Wren waited. She was good at waiting when it mattered. Gus, for once, did not fill the air.
Dez looked at the tree—upright now, lights blinking, top trimmed with the solemnity of a haircut performed under threat—and said, "My mom used to buy ones like that. Too big on purpose. She said a small tree was a compromise with the year."
The apartment went quiet in the particular way apartments go quiet when someone finally sets a true thing on the table.
Wren crossed the room and sat beside him again, closer this time. She did not put her head on his shoulder yet. She put her hand on his sleeve, needles and all.
"Then it's the right tree," she said simply.
Gus raised his mug. "To no compromises with December."
They drank. Outside, snow kept arriving as if it had nowhere else to be.
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