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yardman, and he had a heart attack at work. When the call came that day from his mom, Neal had gone into their bedroom without saying a word. It was only the second time Georgie had seen him cry.
    Maybe Neal was disoriented last night, waking up in his parents’ house, sleeping in his old room. All the memories of his dad . . .
    Or maybe he’d just meant Alice and Noomi. “She’s fine. They’re both fine. Everybody’s fine.”
    Georgie set her coffee on her desk and plugged in her phone.
    Seth was watching her. “Are you about to start your period?”
    That should probably be an offensive workplace question, but it wasn’t. You can’t work with someone every day of your adult life and never talk to him about your PMS.
    Or maybe you could, but Georgie was glad she didn’t have to. “No.” She shook her head at Seth. “I’m fine.”
    “You don’t look fine,” he said. “Are those your clothes from yesterday?”
    Jeans. One of Neal’s old Metallica concert T-shirts. A cardigan.
    “We should work in the big room,” she said, “with the whiteboards.”
    “Those are your clothes from yesterday,” Seth said, “and they were sad enough yesterday.”
    Georgie exhaled. “I spent the night at my mom’s house, okay? You’re lucky I showered.” She’d used Heather’s shower, and Heather’s shampoo. And now she smelled like frosting.
    “You spent the night at your mom’s house? Were you too drunk to drive?”
    “Too tired,” she said.
    He narrowed his eyes. “You still look tired.”
    Georgie frowned back at him; Seth looked pristine, of course. Gingham shirt, tan pants cuffed high over his bare ankles, suede saddle shoes. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Banana Republic. Or what Georgie imagined that might look like—it’d been years since she was actually inside a Banana Republic. She did all her shopping online now, and only when things got desperate.
    Seth, however, had never let himself go. If anything, he’d tightened his grip. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day since 1994, since the first day he and Georgie met.
    The first time she’d seen Seth, he was sitting on a pretty girl’s desk, playing with her hair. Georgie had been excited just to see another girl in The Spoon offices.
    She found out later that the girl only came in on Wednesdays to sell ads. “Girls aren’t usually into comedy,” Seth explained. Which was better than what a lot of the other guys on staff said: “Girls aren’t funny.” (After working at the college humor magazine for four years, Georgie eventually convinced a few of them to add, “Present company excluded.”)
    She’d chosen the University of Los Angeles because of The Spoon . Well, and also because of the theater program, and because ULA was close enough to her mom’s house that Georgie could still live at home.
    But The Spoon was the main thing. It was Georgie’s thing.
    She’d started reading it in the ninth grade; she used to save back issues and stick the front pages up on her bedroom wall. Everyone said The Spoon was The Harvard Lampoon of the West Coast—lighter, better-looking. Some of her favorite comedy writers had gotten their start there.
    Georgie had shown up at The Spoon offices, a rumpus room/computer lab in the basement of the student union, the first week of her freshman year, willing to do anything—willing to make coffee or proofread the personal ads—but wanting , so badly, to write.
    Seth was the first person she met there. He was a sophomore and already an editor, and initially he was the only guy on staff who’d make eye contact with Georgie at editorial meetings.
    But that was because he was Seth, and because she was a girl.
    Seth’s chief pastime back then was paying attention to girls. (Another thing that hadn’t changed.) Lucky for him, then and now, girls usually paid attention back.
    Seth was shiny and handsome—tall, with brown eyes and thick auburn hair—and he dressed like he belonged on the cover of