She chews on her index nail, undecided.

“Did Richard propose, too?”

“No,” Blair says and, still biting her nail, adds, “but he asked me to move in with him.”

I try to smile, I really try, but my lower lip starts trembling. I manage an, “I’m so happy for you,” before I start sobbing again.

Blair pulls me back into her arms and tries to console me. “It won’t be super soon. I told him we would need time to figure things out, and I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay. Listen, I know the holidays are hard for you, and I’m here. Richard is going back to England over the break, but I’m staying in the States. We’ll go home together, and whenever it gets too hard at your place, you can come and crash in my room, I promise. It’ll be just you, me, and Chevron. A girls’ club.”

I calm down a little. Blair coming home to Connecticut with me is the lifeline I need to survive this Christmas. Knowing she’ll be there is the only positive piece of news I’ve gotten all day. Also, for the first time, I notice Chevron—Blair’s semi-golden-retriever dog—didn’t come home with her.

“Hey, where did you leave Chevron?”

“At Richard’s. I took the subway back. With traffic, it would’ve taken forever in his car, and it was too cold to walk, even for me.”

“Oh, I could’ve used the extra cuddles.”

Chevron is the most empathic and only dog I like.

“I thought you were a cat person.”

“I am, but Chevron is basically a cat born in the wrong body.”

Blair smirks. “If you say so.”

“At least when the two of you move out I’ll be able to adopt a real cat, body and soul.”

The thought almost cheers me up, if not for the mocking voice inside my head announcing, Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Nikki Moore: single, alone, and crazy cat-less cat lady.

Three

The Perfect Man for Christmas

The next morning, I arrive at the office super early. Not only to catch up with work, but also to avoid the double-takes and possibly false compliments my impromptu makeover will spur.

I’ve just finished checking the wardrobe for tomorrow’s shoot when Melanie walks in. She stops just inside the door and makes a shocked, “oh-I-walked-into-the-wrong-office” face. Then she blinks, realization dawning. Closing the door behind her, she approaches my desk slowly. “Your hair…”

“Is shorter,” I say, making it clear that, no, I don’t want to talk about it. “What can I do for you?”

“Your mother called again… I’m running out of excuses…”

“Arrrrrrrrgh…” I let out an exasperated growl and drop my head in my hands.

“Mmm… Are you okay, boss?”

“No, I’m not okay.” I lift my head and bang both fists on the desk. Not content, I brush off all the sheets of paper crowding it in a crazed swipe. The documents tumble to the floor, carrying a pen holder and my landline phone with them.