Page 19 of Love Letters to Christmas

Tomorrow’s Independence Day! But I’m not allowed to be independent without a taser?

Amelia

Letter from Brian. Wax seal from Brian. Blue wax seal from Brian. In my PO box.

To think I was disappointed to learn that I’d need to make special trips to check my box or risk getting my letters a day late since the mail here delivers around four, well beyond my lunch break even though I work just up the street.

Fingers shaking, I lock my post box and turn out of the clinical aisles, heading for the exit.

I’m practically hyperventilating by the time I make it to my car in the parking lot.

Sitting inside, I throw the AC back on and stare at the letter in my lap.

It’s beautiful , but my heart actually may not be able to handle this.

Brian wouldn’t reply to my love letter with a blue seal unless he’s encouraging having a secret admirer.

And he isn’t just encouraging it. His reply came fast .

It’s been a single day since I saw that the letter I sent in a fit of insanity made its way into Brian’s hands.

He must have written a reply in his office immediately, sealed the envelope with a stunning floral stamp, and taken it personally to the post office.

So now, on July 3rd, I have received a gift.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to feel. Brian replied. With a glittery white envelope and blue wax. Brian is interested in his secret admirer. Which means he’s not interested in me. Which makes enough sense.

But also his secret admirer rambled . She used the moth-to-flame cliche! She’s basically illiterate. Yet he still bestows her with a response?

I hate her.

I hate me.

I am my own love triangle.

What was I thinking?

Lip pouted, I dissect my letter, leaving the seal whole and the envelope untorn. Breathing deep, I unfold the beautiful paper and begin to read.

My dearest Admirer,

It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. I don’t consider sharing your feelings to be foolish in any way. It’s remarkably courageous. To take a chance on something as vulnerable as confessing emotions that may not be returned is brave.

You are brave.

I cannot imagine what character growth you’re focusing on right now, but your self-awareness and honesty has struck me. I find myself invested in your journey and smitten by your fixation.

Certainly, any man would be flattered by such sincere compliments. Any man would wish for such compelling adulation. But, you must know if we’ve crossed paths a number of times before, that I am not any man.

Mail is of utmost importance to me. My first love. To get to me, you must find yourself a bit more obsessed with it, I think.

Please learn the code of seals and reply accordingly.

That is to say, I do hope you reply and update me on your personal growth. I also hope you’ll tell me what your favorite flavor of muffin is. And your favorite color. And also, perhaps, your favorite restaurant.

I’m a bit of a planner, you’ll learn, and should you live up to my expectations, I hope I’ll be prepared to spoil you as you deserve.

Eager and hopeful,

Your Brian

My Brian?

I have a letter from Brian in Brian’s handwriting, whereby he calls himself mine . Not only that, he wants me to reply. He wants to know more about me. He wants me to send him wax-sealed letters.

How painfully romantic .

I don’t know whether to be overjoyed or heartbroken.

On the one hand, he’s giving me a chance! On the other…he has no feelings at all that would bar him from corresponding with a secret admirer, meaning that my living with him for the past two months hasn’t resulted in anything akin to romantic interest.

On the one hand, this is an opportunity for him to get to know me and maybe fall in love with who I am.

On the other, he might notice the similarities between me and me, which will lead to disaster.

Should I alter my answers in an effort to fit his preferences…? Am I really that desperate?

Possibly. Potentially. Absolutely and completely.

Unfortunately, his preferences? Are mail.

Mail does not eat muffins or have a favorite color. Mail does not go on dates at restaurants.

I cannot be mail.

But I can let myself have an evening to ponder how I’ll reply since mail won’t run tomorrow anyway.

I can allow myself to breathe. I can remind myself that I’m healing and growing, and Brian is so wonderful he’s invested in my journey.

I can set my letter in my glove box, drive home, and get dinner ready for him.

I can sort through my emotions and react both rationally and responsibly.

I can…

“Oh, hey, A-mail-ia,” Brian greets me—topless, hair damp—as I come through the front door, and my brain launches back a few weeks, to the first time I saw him basically naked, moments before we shared a room for the entire night.

Emotionally, thinking about that night is not a safe space for me since it results in my heart attempting to vacate my body and all. Nevertheless, here I am. Doing dangerous things.

He asks, “Where have you been?” If his chest weren’t already blinding me, his smile would.

“Not shopping, I hope. Or outside, all alone, in this big city full of treacherousness.” His smile fades, and he pins me with a look that pierces me through my soul.

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. ”

My heart gives up on escape in order that it might explode.

“I— Uh.” I try to remember how to breathe.

