Page 73 of A Winter in New York

“I wasn’t planning on getting a tree,” I say.

“Yeah, you said,” he says. “But where will you hang your whisk if you don’t have a tree?”

I gesture toward the corner as he shuffles it into my apartment, and we both stand back to look at it once it’s in place.

“It looked smaller outside,” he concedes.

“You don’t say.”

“Maybe if we turn it around?” He has a quick go, but it’s so bushy that whichever way round it is the bottom branches flop over the arm of the sofa.

I slide behind it and sit down, parting the branches to look at Gio.

“I feel like I’m staking someone out,” I say.

He pushes the sofa along with me still sitting on it until it’s clear of the tree’s reach. It’s wedged up against the breakfast bar at the other end, but at least I won’t feel like I’m part of a nature documentary every time I sit down.

“Perfect fit,” he says.

I get up and stand beside him. “You know what? It is.”

This is the first real tree I’ve had in years. Adam had a small, sparse pre-lit plastic one from before we met, which he wouldn’t hear of replacing, a woebegone object thatsomehow managed to make the room even more dispiriting than usual. No baubles, and certainly no gifts piled beneath it.

“Lights?” Gio looks at me and I shake my head. The only string of lights I have is pinned around the window.

“Ornaments?”

I fetch the whisk and hang it on the tree, then step back. It spins slowly, catching the daylight, a solitary splash of color on the mountain of greenery.

“You know what this means,” I say.

He groans. “Please don’t say we have to go back to the Christmas store.”

“We have to go back to the Christmas store.” I rub my hands together like an excited child. “I’ll get my coat.”

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My life feels likea Coney Island roller coaster at the moment, a series of euphoric highs and stomach-plummeting lows. Today I’m flying high, sweet as you like, because Gio and I have spent the afternoon dressing the tree and eating panettone from a little bakery he knows over on Mulberry. I had a moment as we walked back home weighed down with Christmas bags. Gio was a few steps ahead of me on the sidewalk, hunkered inside his navy reefer jacket, panettone wrapped with brown paper and string dangling from one hand, Christmas decorations from the other, and the weatherman finally made good on his promise of snow. Gio turned back to look at me, fat white flakes settling on his shoulders as he cast his eyes toward the skies, and I clicked the shutter on my internal camera to save the scene forever.

“It looks like you bought everything in the shop andthrew it at the tree,” he says, when I finally declare it to be perfect.

“I love it,” I say. “It’s the best tree in the history of Christmas trees ever.”

It looks insanely festive, a blaze of vintage-colored lights—pinpricks of rose pink, apple green, candy apple reds. I completely lost my head in the Christmas store earlier, bought far too many tree ornaments, and I’m not one bit sorry, because my tree looks like something from a child’s drawing. From my own wistful childhood drawings.

I cook pasta for dinner, and afterward we lie on the sofa and bask in the fairy-light glow, the TV on low and snow falling steadily outside.

“Heavy snow at the Monday Night Motel,” he says.

I adjust my head on his chest. “Maybe we’ll get snowed in.”

“Maybe,” he says, even though we both know it’s coming up to the time for him to leave. Bella’s at the cinema, and he’s walking over to meet her at ten to make sure she gets home safe in this weather.

“It feels like Christmas already,” I say.

“You do have the best tree in the neighborhood,” he says.

“Thanks to you.”

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