"It's Christmas. Inventory always suffers."
"Dez. I've watched you play the same Norah—never mind. I've watched you moon for years. Don't screw this up by being noble and stupid at the same time. That's a men's specialty."
He told her about Portland. Maya whistled. "Or do that. But do it with her on the phone, not as a surprise martyrdom."
He took the advice. That night he and Wren sat on the floor with a map of the United States spread between them like a game board, Gus providing color commentary and snack logistics. They traced possible years with their fingers. They argued about weather. They agreed that missing each other would hurt and that pretending not to choose would hurt worse. The judgmental angel watched from the tree as if grading their logistics.
Conflict returned in a different coat two days before Christmas, when Wren's raised offer collided with Dez's Portland introduction and Gus—exhausted from finals week—snapped over a misplaced bill and then apologized so hard he nearly wrote an essay about it. The apartment crackled. Old habits rose: Dez retreating into stoic silence, Wren cleaning aggressively, Gus narrating everyone's feelings until told to stop. For an hour it felt as if the tree had never taught them anything.
Then Wren put down the sponge, walked to Dez, and said, "Fight with me, not around me."
Dez exhaled. "I'm scared of choosing wrong and calling it love."
"I'm scared of choosing right and still losing ordinary Tuesdays."