Page 41 of Love Letters to Christmas

“Alcohol,” Mars interjects, lifting a finger. “You’re being aged like a fine wine.”

“Alcohol is bad.”

Mars lowers his finger. “I agree. It goes rather poorly with chocolate milk… I don’t know that this is the best analogy. The plant one was pretty good. Let’s go back to that.”

“I do not know where you both decided I lost the concept. I’m just upset about it.”

Ceres nods, affirmatively, then says, “Be the alcohol sourdough starter tree you want to see in the world.”

I would so dearly like to pass, thanks…but since that’s not an option, I guess I’ll keep on struggling. “Mars?”

“Yes, Mel?”

I blow out a breath. “What do you think would happen if I gave Brian a love letter?”

Mars’s eyes spark in a way I find slightly concerning as his chilling smile grows. “I don’t know. Why don’t you try it?”

Because I am scared out of my mind of rejection and making my present, perfect, living situation so awkward that I’ll be forced to move out immediately and get a job where I won’t see the reason I enjoy being alive every day.

Even though mailroom is love, mailroom is life.

And nothing is better than my life right now.

And honestlywhy, why, whycan’t I justbe happy with it?

I mutter, “What if…I give him a love letter from asecretadmirer? Do you think he’d reply?”

“Absolutely,” Mars says. “If there’s one thing, other than our hatred of raisins, that Brian and I have in common, it’s an incurable curiosity.”

Could I stomach a rejection letter from Brian? Would it actually be harder if he doesn’t reject some mystery girl while I’mright here?

I don’t know. Probably.

Let’s face it, there’s no good ending to this horrible, grasping-at-straws idea. I’m fooling myself and chasing distractions, desperate to strive for something that keeps me from needing to process all the tangled tightness in my chest.

It’s a bad plan.

“Do it, Mel,” Mars says, and I locate that wild craze on his face. It spurs something like a flickering bit of misguided confidence in me. “Write Brian a secret love letter.”

“You think I should?”

“Yep.”

If a crazy man tells you to do something, it’s a very bad idea.

Nevertheless, once we hang up, I select a page of my favorite stationery, sit at my desk, and put pen to paper.

It hurts everything in me to forgo the seal, but most people don’t use wax seals to close their envelopes, and I am doing my best to maintain that wholesecretaspect of secret admirer, so I finish the letter, and I close the envelope, and I stare at it.

Heart racing in my chest, I decide that getting a PO box so I can send this with a return address is a problem for tomorrow’s Amelia. Putting the whole thing in my desk drawer, I hope a modicum of sense might compel me to toss it under my bed with the others in the morning.

Chapter Fifteen

Trading my favorite kidney for validation. Any takers? No? Haha. ’Kay…

Amelia

Sitting in a conference room full of fake snow, bathed in the light glimmering through snowflake window clings, I vibrate—giddy.

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