Page 30 of Love Letters to Christmas

My mouth…goes dry. Too dry to lick an envelope.

“No,” she repeats, softer. “This is fine. I just…wasn’t expecting it.” Her doe brown eyes lift, fix on me, and her pink lips part. “Are you comfortable here, or at least more comfortable here than you would be at your parents’?”

I so dearly thought so. Until…about three seconds ago.

All the same, I remember how to breathe and swallow. “Sure, sure. Yes. Absolutely. It’s a sleepover! A slumber party!” My heart arrests me, pounding incessantly. “We can make letters and sort them alphabetically. I have supplies.” I always have supplies, because my love of mail is not compromised just because I shirked the family expectation of taking over the post office here.

You never know when you might need to write a letter, or twenty, after all.

Dang it. My mother’s dramatics are right. I should have sent in for a reservation the second Mars covered me in glitter.

Amelia’s braid comes fully undone, and she runs her fingers through the kinky waves until they spill like silk around her face. I never knew her hair was so long.

It’s…pretty.

Yeah, pretty.

But of course it’s pretty. I’ve known that she’s pretty since the moment I first saw her. She’s always been pretty.

“Brian?” she says, and my broken heart thuds.

“Yes?”

Her worried eyes trace me. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? Of course I’m okay. I’m about to do some letter arts and crafts with Amelia. Why wouldn’t I be okay?

My attention catches on the bright red neon of the room’s alarm clock, and all my burgeoning plans stutter. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

Her gaze follows mine to the glaringalmost midnightpresented on the clock face. “Yes.” She straightens, dropping her hands from her hair. “But if you want to write some letters, we can. I’d like to write one to my future self.”

“Your future self?” I ask.

“In case I forget that I survived today and enjoyed the time I was able to spend with Ceres. It’s something the internet suggests, to help with healing.” She hugs herself, managing to look both tortured and modelesque. “I don’t want to lose the good things in my hometown because I’m anxious to be where my parents might show up when I’m not ready. I’m an adult. They have never had the right to treat me poorly, but now they no longer have the control to continue. I shouldn’t be afraid. And I might need that in writing.”

Well said, Amelia. Late-night letter making it is. Pushing aside my clothes, I remove my to-go set of stationery, pens, and envelopes, then I retrieve my seal kit.

Amelia’s tiny gasp coaxes my heart into another trepidating thud, so I dare to steal a glimpse of her.

She’s staring at my seal kit, flushed, and I…

I am uncertain what’s going on inside my body right now. Maybe I, too, need to write something to future me concerning this topic. For the sake of healing. “What is it?”

“That’s the most darling seal kit I have ever seen.”

I gesture toward the rest of the supplies. “It goes with my travel kit. Five by three-point-five envelopes and matching stationery. The smallest standard letter you can send through USPS.”

Her eyes sparkle. “It’s beautiful.” She inches closer, until only my bed separates me from her. Her hands plant on the mattress as she gets a better look at the dusky blue, lined paper I brought. It is painted with forest trees.

“Azure Winter,” I offer. “That’s the style name. I have a decent selection of stationery I can bring when I pack my travel bag, but I…I picked the blue one. Because it made me think of you.”

Wide brown eyes above rosy cheeks. She stares at me, her slender fingers rising to graze the seal kit. “May I?”

I wet my lips. “Of course.” Forcing myself to break this odd spell, I look toward the desks along the wall opposite the beds on either side of a small TV. While Amelia peruses the modest selection of wax and stamps I have, I set us both up at the desks with pens and paper.

Dropping into my seat, I stare at the navy black tree branches stretched across my page, then I lift a black pen and let my thoughts wander through the ink.

Hi Brian,

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