Page 32 of Love Letters to Christmas

I like people; that’s another base character trait of mine. I like people, because people are fascinating and fun and inexplicable. They’re like love letters to life, cozy little packages of wonder and hopes and dreams that sometimes appear on your doorstep and change your world.

If Amelia had given me a love letter in school, how would I have responded? After marveling at the honor of owning one of her brilliant blue seals, what would I have said to her in a reply? When people gave me love letters, I’d apologize and turn them down as gently as possible, bemoaning the loss of a letter I could never rightfully cherish.

I can’t stand rejecting people’s feelings. I prefer to welcome them. But some emotions aren’t mine to hold onto like that. I’ve never felt conflicted like this before. Never once.

If Amelia were to give me her feelings…what would I do?

Blowing out a breath, I stab my pen to the page a final time, scrawl a closing remark, and fold the letter up in its envelope bed.

This is a problem for a Brian who isn’t tired, I think.

So it really is a shame that I just signed:

Unlikely to get much sleep tonight,

Yours Unfortunately,

Brian Single

Chapter Twelve

I cannot be expected to improve my mental health under these conditions.

Amelia

As it turns out, it’s quite near impossible to work on myself when I live in the same house as the object of my greatest distractions. That said, it is assuredly impossible when I am sleeping in the very same room as him.

Staring at the ceiling and trying not to annoyingly rustle my sheets overmuch due to anything silly likebreathing, I police my rampant thoughts. They refuse to tame.

Three feet to my left, Brian is sleeping.

Twenty-three minutes ago, he showered in the same bathroom I used before him.

When he emerged, I learned that he sleeps in hisboxers, only his boxers, which are covered in little red hearts and little white letters. As the thick scent of sandalwood robbed my air, the sight oftopless Briancemented itself in my brain for all time.

Topless Brian.

In mail-themed boxers.

With damp hair.

Yawning.

Labored breath manages to whistle into the cavities of my chest without disrupting the sheets, and I squeeze my eyes shut only to find myself bombarded yet again with the fresh, clean scent ofhim.

This is impossible.

Who cares about character growth anyway?

I’m less than a half hour away from where my parents live right now. Would I rather come to terms with thatorbe a creepy, lovesick disaster?

Cutting my eyes toward the dark outline of the love of my life, I think it’s more than clear what my preferences are.

Lovesick disaster all the way.

“A-mail-ia?”

My heart slams into my ribs, and I squeak.

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