“Plus, this will get you out of your apartment for a change. Wouldn’t it be nice not to spend your Christmas eating a rotisserie chicken alone over your kitchen sink?”

“That… wasn’t my plan.”

“Yes, it was.”

I groan again.

“I love you, Ellie, but this past year has been rough. You experienced a few setbacks, and you just froze. You are frozen, like a microwavable burrito pre-microwave. You need a little shock to your system. And two hundred thousand dollars? You can’t walk away from that kind of money.”

“I can admit that I’ve… stagnated a bit.” I can also admit this is a total understatement. “But does that shock to my system really need to be a fake engagement to a handsome millionaire?”

“Honestly? Maybe it does. Nothing else has managed to shake you from this hibernation. You’ll be like Sandy B, and he’ll be your Colin Firth. You’ll pretend to be in love, and then you’ll fall in love for real.”

“What movie is that?”

“I don’t know… all of them?”

“But I don’t want to real-date Andrew. I’m not looking for a relationship right now?” I can’t even stop myself from inserting a question mark at the end of that pathetically declarative sentence.

“Fine. Then don’t do it for a chance at romance with Andrew. Do it for the money.” When Meredith makes declarative statements, there is never a misplaced question mark. You can almost feel the universe bending to her will.

Two hundred thousand dollars. I grew up in a world of Goodwill bargain bins and living paycheck to paycheck, and I’ve never even let myself imagine the life that kind of money could buy.

“I—I need to shower.”

“Classic Ellie avoidance pivot.”

“Yes, but Ellie has vomit in her hair, so you should allow it.”

“Okay, but what are you going to do about these engagement photos? They’re out in the world now.”

As always, Meredith is right. The photos are out there, and when I walk into Roastlandia (five minutes early), Ari squeals a congratulations at me. “Holy shit! You took my advice and got engaged to Andrew! Kind of extra, but I love it!”

“Last Christmas” is playing again, the Taylor Swift version this time, and Ari is wearing a feathered headband and star stickers beneath her eyes, like a human Snapchat filter. She grills me about my supposed engagement, and since it feels wrong to tell her about Andrew’s inheritance, my silence seems to confirm what she already believes. Greg appears from the back to lecture me on “professional conduct in online spaces” as overhead, Taylor laments—once bitten, twice shy.

After my eight-hour shift, I return to my tiny, subterranean studio apartment, like always.

I heat up a frozen burrito for dinner, like always.

I sit on my futon, reach for my iPad, and open up the Clip Studio program, like always.