Page 13 of Love Letters to Christmas

Oh dear.

Brian

“Phew,” I say upon entering a hotel room sporting two entire beds. “We’re lucky.”

Beside me, pale, Amelia stares dead ahead at the twin mattresses arranged a few feet apart from each other against the right wall. “Lucky?” she whispers.

“Mrs. Albee is notorious for matchmaking. Even with the influx of visitors for the festival, I almost didn’t believe her when she said there was only one room left, and I was expecting a single bed in a honeymoon suite.

” Sighing merrily, I take myself to the bed closest to the door and set down my overnight bag.

“I’d have had to stay with my parents so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable, and that would have been less than comfortable for me.

” Not a single person in the Single family understands why I gave up the Bandera post office for an office building mailroom, and whenever I see my parents or my sister, they bring it up. A lot.

When I told my father I was moving, he went on for hours about how I was abandoning my legacy. He implored me for an explanation. He pleaded with me to reconsider.

I did neither.

I had already set my sights on my destination, and there was no way to return to sender…at least not without additional fees and…

Amelia has not moved.

Lifting myself from thoughts of my sordid past, I find her lingering at the door, clutching her overnight bag tight in both hands.

Elegance does not seem strong enough a word to describe how Amelia looks tonight. Not even the cheap hotel lighting can steal her splendor. Every hair in place, even after an evening exploring this elaborate Flag Day festival. Not a wrinkle in her formal dress.

She’s ravishing.

But, then again, when isn’t she?

“A-mail-ia?” I query, snapping her back to reality.

Her gaze finds mine, panics, and darts off. Steps sure, she marches to the other bed and drops her bag atop the comforter. Voice less sure, she stammers, “Y-yes?”

Ah. Well… Maybe I rejoiced too soon. I guess I am doomed to spend the night with my parents, dodging comments about how there’s still time for me to regain my legacy.

“Sorry.” I comb my fingers through my hair.

“I suppose sharing a room is a touch immodest on its own.” I slip my phone from my pocket.

“I’ll text Dad and let him know I need to use my old room. ”

With any luck, asking to use my old room won’t give them any weird hopes that I’m returning for good.

Unfortunately, I do also know my parents, and when I mention that there wasn’t a suite with two rooms available at the hotel, my mother will cry and ask why I didn’t send a letter of reservation a month in advance.

She’ll claim I’ve abandoned my love of mail.

And it’s all because of that office mailroom .

She would be joking of course. Big on dramatics, my parents, but I just don’t know if I want to weather theater this late at night.

Maybe I’ll just have to sleep in the car…

“N-no,” Amelia squeaks after I’ve drafted and deleted a text three times.

Looking off my phone, I locate Amelia sitting on her bed, back toward me, rivulets of dark hair spilling across her wingbones. My breath catches as she pulls a pin from her bun, and the cascade continues. She unwinds a decorative braid and faces me as she begins untwining the strands.

My mouth…goes dry. Too dry to lick an envelope.

“No,” she repeats, softer. “This is fine. I just…wasn’t expecting it.” Her doe brown eyes lift, fix on me, and her pink lips part. “Are you comfortable here, or at least more comfortable here than you would be at your parents’?”

I so dearly thought so. Until…about three seconds ago.

All the same, I remember how to breathe and swallow.

“Sure, sure. Yes. Absolutely. It’s a sleepover!

A slumber party!” My heart arrests me, pounding incessantly.

“We can make letters and sort them alphabetically. I have supplies.” I always have supplies, because my love of mail is not compromised just because I shirked the family expectation of taking over the post office here.

You never know when you might need to write a letter, or twenty, after all.

Dang it. My mother’s dramatics are right. I should have sent in for a reservation the second Mars covered me in glitter.

Amelia’s braid comes fully undone, and she runs her fingers through the kinky waves until they spill like silk around her face. I never knew her hair was so long.

It’s…pretty.

Yeah, pretty.

But of course it’s pretty. I’ve known that she’s pretty since the moment I first saw her. She’s always been pretty.

“Brian?” she says, and my broken heart thuds.

“Yes?”

Her worried eyes trace me. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay? Of course I’m okay. I’m about to do some letter arts and crafts with Amelia. Why wouldn’t I be okay?

My attention catches on the bright red neon of the room’s alarm clock, and all my burgeoning plans stutter. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

Her gaze follows mine to the glaring almost midnight presented on the clock face. “Yes.” She straightens, dropping her hands from her hair. “But if you want to write some letters, we can. I’d like to write one to my future self.”

“Your future self?” I ask.

“In case I forget that I survived today and enjoyed the time I was able to spend with Ceres. It’s something the internet suggests, to help with healing.

” She hugs herself, managing to look both tortured and modelesque.

“I don’t want to lose the good things in my hometown because I’m anxious to be where my parents might show up when I’m not ready.

I’m an adult. They have never had the right to treat me poorly, but now they no longer have the control to continue.

I shouldn’t be afraid. And I might need that in writing. ”

Well said, Amelia. Late-night letter making it is. Pushing aside my clothes, I remove my to-go set of stationery, pens, and envelopes, then I retrieve my seal kit.

Amelia’s tiny gasp coaxes my heart into another trepidating thud, so I dare to steal a glimpse of her.

