“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.

I stare at the mess with a small surge of satisfaction. Melanie, on the other hand, has gone pale.

“Sorry,” I say. My reaction was atypical; I’ve never freaked out in front of her. “I’m not mad at you.”

Still wary, my assistant sits in the chair opposite to mine. “Okay, boss, tell me what’s going on.”

Over the years, I’ve always strived to maintain a professional relationship with Melanie. But she’s been with me from the start, and we’ve also developed a friendship-with-boundaries. This is one of the times I feel like testing those limits a little.

“It’s the holidays and I’m single, while Julia just got engaged…” I skip the “to the love of my life” part, to maintain a shred of credibility in front of my assistant. “My roommate just told me she’s moving in with her boyfriend. And in less than two weeks, I’ll have to go home and listen to every single one of my relatives ask me why I’m still single. When what they really mean is, ‘What’s wrong with you? Why does nobody want you?’”

I huff. Aww… it felt good to let it all out.

Melanie absorbs all the personal info like a pro. “Is it the ‘single at the holidays’ part that bothers you, or is it your family?”

Good question. I don’t particularly enjoy being single, and the prospect of dying a crazy cat lady is not very appealing. But why does the anxiety get so much worse near the end of the year? I’m fine with my life eleven months out of twelve, but every December I promptly turn into a train wreck. Does Christmas make being a spinster harder? Or is it the judgment in Aunt Betsy’s thin-lipped smiles? The ill-concealed sadness behind my mother’s eyes for my “condition?” Or the well-intentioned-but-deeply-insensitive jokes everyone spins me back home?

It’s not me. It’s them.

“My family,” I tell Melanie. “They drive me nuts.”

“Well, but that’s an easy fix.”

“Really? How?”

“You’re an executive producer. Produce them.”

“What do you mean?”

“There must be a gay best friend—possibly with the looks of Rupert Everett—you can ask to go home with you and pretend to be your boyfriend.”

Sometimes I forget my assistant is still basically a child. At twenty-five, she’s not jaded enough about life to accept not everything can be solved “Hollywood Style” and end in happily ever after.

Pity happily ever afters don’t exist. Some genius in my profession invented them to sell romance to the crowds. That’s all.