Page 18 of Love Letters to Christmas

Is this…hatred?

Brian

I’m disappointed.

I’m devastated.

I shall never recover.

Blowing out a breath, I turn a letter that I’ve just found in today’s mail over and stare at the flap.

No wax. Not a drop of art. The handwriting is painfully familiar, because it is obviously Amelia’s, which means—first—it should have a wax seal that belongs in a museum gracing it, and—second—it should probably have her name on the return address.

It does not.

All it has is a PO box.

A PO box .

Do I have a PO box? Yes. Of course. Anything to support the post. Liam sends random magazines there sometimes as little surprises for me. PO boxes are great. Love them.

I’d just like to know why Amelia isn’t using our home address. Is our mailbox not good enough for her even though a gnome is hugging it right now?

Does she…hate me?

Maybe she decided that she hates me mere weeks after I realized I hold her in rather high esteem. Maybe she has determined to despise me, to taunt me with a seal-less hate letter, to suggest she has recognized my feelings for her and demand I stop.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. Amelia is sweet and kind. She wouldn’t send me hate mail in response to learning about my feelings, but she would carefully and articulately say please, no .

I’m certain that’s what this is.

And my chest hurts just thinking about the heartbreaking rejection I’m about to face.

I can’t believe she figured out I planned this entire Christmas in July event as a means to initiate romantic scenarios with her.

She must have scrawled a please cease and desist letter during her lunch break yesterday.

Then she went and got a whole PO box so she could send the clear message that we aren’t ever going to share a mailbox.

If only I’d been able to prepare myself better.

I did think it was odd that she disappeared for her lunch break, but I assumed she was doing tasks in other departments.

I spent my break pouting over a croissant from Sweet & Salty and bemoaning that my month-long scheme was a waste if it stole her from me so she could get people coffee.

In reality, she wrote her letter and walked down the street to the post office off main so she could send it.

Flicking my attention toward Amelia—who has been energetically bouncing all over the building for two days but who is currently busy sorting packages on the other side of the room—I swallow my feelings in favor of logic.

Even if Amelia has no interest in my affections, she wouldn’t be cruel about it.

I’ll survive whatever she’s written in here.

I’ll survive, and it’s not like I’ll have to stop loving her.

It’s not like stopping is even an option at this point. I love her. That’s just how it is.

Her eyes meet mine as she finishes arranging the packages that arrived today onto our mail cart. Her mouth opens, then her attention drops to the pale pink letter in my hands. Heat explodes on her face. “I-I’m ready to start our rounds.”

I watch her. “’Kay. I’ll catch up to you in a minute.” I lift her letter. “I got mail.”

Her lashes flutter as blush darkens the tips of her ears. “What…a pretty color.”

I stare. “Yes. Very.” Is she pretending that this isn’t very obviously her handwriting? She dots her i’s with tiny circles. I’ve never before in my life perceived such a bubbly script, and that’s saying something, considering my entire life has been dedicated to processing people’s handwriting.

What manner of rejection letter involves not knowing who’s rejecting you?

I think I can hear my fragile heart shattering.

I so dearly wish she’d told me before I’d gone and put a substantial number of Christmas decorations on Liam’s business card, which he told me I could use for employee appreciation .

He recommended a complimentary Taco Tuesday or donuts, but then he gave me the kind of budget that covers full-building decor, fireworks, and masquerade balls, sooo.

“Anyway!” Amelia wheels the cart to the elevator. “I hope it’s a very nice letter! Catch up soon!” She presses the call button, then she loads up as quickly as possible, providing me with a plastic smile as she frantically mashes the close-door button.

Once she’s out of sight, I think I panic.

Slightly.

Just a little bit.

“Ha ha ha.” Nervous laughter spills out of me as I turn her letter over, frantic. “What did I do wrong?” Please tell me that she explains whatever it is, and I can fix it.

Gulping, I send myself to my office, sit in my chair, and plant the letter on my desk.

Pretty pink. Pretty handwriting. Pretty hatred.

