I’m not sure why Julia came back uptown with me after we left Big Mama. Or why she followed me all the way to my office. Or why she’s now seated on my furniture asking very stupid questions.
“A mistake?” My words come out in a hiss. Julia is marrying Paul; how dare she not thank her lucky stars? “What do you mean, a mistake?”
“Only that Paul is so predictable sometimes, don’t you think?” Jules doesn’t let me answer before she continues. “Take the way he proposed. He made a romantic dinner at home with candlelight and roses and popped the question after dessert.”
Red. I see red, and I’m not sure I can keep the anger out of my voice as I ask, “And what would a worthy proposal have entailed?”
“Something more original… More special. Take Amanda’s boyfriend.” Amanda is her best friend. “Joshua asked her on the summit of a wild mountain after they’d struggled to the top together. Paul’s proposal was so cliché by comparison.”
“I’m pretty sure that if Paul ever asked you to go rock-climbing, you’d dump him on the spot.”
Jules shrugs. “Fair enough, but you’re missing the point.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Sometimes I think Paul is a bit, you know, boring. Take his looks, for example, blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw… He’s just so WASP-y; even his job is so proper and expected…”
I’m trying really hard not to start yelling what an ungrateful, spoiled brat she is. “I’m curious, how would a non-boring man look?”
Julia stares at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. “Don’t you ever dream of an adventure with a tall, dark stranger? Someone with smoldering green eyes and full lips, and danger written all over his face. Someone who speaks Italian and doesn’t own a car.”
“And how would he get around? On the subway?”
The last time my sister took the subway, I was still in college.
“Ew, no. He would ride a bike, of course. One of those big, black monsters… We’re talking about the kind of guy who sweeps you off your feet with just one look, who can make you fall hard and fast. Someone mysterious, intriguing…”
“And what occupation would this dangerous stranger have, since marketing is clearly so out of style with you?” I ask, even if I agree that Paul’s job isn’t exactly exciting. I’ve no clue why he decided to waste all his creativeness to go work in the driest, most Corporate America branch of marketing the city has to offer.
“You didn’t get offended, did you?” Jules says. “When I said Paul’s job is boring, I didn’t mean yours, too. You do completely different things.”
Her disrespect of my profession is the least of my concerns at the moment.
“Not at all,” I say.
“Anyway,” she continues, unfazed. I suspect I could’ve said I was mortally offended, and I would’ve gotten the same reaction. “My stranger would have to be some kind of struggling artist, someone who lives paycheck to paycheck, and who appreciates everything he has because he doesn’t know if he’s going to still have it tomorrow.”
“So you basically want to marry a penniless, unemployed artist, who’d propose to you on top of a big rock with a plastic ring because he can’t afford a real diamond?”
“I never said marry, I only said I’d like one last adventure. Is that so wrong?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one about to walk down the aisle.”
I must’ve been scowling more than I realized, because Jules goes on the defensive. “No, you’re right. I’m just being silly. But it’s hard to think I’m done with first dates and first kisses… That Paul will be it for me for the rest of my life.”
Considering the last few disastrous first dates I went on, I count Julia lucky she won’t ever have to go on another one. “First dates are overrated, trust me.”
She smiles. “Maybe you’re right. But this is all so new; it’s normal for me to have some wedding jitters, isn’t it?”
I’ve had enough. “Listen, Jules, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really have a ton of work to do…”
“Sorry.” Julia hops off the desk. “I’ve already stolen too much of your time. Thank you for talking me down.” She pulls on her coat. “I’ll send you the wedding planner’s contact as soon as I’ve picked one…”
“Whatever you need.” I hug her goodbye and usher her out. “You know the way, right?”
“Yeah.” She gives me another quick hug and goes.
I don’t watch her get to the elevators; I shut the door to my office and pull down all the blinds. Back behind my desk, I drop my head on its cold surface and wait for the tears to come. Only they won’t. After holding back for too long, my body is wired to resist and refuses to let go.
For the rest of the afternoon I stare blankly at my screen, finishing none of the work I was supposed to do—namely, the final revision of a lipstick commercial that starts shooting soon. A high-end gig with A-list models and a top-notch director. I just scroll through the art boards, casting pictures, and wardrobe selection without really seeing any of it. By the time Melanie knocks on my door to tell me she’s leaving for the night, I’ve no idea what the plan is for the shoot the day after tomorrow.
Ah, hell. I decide to follow Melanie out. Take the night off, process the blow, and come back in the morning as good as new. The engagement doesn’t really change anything. They already live together… Marriage won’t make their relationship any better… Only more permanent… More unbreakable…
Kids are coming next, a vicious voice whispers inside my head.
As I walk out of my building, I try to imagine what a Jules & Paul baby would look like. Gorgeous, for sure, with blonde hair and blue eyes… Perfect, really. They’re going to have perfect babies, to live in their perfect house, after their perfect wedding.
Despite the biting cold, my feet refuse to walk me to the subway station. Instead, I wander the streets of New York surrounded by a frenzied holiday crowd. Revoltingly cheery people going about their jolly business amidst colorful shopping windows and those sickening Christmas tunes coming out of a thousand speakers hidden everywhere in the city.
A couple in front of me stops to kiss under a mistletoe wreath. Disgusted, I side-step past them, only to be assailed by a blinding display of red and green lights. Between the music, the lights, the colors, and the crowd, my head starts spinning. It seems like the whole city is bearing down on me. I need to get somewhere dark and quiet, now!
