“Sorry, Mel, but I’m not Julia Roberts and this isn’t a movie. No gorgeous gay besties in the picture.”

“A straight friend would do, too. Anyone you can ask?”

Ironically, the one male friend I could’ve felt intimate enough to ask something so embarrassing would’ve been Paul. Isn’t life funny sometimes?

“Not really,” I say.

“Well, then hire someone!”

“Are you suggesting I hire a male escort?” And we’ve moved from My Best Friend’s Wedding to The Wedding Date, maybe she has a thing for Dermot Mulroney. “Are you crazy? I’m not that desperate.”

“I was thinking more an actor.” She points at my computer. “You have a database full of them right there in front of you; you just have to pick and choose.”

“That’s even more absurd and unprofessional.” To signify that this conversation is finished, I bend forward and start collecting the scattered documents from the floor. “Break’s over,” I say, pushing up the pen holder.

“All right, boss,” Melanie says, getting up. She helps me clean the mess and places my office phone back on the desk, eyeing it meaningfully. “But your mom won’t give up, you know?”

Don’t I?

***

Another afternoon of staring into space earns me a late night at the office. I wish nothing more than to go home, change into a pair of sweatpants, and watch a silly romcom that will make me cry and despise my life even more. But I can’t leave before every minute of tomorrow’s shoot is mapped out. And I need to also check the ad sales reports on my holiday commercials and recheck the TV air schedules for the projects I’m following. So I trudge on, even if my eyes keep crossing over the endless Excel sheet lines and columns.

By 8:30 p.m. I’m so exhausted that, when my landline rings, I pick up without thinking.

“Nikki Moore.”

“Nikki!” My mother sounds both astounded and utterly ecstatic she’s finally cornered me. “I thought I’d get your voicemail. I’m not sure your secretary is passing along all my messages. What are you still doing at the office this late?”

“Working, obviously.”

“Work, work, work. You work too much, honey, there’s more to life than just work.”

I could come up with a million retorts. But if I argue back, the conversation will spiral into a sermon from my mother. A lecture starting with a list of all the important things I’m neglecting, and ending in a praise of the perfect work-life balance Julia has achieved. So, instead of defending my right to be focused on my career, I give her the easy response.

“Mom, you know how busy it gets at the holidays, worst time of the year. I really need to finish up here, so…”

“I’ll be quick, then.” Now that she has me, she’s not going to let me off the hook that easily. “I wanted to know when you’re coming home for the break. Julia is coming on the twenty-second.”

I peek at the calendar. The twenty-second is the Saturday before Christmas.