Page 23 of Love Letters to Christmas

Turning up his nose in a final, pitiful flourish, Brian says, “I expect letters of apology and condolences to arrive within thebusiness week. Come, A-mail-ia.”

As we’re leaving, I overhear Amber murmur, “That one is such an odd egg,” followed by Liam’s, “Get my stationery, please.”

“You got it, Cutie,” is the last thing I can make out before the doors close behind us and I trot after Brian toward the elevator.

He pouts in the corner, hugging his laptop against his chest and looking somewhat utterly dismal in his baggy cardigan. Head tilted against the wall panel, he hefts a sigh.

“Are you okay?” I broach.

“First Easter, now Flag Day.” He droops. “Is this…hatred?”

I’m sure that a man currently drafting an apology letter does not hate Brian. I’m sure that no one can hate Brian. He is, after all,Brian. Just…just look at thatface.

Eyes downcast, lip jutted, tiny sniffles wrinkling his perfect nose…

Yes, this is a man that no one can hate. No one at all.

“At least now we won’t have to worry about coordinating anything for the event while we’re back home for the wedding?” The wedding that Amber and Liam thought wasours. The wedding that Brian immediately brushed off asabsolutely not ours, don’t be ridiculous, you think I’d marry this thing? No way.

Er.

Well.

That’s absolutely not what he said. He just also barely reacted to the speculation while I am still a tomato and fighting desperately to regain myworking on myself and not asking for morepeace.

It is…very hard.

Especially when Brian is being particularly adorable right now. I just want to wrap him up in a hug and tell him that he can have all the Flag Day events he wants. But I am incapable of that,and I amnotmaking other people’s troubles my responsibility right now. I am strictlyworking on myself and other things I can control.

As though “controlling my feelings” is actually an attainable goal.

Brian’s gaze drags off the ground, finds me, and stops. He stills, then he straightens. Cutting his fingers through his sandy hair, he murmurs, “Back home…?”

My brow furrows. “In Bandera? For Mars and Ceres’s wedding? On Flag Day?”

He watches me, vaguely distant. He watches me so long, my stomach begins to curdle and the slowest elevator in the world reaches the very opposite part of the building, opening up to reveal his kingdom of mail. Dropping his arm, he strides past me, murmuring, “That’s not your home. Home is where your mailbox is.” He sets his laptop down on one of the desks, letting his fingers trail across the silver back as he continues toward his office. “Mail will be here soon. Let’s get ready to do our rounds.”

As every organ in my body gains twenty pounds, I force myself to regulate. To take in air. To practicecharacter growth. Ceres would be proud of me for it. But I’m not seeking external validation…so…that doesn’t matter.

Yeah.

And Brian being upset right nowmatters, but it’s not something for me tofix. I can be here for him as a friend without needing to find a solution when there probably isn’t one.

I can bake him some flag-shaped cookies to go with dinner tonight, and I can let this weight go. Because it is not my job to handle the world’s problems while I have so many of my own.

Yeah.

Yeah…

Yep.

Easy.

“I don’t want to work on myself anymore,” I whisper, into the carpet, because I am lying facedown on the carpet, while on video call. “Ceres, do you have any problems I can work on instead?”

“Mars wants me to wear a veil at the wedding.”

I shift my nose out of the rug and look at my friend, who is—as always—sitting at her computer, working. Today, blessedly, it’s girlie time. No Mars on the couch behind her, throwing his cards at who knows what. “I do not understand the problem.”

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