Page 50 of Love Letters to Christmas

“We have food representation from all sorts of countries. Italian. Various Asian, Japanese, Thai, Indian et cetera. American. Greek. Mexican.” Brian lists on his fingers, and then he adds, “Breakfast.”

Ah, yes. The country of Breakfast. I visit there every morning. Their state bird is the Muffin, their flag the Bagel. It’s safe to say that prolonged exposure to Brian Chest results in loss of brain cells. “Is there anything you’ve been wanting lately that I haven’t made?” I ask, while I graciously retain the ability to speak.

His head shakes, damp curls rustling. “Just your company.”

He’s sopure. It doesn’t even matter what we get, as long as we’re together. “Maybe subs?”

“Sounds great.” He pushes off the counter. “I’ll get my keys.”

I blink. “Your keys?” Not…a shirt? Wait. No. That isn’t the problem. “You said tomorrow. Before fireworks.”

“Yup.” He lifts his brows. “I lied. No cooking for you tonight. I want attention.”

I want you to understand that it is impossible for my attention to belong to anything else while you do not have a shirt on. Gulping, I fiddle with my skirt. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel neglected. I just really like the system you’ve set up at work. It’s really fun, and I’m obsessed with getting points.”

“It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” He turns on his heel. “Come on.”

My legs are moving before I comprehend that we are heading down the hall toward…his…room. I freeze when the door opens, blasting me with so muchBrianI lose the ability to breathe.

Pictures of stamps and seals from different countries scatter across his comforter. Strings covered with tiny clothespins holding letters run all over his walls. Sunlight flows through his windows, casting his desk and all the neat stacks of stationery, stamps, stickers, pens, and wax in a warm glow.

“A-mail-ia?” He pokes his head into my view.

I jump, forgetting that he kinda asked me to follow him. “Y-yes?” I squeak, wringing my hands.

Brian room. Brian room.Brian room.

It’s so beautiful.

He keeps letters he’s received on display all over his walls. Is mine here…?

I find it just past his damp hair. Hung perfectly above his bed, my light pink envelope sits.

“We’re still talking about food,” he tells me. “Subs is vague.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” He hooks a finger at me, forcing me to take steps into his room and up to his closet, where he begins far too casually locating a shirt and sweater vest combination. “We’ve got Subway, Firehouse, AlleyDog.”

“AlleyDog?” I ask, eyes caught on a mirror stuck full of postcards. It reflects light pink. Above his bed. My letter. In a place of honor.

“It’s a small business,” he clarifies. “They’ve got giant cookies.”

“That sounds amazing,” I offer, completely dazed.

Brian slips his arms into a shirt and begins buttoning. “A-mail-ia.”

I tense and rip my gaze off the mirror. “Yes?”

“You’re still not giving me enough attention.”

I stare at his chest, following his fingers as he hides away the pale skin I’ve written poetry about. He said something, didn’t he? I blink. “What?”

A smirk quirks the corner of his mouth. “Nevermind. Let’s go.”

Go. Yes. To AlleyDog. For subs.

Together. Just the two of us.

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