The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(3)

“True true true,” I said.

The waitress came, and we ordered pastries—I think we both knew we didn’t have enough conversation within us to sustain a proper meal.

Once we’d ordered, I continued. “Have you asked her about the tree? I mean, about getting one?”

“I tried,” Langston said. “Point blank—‘Hey, why don’t we get a tree?’ And do you know what her response was? ‘I’m just not feeling it right now.’?”

“That doesn’t sound like Lily at all.”

“I know! So I figured desperate times called for desperate measures. Which is why I texted you.”

“But what can I do?”

“Has she talked to you about it at all?”

Even in our conversational détente, I didn’t want Langston to know the whole truth—that Lily and I hadn’t talked about very much in the weeks since Thanksgiving. Every now and then we’d go to a museum or get dinner. Every now and then we’d kiss, or lightly make out—but nothing that would be out of place on CBS. Ostensibly, we were still dating. But the dating was feeling rather ostensible.

I didn’t tell this to Langston because I was embarrassed that I’d let it happen. And I didn’t tell this to Langston because I was worried it would alarm him. My own alarms were the ones that should’ve been going off.

So instead of getting into it, I said, “No, we haven’t talked about the tree.”

“And she didn’t invite you to the tree-lighting ceremony?”

I shook my head. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“I thought so. I think the only people who are planning to come are the family members who come every year. Usually Lily hands out invitations. But I guess she just wasn’t feeling that, either.”

“Clearly, we have to do something.”

“Yes, but what? It really feels like it would be a betrayal if I went out and bought a tree.”

I thought about it for a moment, and something came to me.

“But what if there’s a loophole?” I asked.

Langston cocked his head, looked at me. “I’m listening.”

“What if I got her the tree? As a present. Part of my Christmas present to her. She doesn’t know that I know about your family tradition. I could just bluster and bluff my way into it.”

Langston didn’t want to like the idea, because it would mean liking me, at least for a minute. But his eyes kicked in with a gleam that, for a moment, countered his doubt.

“We could tell her it’s for the twelve days of Christmas,” he said. “To celebrate the kickoff.”

“Don’t the twelve days of Christmas come after Christmas?”

Langston brushed this away. “Technicality.”

I wasn’t sure it was that simple, but it was worth a shot.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bring the tree. You act surprised. This conversation never happened. Right?”

“Right.” Our pastries arrived and we dug in. About seventy seconds later, we were done. Langston reached for his wallet—I figured to pay the bill. But then he was trying to slide a few twenties my way.

“I don’t want your filthy lucre!” I exclaimed. Perhaps too loudly for a restaurant of such quotidian pain.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll take care of it,” I translated, sliding his money back to him.

“But you do understand—it has to be a nice tree. The best tree.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him, and then employed a sentence that has been the coin and currency of New York since the days of yore: “I know a guy.”

—

It was nearly impossible for New Yorkers to get to trees, so every December, the trees came to the New Yorkers. Bodegas that were normally fronted by buckets of flowers were suddenly overrun by groves of leaning pines. Empty lots were planted with rootless trees, some establishments staying open until the wee hours of the morning, just in case two a.m. was the time you were struck with the need to find the Xmas to mark your spot.

Some of these pop-up firriers were manned by guys who looked like they’d taken a break from drug dealing to try another kind of needle exchange. Others were staffed by guys in flannel who looked like it was the first time they’d ever left upstate, and, gosh, was it big in the big city! Often they were helped out by students in need of the most temporary of temporary jobs. This year, one of those students was my best friend, Boomer.

There was, to be sure, a learning curve for him once he started this employment. Too many viewings of A Charlie Brown Christmas had led him to believe that it was the most wan and wayward of shrubs that was the most desirable one, because tending to it was much more in the Christmas spirit than bringing home a self-sufficient, virulent pine. He also thought Christmas trees could be replanted once Christmas was over. That was a hard conversation to have.

Luckily, what Boomer lacked in clarity he made up for in sincerity, so the stand he was working at, on Twenty-Second Street, had become word-of-mouth popular, with Boomer as the foremost tree elf. I think this recognition was enough to make him happy he’d forsaken boarding school in his senior year to be in Manhattan. He’d already helped me pick out trees for my mother’s and my father’s apartments. (My mother got the much nicer tree.) I was sure he’d love the assignment of picking out the best tree for Lily. And yet I was hesitant as I got closer. Not because of Boomer…but because of Sofia.