"Los Angeles," Dez said eventually.
"Los Angeles," Wren agreed. "Or not. Or later. Or we figure out what we want the sentence to be now that we've admitted there's a sentence."
"Stay through Christmas," he said. "Stay through the tree. Then we decide like adults who finally learned the words."
"Deal." She rested her head on his shoulder, the way she had the night the tree first stood upright, only now the gesture carried a different voltage. "Best tree we've ever had," she murmured, quoting him back to himself.
"Still true."
---
Gus, downstairs, did clean the espresso machine, mostly. He also stood in the back hallway and called the woman from his Tuesday workshop—Elena Ruiz, who wrote short stories about bodegas and miracles and who had once told him his play's second act sagged like wet laundry. He had been meaning to call her for three months. Meaning was a currency he spent badly.
"Hi," he said when she answered. "This is Gus. From workshop. The corduroy guy who defends his sagging second act."