Page 85 of Love Letters to Christmas

My panicked thoughts screech to a halt.

Brian locks his arms behind his back and pouts. “Next time?Who says there’ll be a next time? I am underappreciated.”

Liam discovers a smaller matching set of pajamas beneath the first. “There will be a next time. I’ve seen your site. It’s effective. But it requires a reward system to stay effective. I expect you to maintain that. Unobtrusively. So Ruby can enjoy herself, too.”

Brian drops his pout in favor of a sly smile. “Well, I do hear that Grandparents’ Day is coming up.”

Liam stares, unblinking, at Brian for far too many chilling moments, then he says, “Maybe wait for October.”

“Cute Halloween?” Brian asks.

Liam nods.

“You got it, boss.” Brian plants a hand at his chin and begins pacing in front of Liam’s desk. “Pumpkin carving. Costumes. Haunted house. I’ll start researching, planning, and making sure the website can be set up to reflect the theme. A trick-or-treat motivation system adapts well to the naughty-or-nice list system. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Liam’s eyes lift toward the ceiling, and he smooths a hand down his face before saying, “Get back to work.”

“On it! Come along, A-mail-ia.”

I jump and end up bowing to Liam before rushing after Brian as he enters the elevator. Heart still in my throat, I try to process what’s just happened. Brian didn’t have permission for Christmas in July, like,at all. Brian almost got fired. “You almost got fired,” I whisper.

“Well, what isfired, really?” He rests back against the elevator wall, perfectly calm.

I stare at him.

He cracks an eyelid at me. “What?”

“You almost got fired from your mailroom.”

“Yes, and? I didn’t?”

“But…if youhadbeen…” I don’t even want to imagine how sad he’d be. I’d be writing hundreds of strongly-worded letters a day to Liam, demanding he reconsider, until I, too, followed in the firing.

“If I had been, you would have taken over, and I could have become your stay-at-home husband, like Norman.”

Heat explodes in my chest, flooding my face and limbs. Lamely, I murmur, “B-but you love the mailroom.”

Brian eyes me for several long moments, then he tucks his hands in his pockets and settles in. “Yep. Love it.”

I shiver as the unspokenbut I love you moreskates across my flesh. My chest tightens. “B-Brian?”

“Mm?”

“Is it…worse to say I’m not ready for a relationship than it is to take a chance and just be as honest as possible with you in one?” I crush my hands together and drop my attention to the flooring. “Is it cruel of me even to bring it up again?”

“You’re not cruel,” Brian notes, casually, as though it’s the irrefutable truth. “And it’s not about better or worse, A-mail-ia. It’s about what makes you happiest.”

I’ve not been raised to do anything that makes me happy. I’ve been raised to shut up, look busy, and take up as little space as possible. I’m not even sure I really, trulyknowhow to be happy. Every last bit of joy I’ve ever shown feels hollow, like an act. As though it’s just something else I put on in the morning in order to keep the peace and do therightthing.

When I’m happy, I question it.

When something might bring me happiness, it feels wrong.

“I’m scared,” I say. “I’m so scared, of every option. Of annoying you. Of inconveniencing you. Of relying on you. Of not letting myself rely on you. I don’t know how to achieve balance. I don’t know how to be grateful for what you do for me when it feels like I need to do more just to make sure I’m doing enough. A relationship like this…is a really bad idea.”

“Is it?”

I nod, take a breath. “But if it’s worse not to…if it doesn’t make you happier…”

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