Page 45 of Love Letters to Christmas

I’ll survive whatever she’s written in here.

I’ll survive, and it’s not like I’ll have to stop loving her.

It’s not likestoppingis even an option at this point. I love her. That’s just how it is.

Her eyes meet mine as she finishes arranging the packages that arrived today onto our mail cart. Her mouth opens, then her attention drops to the pale pink letter in my hands. Heatexplodes on her face. “I-I’m ready to start our rounds.”

I watch her. “’Kay. I’ll catch up to you in a minute.” I lift her letter. “I got mail.”

Her lashes flutter as blush darkens the tips of her ears. “What…a pretty color.”

I stare. “Yes. Very.” Is she pretending that this isn’t very obviously her handwriting? She dots her i’s with tiny circles. I’ve never before in my life perceived such a bubbly script, and that’s saying something, considering my entire life has been dedicated to processing people’s handwriting.

What manner of rejection letter involves not knowing who’s rejecting you?

I think I can hear my fragile heart shattering. I so dearly wish she’d told me before I’d gone and put a substantial number of Christmas decorations on Liam’s business card, which he told me I could use foremployee appreciation. He recommended a complimentary Taco Tuesday or donuts, but then he gave me the kind of budget that covers full-building decor, fireworks, and masquerade balls, sooo.

“Anyway!” Amelia wheels the cart to the elevator. “I hope it’s a very nice letter! Catch up soon!” She presses the call button, then she loads up as quickly as possible, providing me with a plastic smile as she frantically mashes the close-door button.

Once she’s out of sight, I think I panic.

Slightly.

Just a little bit.

“Ha ha ha.” Nervous laughter spills out of me as I turn her letter over, frantic. “What did I do wrong?” Please tell me that she explains whatever it is, and I can fix it.

Gulping, I send myself to my office, sit in my chair, and plant the letter on my desk.

Pretty pink. Pretty handwriting. Pretty hatred.

No one has been subtle where it concerns how much I loveher wax seals. At lunch last month, my parents brought it up a separate eight times. They told her that I—Brian Single, honorer of the post—contemplatedtampering with the mailin a desperation to own her handiwork.

Yet, cruelly, she withholds my right to one.

It takes everything in me to hold it together as I brace myself for the inevitable and open the envelope.

Unexpected words hit me immediately.

My dearest Brian,

It takes all my courage to write you, but I cannot contain these feelings any longer.

I admire you. Your passion. Your confidence. Your kindness.

You’re a beacon of light in an often dim world. I find myself constantly enraptured, drawn helplessly into the sphere of your glow like a moth to a flame. You make life more bearable. You make the world more possible.

Recently, I’ve been trying to focus on myself and become someone more worthy of your attention, so I don’t expect anything to come from this unless I become strong enough to face you directly, but I feel as though sending this letter is an important step in the right direction. At the very least, it is a way to pretend I’m humoring a distraction that has plagued me for as long as I care to remember.

You make it near impossible to think of anything else, which—as I’m sure you can imagine—makes it very hard to work on personal growth.

Your joy and hope and light and love are contagious.

You are everything I have ever wanted, everythingI desire to emulate.

When I think of peace, I think of you.

And then I remember that true peace isn’t something I can obtain through the efforts of someone else. True peace is something I need to come to terms with and attain within myself first. So, you see, I’m in quite a pickle here.

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