Page 81 of Love Letters to Christmas

My hands close into fists, and I brave the sight of him, sonear. “You don’t understand how much I like you. You don’t understand how pathetic I am. I’ve spent years like this.Years, Brian. Decades even. I…I need to show you something.”

He kisses my cheek and frees me from my blankets.

Slipping out of bed, I smooth my shaking hands down my nightgown, round my footboard, and kneel in front of my secret box of Brian love letters. My fingers graze the cardboard, then I pull it from the shadows. Keenly aware of him watching me, I open the flaps. Rows upon rows, all chronologically organized. Colors upon colors. Seals upon seals.

Hundreds of unsent letters.

Eyes teary, I look up at him. “I’ve been writing love letters to you…for decades. I’ve withheld mail from you. For decades.”

His eyes widen, flicking between me and my box of sins.

“I’m a coward, Brian.” I grip a fist in my hair and let my head fall forward. “I struggle so much with what people think of me. I don’t know how to get rid of the things my parents have taught me. I’m…not ready. I’m justnot ready.”

Silence fills my bedroom, and the tension weighs in my chest. It is so heavy I’m sure breathing under water would be easier than whateverthisis. Butthisis all I have to drown myself in. So that is what I do.

Chapter Thirty

Busted.

Brian

Mail. Letters. Hundreds. Seals. On all of them. Bubbling the rows. Making them uneven and perfect and lovely. Each one stamped. Each one taunting me.

The massive box before Amelia bursts with lettersfor me. Perfect, beautiful lettersfor me. The colors dance before my eyes, and I lower myself—trembling—to my knees.

“I started as soon as I could write,” she whispers. “So many of these are atrocious.”

“No.” I swallow hard. “Don’t say that. They’re beautiful.”

Her head shakes. “They aren’t. One is just poetry about your eyebrows.”

“My…eyebrows?”

She covers her face with her hands. “They’re very specific. Very…expressive. I don’t know. I was maybe ten.”

My very specific eyebrows rise.

“The point is if I can’t even confess to you properly when I’ve had hundreds of chances, if I can’t stop focusing on myself for five minutes, if I can’t shake this feeling of worthlessness, I should not come to rely on you. You cannot be my courage. You cannot be my self-esteem. You shouldn’t have to be. It’s not fair to either of us.”

I…

I swallow hard.

Right now, I do not think Icarewhat is fair to either of us. Iwant to open letters. I want to savor Amelia’s words and feelings every day for however many years she has blessed me with. My itching fingers reach. “M-may I?”

She covers the box with her entire body and looks at me, terrified, as though completely oblivious to the fact that she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Eyes wide, waves cascading around her and over my mail, she says, “No. Please. They’re stupid. And embarrassing.”

I need to know more about my specific eyebrows. That’s not the kind of thing you can just tell a man and leave him hanging with. Chest tight, I pin my hands under my arms and clamp them down against my body. “Amelia. I… I really don’t know how to say this eloquently.” I find her weepy eyes. “I love you.”

“Do you love me, or the box of mail?”

“You. I have said so before.”

“Are you just trying to get the box of mail?”

While she remains a part of it, yes. If she were to separate herself from it…I think I’d choose her. In a heartbeat. And not just because I understand that it’s smarter to obtain the source of beautiful things over obtaining a handful. Teach a man to fish, and all that.

Having her means love letters for the rest of my life. Having her means folding tiny origami letter notes to her and perhaps getting a few with miniature seals in return. Having her means battling over who makes the other breakfast. Having her means never coming home to an empty house again, never going into a vacant mailroom that lacks employees who want to be there.

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