CHAPTER 1
Georgie pulled into the driveway, swerving to miss a bike.
Neal never made Alice put it away.
Apparently bicycles never got stolen back in Nebraska—and people never tried to break in to your house. Neal didn’t even lock the front door most nights until after Georgie came home, though she’d told him that was like putting a sign in the yard that said PLEASE ROB US AT GUNPOINT. “No,” he’d said. “That would be different, I think.”
She hauled the bike up onto the porch and opened the (unlocked) door.
The lights were off in the living room, but the TV was still on. Alice had fallen asleep on the couch watching Pink Panther cartoons. Georgie went to turn it off and stumbled over a bowl of milk sitting on the floor. There was a stack of laundry folded on the coffee table—she grabbed whatever was on the top to wipe it up.
When Neal stepped into the archway between the living room and the dining room, Georgie was crouched on the floor, sopping up milk with a pair of her own underwear.
“Sorry,” he said. “Alice wanted to put milk out for Noomi.”
“It’s okay, I wasn’t paying attention.” Georgie stood up, wadding the wet underwear in her fist. She nodded at Alice. “Is she feeling okay?”
Neal reached out and took the underwear, then picked up the bowl. “She’s fine. I told her she could wait up for you. It was this whole negotiation over eating her kale and not using the word ‘literally’ anymore because it’s literally driving me crazy.” He looked back at Georgie on his way to the kitchen. “You hungry?”
“Yeah,” she said, following him.
Neal was in a good mood tonight. Usually when Georgie got home this late . . . Well, usually when Georgie got home this late, he wasn’t.
She sat at the breakfast bar, clearing a space for her elbows among the bills and library books and second-grade worksheets.
Neal walked to the stove and turned on a burner. He was wearing pajama pants and a white T-shirt, and he looked like he’d just gotten a haircut—probably for their trip. If Georgie touched the back of his head now, it’d feel like velvet one way and needles the other.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted to pack,” he said. “But I washed everything in your hamper. Don’t forget that’s it’s cold there—you always forget that it’s cold.”
She always ended up stealing Neal’s sweaters.
He was in such a good mood tonight. . . .
He smiled as he made up her plate. Stir-fry. Salmon. Kale. Other green things. He crushed a handful of cashews in his fist and sprinkled them on top, then set the plate in front of her.
When Neal smiled, he had dimples like parentheses—stubbly parentheses. Georgie wanted to pull him over the breakfast bar and nose at his cheeks. (That was her standard response to Neal smiling.) (Though Neal probably wouldn’t know that.)
“I think I washed all your jeans . . . ,” he said, pouring her a glass of wine.
Georgie took a deep breath. She just had to get this over with. “I got good news today.”
He leaned back against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So . . . Maher Jafari wants our show.”
“What’s a Maher Jafari?”
“He’s the network guy we’ve been talking to. The one who green-lit The Lobby and that new reality show about tobacco farmers.”
“Right.” Neal nodded. “The network guy. I thought he was giving you the cold shoulder.”
“We thought he was giving us the cold shoulder,” Georgie said. “Apparently he just has cold shoulders.”
“Huh. Wow. That is good news. So—” He cocked his head to the side. “—why don’t you seem happy?”
“I’m thrilled,” Georgie said. Shrilly. God. She was probably sweating. “He wants a pilot, scripts. We’ve got a big meeting to talk casting. . . .”
“That’s great,” Neal said, waiting. He knew she was burying the lead.
Georgie closed her eyes. “. . . on the twenty-seventh.”
The kitchen was quiet. She opened them. Ah, there was the Neal she knew and loved. (Truly. On both counts.) The folded arms, the narrowed eyes, the knots of muscle in both corners of his jaw.
“We’re going to be in Omaha on the twenty-seventh,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “Neal, I know.”
“So? Are you planning to fly back to L.A. early?”
“No, I . . . we have to get the scripts ready before then. Seth thought—”
“Seth.”
“All we’ve got done is the pilot,” Georgie said. “We’ve got nine days to write four episodes and get ready for the meeting—it’s really lucky that we have some time off from Jeff’d Up this week.”
“You have time off because it’s Christmas.”
“I know that it’s Christmas, Neal—I’m not skipping Christmas.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Just skipping . . . Omaha. I thought we could all skip Omaha.”
“We already have plane tickets.”
“Neal. It’s a pilot. A deal. With our dream network.”
Georgie felt like she was reading from a script. She’d already had this entire conversation, almost verbatim, this afternoon with Seth. . . .
“It’s Christmas,” she’d argued. They were in their office, and Seth was sitting on Georgie’s side of the big L-shaped desk they shared. He’d had her cornered.
“Come on, Georgie, we’ll still have Christmas—we’ll have the best Christmas ever after the meeting.”
“Tell that to my kids.”
“I will. Your kids love me.”
“Seth, it’s Christmas. Can’t this meeting wait?”
“We’ve already been waiting our whole career. This is happening, Georgie. Now. It’s finally happening.”
Seth wouldn’t stop saying her name.
Neal’s nostrils were flaring.
“My mom’s expecting us,” he said.
“I know,” Georgie whispered.
“And the kids . . . Alice sent Santa Claus a change-of-address card, so he’d know she’d be in Omaha.”
Georgie tried to smile. It was a weak effort. “I think he’ll figure it out.”
“That’s not—” Neal shoved the corkscrew in a drawer, then slammed it shut. His voice dropped. “That’s not the point.”