Page 21 of Love Letters to Christmas

I stare at the Sweet & Salty logo plastered across the brown paper. After our conversation about ruffians this morning and how she shouldn’t be spending her own money on me, she left this building and went down the street to the best cafe in the world all by herself to get me breakfast?

That seems like a big breakdown in listening comprehension.

Planting my chin in my hand, I brace my elbow on my desk and sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”

She winces. “Sor…” She swallows the apology and stares down at her Mary Jane shoes.

Extending my hand, I say her name. Tangled together, her fingers twitch, then they separate and she reaches for me. As our skin meets, soft emotions flood my chest.

It’s Christmas morning, with music and pine. It’s Easter candy pillowed in a bed of fake grass. It’s a crackling fire and writing love letters by candlelight.

I squeeze her small hand. “Are you okay?”

“I…” She bites her lip, takes a breath, battles to contain herself. “Yes.”

“You can talk to me. I didn’t mean to be so harsh this morning. I still appreciate you. Immensely.”

“It’s not that,” she says, voice breaking. “I’m just stressed.”

“Why?”

Using her free hand, she wipes her eyes and clings to me for stability. “I shouldn’t react like this. I shouldn’t panic like this. You should be able to tell me you don’t like a stupid bran muffin without it feeling likethis. I shouldn’t have to feel like I need to fix it. I shouldn’t worry that if you aren’t smiling and energetic all the time that you’re mad at me. I…” Her head falls. “I’msorry. I’m so sorry. It’s so hard. I can’t… I’m sorry.”

I am uncertain what compels me, but I kiss Amelia’s knuckles.

Breath enters her, quieting her apologies, so I kiss again before I rise and reach to curl a finger beneath her chin. I guide her eyes to my face. Starry brown meets me, and I forget what I’m doing, what I’m trying to say, everything.

Wow.

It is actually incredibly stupid of me to let her outside where people who don’t appreciate mail might get to her. Mars asked me to help her. And I’m doing a terrible job of that if she’s crying in my office after only a month and a half.

“It takes an awful lot to get me mad, A-mail-ia,” I supply, once I’ve regained the ability to speak. “It’s going to take time for you to heal from everything you’ve grown up knowing, because you’re right. You shouldn’t be hurting like this.”

“I don’t know how to make it stop. I’m trying, in all the ways I know how. But it’s still so hard.”

“You have time.”

“But—”

“You have time, A-mail-ia. A letter doesn’t make it around the world in a single day. There’s processing, and customs, and all sorts of other things to take into consideration—like distance.What matters is that you have an idea of where you want to be and know the steps to make it there. Don’t rush yourself Out for Delivery if you’re still busy filling in the recipient address.” I squeeze her hand, then let her fingers slip from mine as I sit back down. “No one’s mad at you. There are no expectations to live up to. You don’t have to take care of me or feel responsible for my emotions, likes, or dislikes. You’re healing. And we’re existing. Together. That’s all. There’s nothing else you need to stress over. One way or another, you will reach your destination, and it will be just as beautiful as you’ve hoped for. Okay?”

Her eyes close, and she nods. “Okay.”

Wonderful.

Smiling, I return to the very important business of preparing my pitch for a month-long most-romantic-holiday-of-the-year event and enjoy thenon-bran muffin she brought me. Honestly, it should be a crime to be this spoiled rotten.

Chapter Nine

Working on myself. I call it DI-cry.

Amelia

“Yay!” I cheer, waving the adorable tiny American flags Brian gave me to help support him during his presentation.

Liam, severe as always, stares at the projection on the wall behind Brian while the firework animations on the last slide go off. Eyes narrow, he blinks slowly.

Dying behind his chair, Amber braces herself on the backrest and subdues her laughter.

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