Page 18 of Love Letters to Christmas

Brian

A tear traces down my cheek, and I gasp just in time to pull my precious letter away from it. The moisture soaks into my skirt while I watch, sniffling in an effort to contain myself.

I was wrong.

This does not meannothing. It means so much. It just doesn’t, quite, mean love. But, in some ways, it does.

Only Brian could look at a near-perfect stranger from his childhood and make them feel as though they are doing him the honor with their presence in his home. Only Brian.

After a day as wonderful as today, I think it’s time Ireallymake a point of beinggrateful. Brian says I can stay here, near him, for as long as I need. He wouldn’t make an offer like that lightly. He wouldn’t lie. He enjoys my company.

And that will have to be enough for me.

Itisenough for me.

If these conflicted emotions prove anything, I am not ready for a relationship like the one I’m craving. Being loved romantically isn’t going to heal the deep-seated anxiety I feel while I’m surrounded by nothing but peace—because being loved like thatshouldbe peaceful. A relationship is not going to fill the spaces in my chest that still don’t believe I’m safe.

It won’t stop me from apologizing. It won’t keep me from jumping at every loud noise. It won’t make me any less nervous to be seen doing nothing.

For now, I heal.

So that, later, I can really, trulylove. Without fear. Without boundary. As wide and deep as a navy sky.

Chapter Eight

Please, please, please do not remove the ‘i’ from my name…

Brian

Amelia is normally so…goodat baking.

Glancing at my roomie in the passenger seat of my car, I find her cheerfully devouring one of this morning’s breakfast muffins while she plays on her phone, messaging someone, likely Ceres.

I am unsure what I have just put in my mouth, but I do not like it. No, I do not like it at all.

Pained, I manage to swallow the single, earthy bite.

For the record, food should never—ever—be described asearthy. Just. Just a PSA to all right there.

Is it moist? Yes. Is it rich with the flavor of a pinecone?

Somehow also yes.

Clearing my throat, I turn toward Amelia, open my mouth, and think better of it.

The poor girl makes different muffins every morning for us for breakfast. She’s allowed to have one recipe that I don’t love. And I am allowed to not break her heart and soul by asking her if she used dirt in lieu of flour. I can force down some dirt muffin…for her sake.

I attempt to take another bite as I turn into downtown, where our beloved mailroom lies.

I cannot do it.

Something in me rebels. Riots. Resists.

Self-preservation, probably.

“A-mail-ia?” I posture, gently.

Her sweet smile and brown eyes find me, eager, waiting. She finishes up her own muffin as though it is not the physical embodiment of death and says, “Yes?”

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