Page 20 of Love Letters to Christmas

Christmas sparks and candy cane conundrums.

Brian

I knew that my holiday events weren’t an inconvenience. I knew my mean coworkers who pretend to hate fun do not actually hate fun. I knew it.

What a turnout.

Smiling, I peruse the snack tables I’ve had set up in the large Whirlwind Branding parking lot and refrain from looking smug as I pluck a marshmallow snowman off a tray.

A bustling hum of voices fills the night.

Some of my coworkers have set up lawn chairs and camping chairs, where they recline with their snack plates.

Some others have snuggled up with their families in truck beds loaded with pillows.

Laughter abounds. Joy washes in like a wave.

Peace settles in my chest as I pop a pretzel reindeer in my mouth and behold my small town, nestled into a city overflowing with lights.

My parents don’t understand this part. They can’t fathom why I gave up a close-knit town like Bandera in order to become just another ant in a hill here.

But, in the city, people form communities and circles.

Everyone longs for connection, so it’s inevitable no matter where you wind up.

My community just happens to be the couple thousand members who work here at Whirlwind Branding’s HQ instead of the couple thousand who live in a whole town.

My circle just happens to fill a sprawling parking lot when lured out by snacks on July 4th.

Ever since night fell, stray fireworks have been lighting up the sky all around. The other shows distantly create a symphony in the jet canvas above. In Bandera, fireworks compete against stars. Here, they rival skylines.

There’s a limitless beauty to the ways life can be appreciated.

And speaking of limitless beauty…

I take my attention off my extended family to find Amelia rife with distress staring at her plate, so I bump her shoulder with mine. “What’s wrong, A-mail-ia?” I bite the head off my snowman.

Her tiny gasp preludes dread overcoming her pretty face as she watches me. “Everything’s too cute to eat.”

I chew my decapitated marshmallow man and hum. “Oh.”

“Someone must have spent a lot of time making all these. It seems mean to eat them.”

“You’d rather waste food?”

The streetlights highlight the red on her face. “N-no. I wasn’t thinking when I took them that I’d have to eat them. I just wanted all the cute things. But now I have regrets.”

She’s freaking adorable.

I call upon the theatrics that were entrusted to me at birth and place my palm over my heart.

“You’d withhold their destiny from them?

They’ve waited their whole lives to be enjoyed.

When an angel plucked them from their trays, I can only imagine the elation they experienced, but now—sorrows—that very same angel hesitates to bestow upon them the finale of their reason for existing.

Cruelty has never before looked so sweet. ”

Her red cheeks darken by several shades.

I pluck a reindeer from her plate and hold it to her lips. “Don’t be cruel, A-mail-ia. Cuties are meant to be devoured.”

Before her trembling lips can open and take the morsel from my fingers, a whistle soars into the sky on the other side of the lot. The pyrotechnicians I hired send several more barreling upward, then green and red bloom in the dark.

Christmas fireworks.

For Amelia Christmas.

Reindeer forgotten, Amelia stares—wide-eyed—at the sky flowers while sparks erupt. The colored light reflects in her eyes, glittering, and for the first time tonight, she relaxes.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers beneath the fizzing scatters.

“Yup,” I reply, not even looking. “It sure is.”

My dearest Brian,

I’m not sure I’d call myself brave, but something about the way you believe the best of others makes bravery seem more attainable.

Unfortunately, I fear that my character growth journey is going somewhat poorly. Every time I think I’ve made progress, something happens that informs me I haven’t at all. It’s hard to heal. It’s hard to feel worthy. Have you ever wrestled with inadequacy? It’s kind of annoying.

Just once, I’d like to wake up and believe that the world might not end by the afternoon because of something I’ve done or have failed to do.

But, anyway, that’s the journey update—if you can call it a journey when I’ve yet to do anything but stand still and pout at my stationary feet.

My favorite flavor of muffin is blueberry, with the coarse sugar on top.

My favorite color is a very specific shade of green, and blues for anything else.

I have absolutely no idea what my favorite restaurant is.

I wish I could tell you, but I’ve not had much experience going out to eat.

My mother was the sort to tell me we had food at home while I was growing up, so I would make the food at home and forgo an opinion on the matter.

