Page 2 of Love Letters to Christmas

Blue.

Blue, like the sky on a summer day.

Blue, like the ocean at a distance.

Blue, like the wax seal on a love letter…

“I hope you don’t mind,” Brian says as he sets down a box of my meager belongings and turns to face me where I stand, starstruck, beneath the doorjamb of my new bedroom. “I took the liberty of freshening up your room a bit. If there’s anything you don’t like, we can change it.” Smiling warmly, he sets his hands on his hips and takes in the elegant queen-size bed garbed in blue and white lace, the matching dresser and desk set with ornate silver handles, the lovely fluttering envelope wall stickers scattered around the room, as though a fresh breeze has taken it upon itself to deliver them personally. “It was a little too bland and white before I knew you were coming.”

My heart trips. “You…painted it for me?”

Brian’s green eyes hit me, and my body tenses to keep from collapsing. I am not yet used to the full force of his attention. After so many years apart, I’ve lost all my immunity.

Adorably, his head tilts. “I painted it, got new furniture, and put up the stickers myself. I couldn’t have you living in a bland bedroom, devoid of color and joy. Why, it would be inhumane!” His nostrils flare as he crosses his arms, shakes his head, tuts. “What a silly thing to suggest.”

He…painted this bedroom. For me.

He painted my bedroom love-letter blue justfor me.

“If it’s not your color, no worries,” he says. “We can fix it. Painting is a remarkably enjoyable task.”

“No,” I say, perhaps too swiftly. Swallowing my eager enthusiasm, I present a practiced smile and trained calm. “No, it’s perfect. I love it.”

Softness ripples in Brian’s eyes as he meets me at the door to take the box I’m holding from my grasp. “I thought you might.” Spinning on his heel before I’m emotionally ready to forego the closeness, he sets my box atop the other one. “Once we get your things in, I’ll show you around and we can go over house rules.”

Right. Yes, of course. House rules. I’ll write them down, study them faithfully, and commit them to memory. The last thing I want to do is be a burden on my childhood crush. He’s already doing so much just by letting me stay here, not to mention the job he’s lined up for me, too. I can hardly believe that anyone possesses such explicit kindness.

As it stands, we haven’t spoken for years and we were never evenfriends. We went to the same school, but we’ve had precious few conversations, most of which I stammered and stumbled my way through. It’s a wonder that he remembers me when every girl I knew growing up was also in love with him.

Despite the options, he picked none of them.

Because never once was anyone more important to him than mail.

And, last I checked, I’m not mail.

“—A-mail-ia?” Brian’s voice calls me from my move-in daze, and I squeak, facing him, as I heavily set the last hanging bag of clothes on my new bed.

Frantic, I search his face for a clue as to what we’re talking about. Not even his eyebrows deliver a hint.

Humor softens his lips into a smile. “I asked if this waseverything, A-mail-ia.”

“Oh. Yes. It is.” I glance at the mess now strewn about my new room: a few spare boxes, a couple hanging bags of clothes. This is everything I own. Everything my parents would let me keep when I left.

I must look pitiful.

But at least Brian isn’t the type to pity me.

Clapping his hands, he grins. “Great! Tour time.” He exits my room, getting a step beyond the door before declaring, “Across the hall you’ll find your bathroom. To your left, at the end of the hall, you’ll find the master bedroom.”

My heartthuds. Our bedrooms areright next to each other?

It suddenly becomes impossible to swallow.

“Moving on—” He strides forward, practically falling into each of his steps. “—you’ll see a perfectly modest living room, decked out with the best films money can buy.”

A widescreen TV sits within an oak entertainment center, only two DVDs—You’ve Got MailandKlaus—on display near it. My eyes linger on them, my favorite movies, my favorite movies which we seem toshare.

Oblivious of my racing heart, Brian sweeps his arm across from the living room of the open floor plan to present the kitchen and dining space. “Our full-service kitchen boasts twenty-four hour access and immediate, on-demand ordering…within five business days.” Approaching the fridge, Brian pokes a letter-themed notepad stuck to the door. “Write anything that you need or anything that we run out of on here, and I’ll pick it up next time I’m at the store.”

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