She’s staring at my seal kit, flushed, and I…

I am uncertain what’s going on inside my body right now. Maybe I, too, need to write something to future me concerning this topic. For the sake of healing. “What is it?”

“That’s the most darling seal kit I have ever seen.”

I gesture toward the rest of the supplies. “It goes with my travel kit. Five by three-point-five envelopes and matching stationery. The smallest standard letter you can send through USPS.”

Her eyes sparkle. “It’s beautiful.” She inches closer, until only my bed separates me from her. Her hands plant on the mattress as she gets a better look at the dusky blue, lined paper I brought. It is painted with forest trees.

“Azure Winter,” I offer. “That’s the style name. I have a decent selection of stationery I can bring when I pack my travel bag, but I…I picked the blue one. Because it made me think of you.”

Wide brown eyes above rosy cheeks. She stares at me, her slender fingers rising to graze the seal kit. “May I?”

I wet my lips. “Of course.” Forcing myself to break this odd spell, I look toward the desks along the wall opposite the beds on either side of a small TV. While Amelia peruses the modest selection of wax and stamps I have, I set us both up at the desks with pens and paper.

Dropping into my seat, I stare at the navy black tree branches stretched across my page, then I lift a black pen and let my thoughts wander through the ink.

Hi Brian,

You’re sharing a room with Amelia Christmas right now.

It’s Mrs. Albee’s fault, and as the night grows longer, you are considering a high possibility that other rooms were available, but that meddling woman knew she could get away with this.

She’s smart, too, you know. She knew better than to think we’d ever agree to share a single bed, so she gave us two.

If you’re honest, you miss Mrs. Albee even with all her mischief. She was at the post office every week, sending letters to pen pals and packages to friends. You bet she still does. You bet Brianna gets the pleasure of chatting with her about the things her Italian pen pal is up to these days…

This town has a lot of memories. A lot of good. There are things you miss. Things you made yourself leave behind.

Right now Amelia is writing herself a letter so she won’t forget good things like these, but I think I forgot on purpose. I think I imposed some distance between myself and this place, so saying so many goodbyes wouldn’t hurt as badly.

I don’t know.

Maybe I’m being overly sentimental since I just went to a wedding and it’s been a minute since I’ve been back in Bandera.

Or maybe I’m just plain not thinking clearly at the moment.

Did you know that Amelia’s hair holds a wave?

Did you know it nearly reaches her hips when it’s let down?

I remember the days when she’d come see me at the post office. She’d bring letters with the most beautiful seals I’ve ever witnessed, and I’d hand-cancel them all so the processing machines wouldn’t damage the wax.

She was a lonely kid. Shy. Careful. Sweet.

It hurt me when the pen pal she received for a project in third grade stopped replying right after the assignment ended. I hated no longer being able to see her art. I hated thinking of how lonely she must be without the comfort of mail to get her through.

After that, I saw her everywhere at school.

We didn’t share any classes until she skipped grades, but I couldn’t help myself. I just kept noticing her. So I’d talk to her sometimes. And she’d glow like the sun.

When the epidemic of love letters appeared unexpectedly in middle school, I didn’t know how to handle them. I didn’t know how to express my disappointment every time a letter came without an elaborate blue seal.

I love mail. That’s one of my defining characteristics. But those love letters? They just made me feel bad. There I was, disappointing people, disappointing myself, not appreciating the effort that went into what I was receiving. All because I only wanted an Amelia Christmas original.

All because…

My pen bleeds into the paper as I stare at the words I’ve written, skimming them. Swallowing hard, I find Amelia seated at her desk on the other side of the room, dress splayed around her chair legs, ankles crossed and tucked underneath her.

Pure, unhindered joy reflects in the candlelight as she drips wax and crafts art.

Wow. She’s… beautiful .

…huh.

Have I… Have I been writing about Amelia this entire time?

Her lips form a dainty circle as she blows out the flickering candle, plants her stamp, and perches with her chin in her hands, watching it lovingly while it cools. This time, my swallow sticks in my throat, and it takes everything in me to drag my attention back to my letter.

Grip tightening around my pen, I proceed, valiantly testing how my straying thoughts might look against Amelia-blue paper.

All because…all I wanted was Amelia Christmas.

The words gleam up at me, confessing an idea I don’t believe I have ever once toyed with before.

Do I like Amelia?

Have I always liked Amelia?

I like people; that’s another base character trait of mine. I like people, because people are fascinating and fun and inexplicable. They’re like love letters to life, cozy little packages of wonder and hopes and dreams that sometimes appear on your doorstep and change your world.

If Amelia had given me a love letter in school, how would I have responded?

After marveling at the honor of owning one of her brilliant blue seals, what would I have said to her in a reply?

When people gave me love letters, I’d apologize and turn them down as gently as possible, bemoaning the loss of a letter I could never rightfully cherish.

I can’t stand rejecting people’s feelings. I prefer to welcome them. But some emotions aren’t mine to hold onto like that. I’ve never felt conflicted like this before. Never once.

If Amelia were to give me her feelings… what would I do?

Blowing out a breath, I stab my pen to the page a final time, scrawl a closing remark, and fold the letter up in its envelope bed.

This is a problem for a Brian who isn’t tired, I think.

So it really is a shame that I just signed:

Unlikely to get much sleep tonight,

Yours Unfortunately,

Brian Single