Every so often, we’d go to this small family-owned restaurant, but the food there is actually terrible, and I don’t know what compelled my parents to bring me.

Perhaps so I’d stop asking to go out? I don’t know.

It’s possible, but I’d rather not think about it.

I like not having to cook sometimes, so maybe any restaurant with better food than what that place had would tie.

Do you have a favorite food and color? What about a favorite flower?

Looking under rocks for her character arc,

Your Secret Admirer

P.S. - I hope this wax seal suits you. It’s the bluest blue I could find.

Lip pouting, I stare at the plain blue seal that I’ve left untouched on my envelope.

It’s pretty, but of course it is. Amelia did it.

It’s clear she used a seal mold, which is something I don’t remember her employing in previous creations.

To my memory, she’d let her wax bubble, then she’d decorate the trim.

It was natural. Organic. New every time.

Sometimes, she’d swirl the colors and add a further layer of uniqueness to her art.

In contrast, this is almost clinical. Careful. An effort at dissecting her from her passion. In what I can only assume is a concentrated attempt to keep her identity secret.

Nevertheless, it is cold.

And I am sad.

Sad that she feels the need to hide anything from me.

Sad that my first seal from Amelia is pitiful when compared to the realm of her abilities.

Sad, sad, sad.

“B-Brian?” Amelia says, voice wavering by the entrance to my office.

Dragging my attention up, I blink at… her .

Wow.

Yes.

Wait.

No.

No, no, no. Nope. Absolutely not.

Oh dear.

Tugging on her flouncy green skirt, Amelia swallows and shifts her weight. The bells on her hat chime, and she adjusts the material of her costume as her cheeks add a fabulous balance of more red to the mostly green ensemble.

My eyes scan, drinking in my little Christmas elf.

The candy cane striped tights are a vision. The peppermint buttons look sweet enough to bite. She’s a delicacy, a sugar-taunting delicacy.

Violently, the compulsion that she not leave my sight and enter anyone else’s grips me.

And that’s a rather compelling issue, considering we’re dressed as elves on this lovely Monday after the Fourth of July in order that we might go around the office and collect letters to Santa.

Amelia’s eyes flick up to me, then back down.

Oops. Right. Yes. She said my name, didn’t she? Love that…love that… Maybe if I wait long enough she’ll say it again? Nudging that thought from my brain, I plant a smile on my face and my chin in my palm. “What’s up, A-mail-ia?” I ask, ignoring the odd strain in my voice.

“Is this skirt…too short?”

My attention dashes between her face and her hands as they clutch the material of her skirt. It sits roughly an inch above her knees, which are covered in her candy cane tights. There is no skin to be seen, and I’m not entirely the type of guy who pays attention to skirt lengths, either.

Except, probably, if a skirt proves to be shorter than a mailbag.

And Amelia’s skirt is absolutely not shorter than her mailbag, which rests against her hip.

Because she’s not just a little Christmas elf. She’s a little Christmas mail elf.

I am…actually unwell. Voice distant, I echo, “Short?” Emotions conflicted, I stare.

I want Little Mail Elf-melia, but I do not want to share Little Mail Elf-melia.

I could ask her to stay in the mailroom and sort letters, except all the letters we’re getting this afternoon are for Santa and we’ve already sorted today’s incoming mail to deliver when we gather Santa’s letters so we can streamline the process.

Not to mention, if she stays down here while I’m upstairs, I will not even get to enjoy Little Mail Elf-melia.

“I don’t know if this is business appropriate,” she whispers.

Absolutely it is. But also it isn’t. Because we are dressed like elves. And dressing like an elf isn’t exactly up to dress code.

And if Micheal knew I shoved an elf costume into my subordinate’s hands ten minutes ago, he would have words for me.

Words like You’re and possibly fired . Even though Micheal has no real jurisdiction over those kinds of things, he might whistleblow. I’ve managed thus far to keep people from attempting to contact Liam with complaints, and I’d like to keep it that way.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to wear it,” I say, an HR icon.

“I don’t want to ruin the fun.”

I don’t want the public to witness how well her red cheeks complement the green of her outfit. Therefore, it is at this exact moment I have a positively Grinchly idea.