Page 40 of Love Letters to Christmas

Mars says, “You shouldn’t burn cardstock, or ink, or paper products, really. Those are recyclables.”

“And if…I never want the contents to be read? Not by anyone? At all? Even by mistake?”

Dry, Mars says, “That’s what a shredder is for.”

I need to invest in a shredder. And remove all the carefully-constructed and decorated wax seals. It seems…like so much work. And, yet, one of the horrible new additions to my box of shame was written in a fit of sleep deprivation and manic. It is just a poem—a soliloquy, a reminiscence—about Brian’s bare chest. I compare its pale tone to a fresh page and suggest a desire to leave my kisses like penstrokes across the canvas.

So,haha,yeah! No.Thatalong with all my worse childish musings must be destroyed.

“I’d…really like to burn it, I think,” I murmur.

Mars arches a brow. “It’s bad for the environment. Think of the sharks.”

“I thought you were pro-arson, Mars. I’ve seen you start forest fires.” I fix my weepy eyes off the unmentionables. “You are disappointing me.”

“For starters, I docontrolled burns, and I’m disappointing you because I’m thinking about the well-being of terribly misunderstood and mistreated oceanlife?”

I think for a moment. Then I say, “Yes.”

Ceres sighs. “Girls, please.”

Mars’s lips quirk, then he hangs his body on top of his wife, wrapping her up in his arms. Peace consumes him as he closes his eyes, and it’s hard to work on myself whenmyselfis a jealous, selfish monster who wants so badly to belovedlike…whatever this is.

Without the anxiety.

Without the fear.

Without the constant, unbridled sensation that something is wrong.

Full contentment isn’t that much to ask for, right? Havingeverythingshould do the trick, and since all my basic needs are met in surplus, the only thing missing is love. Romantic love. Because, clearly, I have incredible friendship love already.

Pouting, I push my secret box of love letters back under my bed and locate my natural Ceres phone call position on the carpet, face down.

“Mellie?” Ceres hedges. “You good?”

“Totally,” I mumble into the shag. “What gives you any other idea?”

“Certainly a mystery.”

“I’d like to make myself be happy now.”

“It will take time.”

“It has been months.”

“It will take a lot of time.”

Facing the camera, I say, “My mother didn’t know how to give anyone a compliment. No matter what anyone did, it was only ever insults and passive aggression, a constantyou can do betteroryou still need to work on that. I’d bring home perfect grades, but since I’d once made a one hundred and one percent with extra credit, she wantedthat. Perfecter than perfect. Always,alwaysperfecter than perfect.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I want to be the kind of person who is happy with a ninety-four, and I need to be the kind of person who is at peace with an A-. Or even a B. I want to find rest. I’m so tired of everything I’ve been taught to become. I just…don’t know how to get rid of it.”

“With time,” Ceres presses. “Give yourself time. It can take years for some plants to get strong enough to bear fruit.”

Yearsof this sound absolutely terrible. “Don’t talk plants atme. I’m not a plant girlie.”

“It’s like…a sourdough starter,” Ceres clarifies, clearly confused. “You have to…feed it? And take care of it? And then it takes a lot of time to be ready?”

“On average, it takes two weeks to prep a sourdough starter for baking, Ceres,” I drawl.

“Oh. Well.”

---