Page 75 of Love Letters to Christmas

I mess with people more than I should.

Yes.

I, um, knew that.

Already.

It’s, how do you say…? Obvious.

It is also one of my favorite things about Brian.

He is joy and whimsy and the lightness of a child who never lost their spark or wonder.

He is hope and belief in the impossible.

I turn an absolute blind eye to any mischief that bothers others because justlookat how happy it makes him! Do we not want himhappy, people? Please don’t be ridiculous.

Flushed, I grip my purse and clear my throat. “I’m so sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

“I’ve been standing here for three years.” His eyes flick to my purse strap, where I’ve clipped the self-defense kit he bought for me. “You were safe, I presume?”

“Very safe.”

“Marvelous.” He plucks a turnover off the tray and heads into the kitchen. “I’ll set the table while you wash up.”

“Okay.” Swallowing nerves, I head to my room, carefully remove my Brian letter from my purse, and tuck it into my desk drawer with its friends.

If I accept his invitation…

I’m not sure I’ll survive.

Worse, what if hedoesn’tactually know it’s me? What if he’s disappointed? What if he’s been thinking about someone else at his work this whole time?

So many things could go wrong.

My entire living situation is at risk.

I’ll just…have to make a decision later. Right now, Brian’s waiting on me after he’s spent time making dinner. And I’m going to set aside the feeling that I’m not doing enough to appreciate what he has done.

Because that’s character growth.

And character growth? Is very important…

My dearest Brian,

I am going to do my very best to take your words to heart. They make sense, and I want to allow myself to be human with kindness.

As far as your nature is concerned, you remain wonderful. I have always admired your penchant for mischief and known that it in no way hinders your tendency to make the world a brighter place.

There’s freedom in your passion, and I stick by my adoration.

I apologize for the briefness of this letter. It is because I fear I might talk myself out of my next words if I spend more time writing.

No, I must say what I am to say, then lock it away.

There’s no need to steal my time; I gift it freely.

See you on Christmas in July.

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