“I’m okay.” My fingers shake as I push a strand of hair over my ear.

“I’m grown.” Bare chest. Bare, bare chest. Concerned brows, resting low.

Beautiful green eyes, fixed on me. Above bare chest. Very bare, very toned, very perfect chest. Hardly whispering, I say, “I need to be able to go outside alone.”

He approaches.

He. Approaches. Half. Naked.

His hand reaches for me, and he curls a finger beneath my chin. The air stills. My already struggling breath catches. Time slows down.

Then he smiles and flicks. “No, you don’t. Why would you need to? Give me one example.”

When I need to go get a letter from you from my secret PO box. I avert my gaze, glance around the living room and kitchen, search for an answer that does not present itself. “W-well…”

“ Well? ” he prompts, leaning ever closer, bare skin and beauty, right there in front of me.

Amelia.exe shuts down.

Chuckling, Brian steps back, giving me a few spare inches of space. “Next time ask me to go with you.”

I cannot do that, sir. I simply cannot. This is one of those times where I must put my shoulders back and exercise being a strong, independent, adult woman, who no longer seeks validation or approval from authority figures, because Brian isn’t an authority figure.

This might be his house, but I am free to leave, and not being allowed to go out on my own should not be a rule.

Even though he’s only worried about me.

And wants what’s best for me.

And didn’t know where I was.

And…

I drop my chin and stare at my feet. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

His brows dip. “I’ll order you a Creep Be Gone kit.”

“Creep…Be Gone kit?”

“Pepper spray. Taser. One of those tags that sends location to emergency contacts if you press the button.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he lounges against the kitchen island, tossing one ankle over the other.

“It’ll make me feel better. I hadn’t even realized you left today after we got back from work. Your favorite color’s blue, isn’t it?”

“Green…”

Green flicks toward me. “Green? Do we need to repaint your room?”

My head shakes. “No.”

“Are you just saying that because you don’t want to trouble me?”

I’m saying that because if you touch the room you prepared special for me, I will go feral. “I like how calm and pretty my room is. Green and blue are my favorites. Mostly blue. I only like a…very specific sort of green.”

“Nature shades suit you.” He pops his phone back in his pocket. “Alrighty. The gift of mail that promises your future protection is imminent, since you insist on leaving me all by my lonesome these days, what with all the tasks you’re doing outside the mailroom and now this after-work abandonment.”

My shoulders bunch.

He tucks his hands in his pockets and angles his body toward me. “Relax, A-mail-ia. I’m teasing you.”

Yes, you are. But not in the way you think. If I’m honest, I barely know what he’s saying right now, on account of the half-nakedness.

Humming, he lets his head fall back so he can peruse the ceiling. “Tomorrow, I’m thinking we should go out to dinner before we head to the fireworks.”

That gets through to my brain.

“Dinner?” I whisper. Together? Just the two of us?

“Assuming my palate can adjust to inferior food after having been spoiled rotten by homecooking, yes. Dinner. Is there somewhere you like best?”

In Bandera, the best place to go isn’t a chain. It’s a diner that sells homecooked meals and treats you like family…which means that the open kitchen in the back has a lot of unrestrained yelling. The best part is probably that no tourists show up there.

Bandera, on the whole, isn’t exactly a tourist hot spot, but it does happen to be located on the way to one of the most beautiful little towns in West Virginia.

I forget the name, but that place is practically a fairy village.

Travelers opt for the chains. Locals scurry away to our unfriendly diners with questionable health code scores.

I’m…not sure if that’s my favorite place actually, or if it was just the only place my parents would ever take me.

“What’s your favorite place?” I ask.

“Sweet & Salty.”

I suppose that is the only other place I’m sort of familiar with. I open my mouth to suggest we go there, but he cuts me off before I can, “They’re closed for dinner, though. Only open til five-thirty.”

“Oh.” Well, great. I don’t know what else to suggest. I’d rather not go to Taco Bell. Even if Taco Bell is the only other place I can remember exists since Mars and Ceres are unnaturally obsessed with it.

Now I’m being annoying, not knowing the answer to a simple question. I should be able to make stupid easy decisions like this.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I will an answer to appear. It’s useless. All I can see is bare Brian chest in my brain.

“It’s okay if you don’t know what you’d like,” Brian says.

Softly, I say, “I don’t even know what’s around here.”

“Everything.”

Great. That’s not helpful at all.

“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 so pure . 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 much Brian I 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.

This is absolutely something I am capable of surviving.

With only minimal tachycardia.

Lightheaded, I follow him out of his room, casting one last glance back at my letter before we head to the car.