!”

  But Kendrick didn’t deserve that. He was the best shockingly young stepdad a girl could ask for. (Kendrick was forty, only three years older than Georgie. Her mom met him when he came to clean their pathetic excuse for a pool.) (These things actually happen.) (In the Valley.)

  “I’m fine, Kendrick. Thanks.”

  Her mom shook her head sadly at the microwave.

  “Really,” Georgie said to the whole room. “I’m better than fine. I’m staying in town for Christmas because our show is really, really close to getting a green light.”

  “Your show?” her mom asked. “Is your show in trouble?”

  “No. Not Jeff’d Up. Our show—Passing Time.”

  “I can’t watch your show,” her mom said. “That boy is so disrespectful.”

  “Trev?” Heather asked. “Everybody loves Trev.”

  Trev was the middle son on Jeff’d Up. He was Georgie’s special creation—a slack-faced, twelve-year-old misanthrope, a character who didn’t like anything and never did anything likable.

  Trev was where Georgie buried all her resentment. For Jeff German, for the network, for Trev himself. For the fact that she was working on a show that was basically Home Improvement without anything good—without Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Wilson.

  Trev was also the breakout star of the show.

  Georgie narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You love Trev?”

  “God, not me,” Heather said. “But everybody. The thugs at school all wear ‘This sucks’ T-shirts. Like, not the intimidating, cool thugs—the depressing, homely thugs who listen to Insane Clown Posse.”

  “It’s not ‘This sucks,’” Kendrick said helpfully. “It’s more like ‘This suuuuuuucks.’”

  Heather laughed. “Oh my God, Dad, you sound just like him.”

  “This suu
uuuucks,” Kendrick said again.

  “This sucks” was Trev’s catchphrase. Georgie took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  Her mom shook her head and set a plate of tuna mac on the table, then took the dog back from Kendrick, rubbing her face into its damp gray muzzle. “Did you think I forgot about you?” she cooed. “I didn’t forget about you, little mama.”

  “Thanks,” Georgie said, sitting down at the table and pulling the plate of tuna mac toward her.

  Kendrick patted her shoulder. “I like Trev. Is your new show going to be more like that?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, frowning.

  It still made her uncomfortable when Kendrick tried to be fatherly with her. He was only three years older. “You’re not my dad,” she sometimes wanted to say. Like she was twelve years old. (When Georgie was twelve, Kendrick was fifteen. She might have flirted with him at the mall.)

  “Passing Time,” Heather said in a smooth voice, pulling a pizza box out of the refrigerator, “is an hour-long dramedy. It’s something plus something plus something else.”

  Georgie threw her sister an appreciative smile. At least someone listened to her.

  “It’s Square Pegs,” Georgie said, “plus My So-Called Life, plus Arrested Development.”

  If Seth were here, he’d add, “Plus some show that people actually watched.”

  And then Scotty would say, “Plus The Cosby Show!”

  And then Georgie would say, “Minus the Cosbys,” and feel bad that their pilot didn’t have more diversity. (She’d bring that up with Seth tomorrow. . . . )

  Passing Time was a show that captured all the angst of high school life—all the highs and lows, all the absurdities—and then made them higher and lower and more absurd.

  That’s how they’d pitched it, anyway. That’s how Georgie had pitched it to Maher Jafari last month. She’d been on fire in that meeting. She’d hit every note.

  She and Seth had gone straight from Jafari’s office to the bar across the street, and Seth had stood on his barstool to toast Georgie, flicking Canadian Club down on her head like holy water.

  “You are fucking magic, Georgie McCool. That was a Streisandic performance in there. You had him laughing through his fucking tears, did you see that?”