The week after the confession on the sofa—after Gus's strategic espresso cleaning and Elena's Thursday—life insisted on being both magical and irritating, which is December's specialty. Wren's magazine threw a holiday party in a loft with a fake fireplace and real ego. Dez wore the green sweater and felt underdressed beside men in turtlenecks that cost more than his turntable. Wren wore the burgundy slip dress without the cardigan for once, glam makeup luminous under string lights, and Dez spent the evening wanting to be near her and also wanting to protect her from the editor who kept mentioning Los Angeles like a test Wren might fail by loving New York too loudly.
"Ashford," the editor said, cornering them by a tray of shrimp, "the West Coast team is hungry for your eye. Don't let sentimentality make you small."
Wren's smile was polite steel. "Sentimentality and scale aren't opposites."
Dez squeezed her hand behind the shrimp. Later, walking home through cold that made their laughter into clouds, he said, "I hated that guy a little."
"I hate him professionally three days a week," Wren said. "Personally only when he talks about my life as if it's a layout he can crop."
They stopped under a awning while snow thickened. A cab hissed past. Wren leaned her forehead against Dez's. "If I go," she whispered, "will you still be my too-big tree person?"
"Try and stop me."
At Vinyl Underground the next day, Maya found Dez alphabetizing the same bin twice and flicked a price sticker at his ear. "You're in love," she said. "It's affecting inventory."