As I quicken my pace, my eyes catch on a shop window without even a hint of red or green, or of a single Christmas decoration. Instead of sickening jingle bells, modern lounge music is drifting out from under the glass door.
On impulse, I walk in.
An Asian guy with shoulder-length, platinum-blond hair welcomes me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, dear, but we’re almost closing. Did you have an appointment?”
An appointment? I take in the twin rows of black leather chairs in front of floor-to-ceiling mirror walls and realize I’ve walked into a hair salon.
“No, sorry,” I say. “I just needed a break from all this holiday madness, and your place was so…”
The guy nods understandingly. “We pride ourselves in being the anti-Christmas types. So, my darling fellow Grinch, having a bad day?”
“Horrible.” I walk toward one of the chairs. “Can I sit here for five minutes and breathe some un-festive fresh air?”
“Sure, sure.” He gestures for me to sit, and I don’t know if it’s out of professional habit, but he starts combing his fingers through my hair. “Such a blank canvas,” he says, pulling apart a few locks. “When was the last time you had it trimmed?”
“Honestly? I don’t remember. It’s been a while.”
I like my hair as it is: long, dark, straight. And I haven’t changed my style in forever. If it ain’t broke…
“And are you feeling adventurous today?”
“No, no! Not at all.”
I make to get up, bu
t my host keeps me in place with a gentle pressure on my shoulders.
“Mmm, I’m not sure you’ve walked in here by chance, darling. Sure you’re not ready for a change?”
I’m about to say “no” again, when the question really sinks in. Am I ready for a change? Do I want to keep spending my life pining after my sister’s boyfriend—sorry, fiancé?
No.
Do I want to keep dreading the holidays and every visit home?
No.
So, am I ready for a change?
Hell yeah!
I meet the guy’s eyes in the mirror.
“That’s what I thought.” He smiles knowingly. “I work only by appointment, but I will make an exception for you, little bird.”
“Oh, no. You were about to close, I wouldn’t want to make you stay late. I can come back tomorrow.”
The stylist gives me a piercing stare through the mirror. “You walk out of that door now, honey, and we both know I’ll never see you again.”
He’s right.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
“Great!” He pats my shoulders. “Now, tell me how much of a radical change you want.”
I lift my chin. “Make me a new woman.”
***
After leaving the salon, I spend the rest of the walk home spying on my reflection in every shop window I pass. I barely recognize myself. Jiang—the genius hairstylist—basically turned me into Jaimie Alexander’s secret twin sister. Think Nina Dobrev from the pilot episode of The Vampire Diaries to the series finale makeover. Only my new cut is shorter and more radical.
And so bouncy, and so fresh, and so not me.
As I unlock my apartment door, my phone pings with a new text. I drop my bag on the counter, take out the phone, and sag on the couch, exhausted.
What a day!
My fingers are so cold from my stroll around Manhattan that when I try to unlock the phone, the touchscreen almost doesn’t recognize them as warm, human flesh. Only after I blow hot air on my fingertips and swipe twice more does it work, and I can read the text.
It’s from Blair, my best friend and roommate.
Sorry I haven’t been home in forever
I’ll be there in a few minutes
Are you in?
Just got here
Great
I have some big news
Bought champagne to celebrate
Champagne? Oh gosh, she’s getting married, too. Richard proposed. I try to summon some altruistic joy, but I can’t. There’s only one thought drilling through my skull: I’m going to be single forever and die alone.
Just like that, out of nowhere, the tears come. My chest and shoulders spasm with body-wrenching sobs, and I don’t seem to be able to stop the flood.
The frustration, the pain… the bitter jealousy, for my sister, for my best friend… they all come out in a downpour. Oh, gosh, I’m a horrible person who doesn’t deserve love. Why would anyone love me? I’m dark and grumpy and stubborn—simply, utterly unlovable.
That’s how Blair finds me a few minutes later: a sobbing, self-loathing mess sprawled on the couch.
“Oh my gosh, Nikki.” She rushes into the living room, coat still on, dropping a bottle of bubbly on the coffee table, where she sits. “Are you okay?”
I try to speak, but it’s difficult when you’re crying as hard as I am, so I only shake my head.
Blair does a double take and points at my face, shocked. “Your hair—it’s gone! Are you crying about the haircut?”
“Noooooooo,” I wail. “S-should I be c-crying about it?”
“No, no!” Blair jumps in to reassure me. “I love it like this! But it’s a big transformation… I thought maybe you did it on the spur of the moment, then changed your mind. Is that it?”
I shake my head again.
“So what is it?”
After a few deep breaths, I speak the unspeakable. “Julia and Paul are engaged.”
Blair doesn’t respond. She removes her coat, kicks off her shoes, and slides onto the couch next to me, taking me into her arms. She pets me and cuddles me as I tell her everything: the lunch at Big Mama, the announcement, Jules’ stupid doubts, my lone walk through the streets of Manhattan, and the hair salon.
“Do you really like my hair this way?” I ask at the end.
“Love it!” Blair smiles sincerely.
I hug her tighter. “Distract me. What was your big news?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her throwing a guilty look at the champagne bottle. A thick layer of condensation now covers the dark glass. The wine’s got to be warm by now. Great, I ruined her celebration.
“Oh, nothing,” she says, brushing my question off. “Let’s talk about it another night.”
“You bought the bubbly,” I insist. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”
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.
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.
A Christmas Date Page 2
