Page 8 of Love Letters to Christmas

It killed me when I learned that his plan was to leave town after high school.

But he didn’t even say goodbye to me…so it makes no sense for him to havemissed me the most. Not a single bit.

He’s just being nice.

And I’m just fabricating an idea that I could haveall thisand more.

Which is not very grateful of me at all. I should be grateful, and stop wanting more.

Setting my sign-on bonus and the letter aside, I open up my training manual and start where I left off before we went on our rounds, which was around page fifteen of thewhy you shouldlove mailopening. Brian said I could skip it, since I already embody the heart and soul of a mailroom worker, but in my heart and soul I knew there was no way I’d miss out on reading a single word Brian has written, much less when what he’s written is a love letter to mail.

Allowing the peace of my new life to consume me, I sink into Brian’s words for the rest of the day.

Chapter Four

Cutie patootie.

Brian

Flag Day.

A Flag Day wedding.

Which I am, specifically, staring at a non-invitation for. Mars has officially un-invited me to his wedding. He says I am not allowed to come. He has put glitter in an envelope and told me to stay far, far away from his fiancée until she’s stuck with him, and then—maybe—he’ll let me meet her. But not before he convinces her to get a ring tattooed on her finger.

I am uncertain how to take this.

The invitation is beautiful, handwritten in script, decorated with stickers I’m certain he stole from his brother, Jove. He puttimeinto this, just to tell me—and I quote—toflag off.

What a way to begin the weekend.

Peeking behind me at the kitchen, I locate my sweet roomie, who is humming “Dandelions” by Ruth B. as she dances through the kitchen, taking advantage of every counter in a way that is neither chaotic nor messy. I do not know how she does it. She has made baking several treats on top of meal prepping for this week a pristine effort.

Her flowing dress sleeves maintain cleanliness as she sweeps from cutting vegetables to stirring something on the stove to topping a casserole in French onions.

She’s beautiful.

Resting my chin atop the back couch cushions, I let thetrance consume me, nearly forgetting that I’m covered in glitter and I’m not sure if I’mactuallynot invited to Mars’s wedding or if this is a joke. I’d text him to ask…but…the man commits to a bit with a passion that rivals my love of mail.

I’d like to go to his wedding.

I’d like to show up and say I thought that covering me in glitter and sending a perfect, careful letter was a joke indicating that I was more than welcome.

If I text him, his dedication to the un-invited bit might hurt my feelings. If I write back asking for clarification, he’d definitely text me instead of writing another letter, so there’s not even a way to get more mail out of this situation.

My nose scrunches at that very concept.

I swear sometimes he does things just to bug me.

And, then, other times, he sends me an angel who adores mail and cooks and cleans and sings while she works and gets adequately excited when letters with colored envelopes come in.

Huh…

Bracing my arm atop the cushions, I nestle my chin into the crook and stare at Amelia’s perfect, crisp hair bun.

I would have thought that after living together for several weeks I’d have seen her with her hair down at least once, but I have never in my life seen it down. She has always, even when we were small, kept it up in this perfect, pinned bun. Sometimes it’s high. Sometimes it’s low. Sometimes she puts flowers or ornaments that match her dresses in it. But it is always, always up.

Makes a man curious.

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