No one has been subtle where it concerns how much I love her wax seals. At lunch last month, my parents brought it up a separate eight times. They told her that I—Brian Single, honorer of the post—contemplated tampering with the mail in a desperation to own her handiwork.

Yet, cruelly, she withholds my right to one.

It takes everything in me to hold it together as I brace myself for the inevitable and open the envelope.

Unexpected words hit me immediately.

My dearest Brian,

It takes all my courage to write you, but I cannot contain these feelings any longer.

I admire you. Your passion. Your confidence. Your kindness.

You’re a beacon of light in an often dim world. I find myself constantly enraptured, drawn helplessly into the sphere of your glow like a moth to a flame. You make life more bearable. You make the world more possible.

Recently, I’ve been trying to focus on myself and become someone more worthy of your attention, so I don’t expect anything to come from this unless I become strong enough to face you directly, but I feel as though sending this letter is an important step in the right direction.

At the very least, it is a way to pretend I’m humoring a distraction that has plagued me for as long as I care to remember.

You make it near impossible to think of anything else, which—as I’m sure you can imagine—makes it very hard to work on personal growth.

Your joy and hope and light and love are contagious.

You are everything I have ever wanted, everything I desire to emulate.

When I think of peace, I think of you.

And then I remember that true peace isn’t something I can obtain through the efforts of someone else. True peace is something I need to come to terms with and attain within myself first. So, you see, I’m in quite a pickle here.

I’m perpetually stuck between wanting you and knowing I’ve got massive amounts of baggage to work through before I should even ask you to be mine.

This whole thing is foolish, I know. It’s inconvenient and pointless at best.

I’m not even sure what I’m trying to achieve with it.

Perhaps the still broken parts of me know you love mail and while I am not mail, I am able to produce it. I hope that creating something you might love eases the ache in my chest.

If nothing else, please enjoy this letter and know that someone treasures you above the breath in her lungs. Should you wish to reply, I have enclosed postage.

Should you not wish to reply, I understand, and I’d simply like to thank you for the joy you bring into my world whenever our paths cross.

Adoring you always,

Your Secret Admirer

I blink.

I reread.

My heart seizes.

I swallow.

I forget entirely how to breathe.

Adoring you always, Your Secret Admirer .

This isn’t a hate letter. It’s a love letter. A love letter from Amelia Christmas .

“Surely…not,” I whisper beneath the rampant sound of my heartbeat in my ears, then I reread yet again, searching for the proof that this is a hate letter filled with rejection and disgust. Because it must be. Because there is no love seal .

Unless…could it be…

Did she leave off the seal, thinking it would give her away?

Does she…does she not realize how terribly incriminating her handwriting is?

No, can it be? It can’t. She cannot be this oblivious to how cute and unique her handwriting is. It’s impossible.

I cover my mouth with my hand and scan the bubbly font as it bounces across the stationary—adorable, adorable, adorable .

She’s too adorable for words. And she likes me.

Adores me. Thinks I’m confident and kind.

The passion, of course, is given, considering how entrenched I am in the mail business.

But kind ? That’s not an accurate compliment at all.

I have, in a matter of days, charged several thousand dollars to my boss’s credit card, manipulated my blind coworker, and conned my entire office into participating in my own personal romance schemes.

If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s kind.

Which is probably why—instead of going to Amelia and telling her that I also like her, she’s fine just the way she is, and working on herself is pointless when she’s already perfect—I peruse the collection of stationery I keep at work, select my bluest style—dubbed Ethereal Night—and secure a pen.

My dearest Admirer,

It’s an honor to make your acquaintance…

Is this kind ? No. Will it result in more bubbly font letters for me? Yes. Might I even obtain a seal at some point if I play my cards right? Maybe.

And am I going to pretend I’m doing this out of respect for her desire to somehow become an even better person before anything between us goes anywhere?

Totally.

Therefore, “kind” really is a poor assessment, and maybe it’s prudent for her to learn that before we find ourselves romantically entangled. Because if she decides later that I’m not what she thinks I am after I’ve lost my entire heart to her? Well.

I just don’t know how I’ll ever recover.

Probably, it’s safe to say that I won’t.