Page 21 of Love Letters to Christmas

Santa-melia is coming to town.

Amelia

“Ho, ho, ho!” I cheer, voice as deep as I can make it. “Have any letters for me, little one?”

Frank stares at me. Potentially concerned. Potentially trying to figure out if this is a good joke, or a very, very bad one.

Realization hits me, and I shuffle in my mail bag. Using my normal voice, I offer her a letter from Norman. “I almost forgot. You have mail, too. Or I hope you have mail too .” I make my voice deep again. “Assuming you do have a letter for me.”

That makes Frank snort. “Brian needs to be stopped.”

“Huh?”

“This?” She flicks her finger at me before taking the letter from her husband. “This is criminal. There has to be a rule against making your underlings wear a fake beard and stomach.”

I look down the white beard of my Santa costume at the pillow I stuffed in my red coat. The outfit is way too big on me in every way since it was something Brian ordered for Liam to have whenever he gets back, but he said it was fine, and Liam doesn’t need it anyway.

For some reason, when I mentioned that I could wash it and return it, Brian just smiled very brightly and said, No , before ushering me into the mailroom bathroom.

“Heh,” Frank says, grinning at her open letter when I look back up at her. She shows me the cardstock interior, boasting a simple but effective, Hi. :) “He paid postage for this.”

It’s wild what adults decide to do with their adult money.

“What an idiot,” Frank murmurs. “My idiot.” The card goes in what has steadily become an overflowing drawer of Norman letters before Frank opens what I can only assume is a lesser drawer of not Norman letters and pulls out a post-it note. “Here.”

“Um.”

“My letter to ‘Santa’.”

Upon the hot pink paper, a barely discernible list is scrawled. A million dollars takes up first place.

I adjust my Santa hat. “Brian provided everyone with special envelopes for their Christmas lists.”

“Yeah.”

Anxiety knots in my chest. “This…isn’t that special envelope?”

“My special envelope got lost.”

I glance behind her, at a stack of papers, including the special red envelope Brian made sure to provide to every single person who wanted one in the building.

Something in my head says just tell her and what’s the worst that could happen?

But something in my heart is playing boss music very loudly and reminding me that respect means silence.

But silence isn’t very character arc of me…

Taking a deep breath, I situate my pillow stomach, march past Frank, and retrieve the envelope. Unreasonably terrified, I say, “Tada…”

“Was that actually there the whole time?” Frank asks, brows lifted above her glasses.

“I…think so.”

She takes it from my hand and slips her post-it note inside, murmuring, “And that’s what happens when you have the object permanence of a newborn…” as she closes it. With a smile, she offers me the envelope. “It’s a Christmas miracle, Santa.”

I offer an awkward laugh as I tuck the letter in with the others I’ve been collecting. “Ho, ho, ho! Have a merry day!”

Unreasonably exhausted, I make my way out of Frank’s office, through the graphics department, and into the hall.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

I know it.

I shouldn’t feel like my arms and legs weigh thirty extra pounds after doing nothing wrong. I was only trying to be helpful . Without an envelope, Frank’s list may have gotten crumpled in the bottom of my bag, and then she wouldn’t be able to participate in whatever Brian’s planning.

It’s not bad to try and help someone. It’s also not bad to mention the rules kindly.

I guess I’m just used to people who insist that the rules don’t apply to them and who take offense that they would ever need help.

“Santa?” Brian’s voice makes me tense, but I turn to face him.

The bells on his hat ring as he stops and salutes.

“This floor is cleared, sir. All incoming mail to the North Pole has been intercepted and is ready for processing. Awaiting further jolly orders. Or, perhaps, it’s time for a milk and cookies break?

” Losing all his militant airs, Brian grins, pinching his fingers together as the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Maybe just a little milk and cookies break, hm?”

My shoulders ease. My heart quiets.

“Come on,” he says, so warmly, ushering me toward the elevator. “Sweet & Salty has Christmas cookies this month.”

Christmas cookies. In July. As the silver doors close, I ask, “How did you manage that one?”

“I have excellent powers of persuasion, and an entire office building next door hyped up on Christmas fumes. It’s hot.

Even the people who aren’t entirely participating are enjoying pretending it’s not the dead of summer this month.

Everyone’s a little happier to walk into work, see a stuffed snowman by reception, and munch on their breakfast snowflake cookie from everyone’s favorite cafe.

” He plants a finger beneath his nose like a mustache. “That’s elementary, my dear St. Nick!”

I laugh.

He drops his hand and switches our hats before he leans against the wall. “What happened, A-mail-ia?”

My head shakes, and I find myself toying with a tiny bell on his elf hat. “Nothing. So genuinely nothing.”

“It’s okay for nothing to feel like something .”

“Is it really, though?”

“It takes a while to start feeling safe again.”

So people keep telling me. Time . It all takes time .

Right now, I only feel safe with him, and even then, I’m too scared to tell him everything going on in my head and my heart.

Because he doesn’t need this kind of garbage.

Because he’s already doing more than enough for me.

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “It’s just taking time.

I think, probably, on a diagnosable level, I have anxiety. ”

“What would you like to do about it?” he asks.

I press my lips together. “What do you mean?”

“Therapy, drugs, suffering. Which suits you best?”

Suffering. Yes. That one. Entirely that one.

I don’t think anything I’ve gone through is quite terrible enough to warrant therapy, and drugs are absolutely off the table, because if it’s not even bad enough to talk about, it’s definitely not bad enough for prescriptions.

All the same, suffering doesn’t feel like the correct answer, so I merely stare at Brian with my mouth hanging open.

“You’re allowed to answer honestly,” he says.

“Am I?”

“Always.”

“It seems wrong to say I’m not planning to do anything about it.”

His brows rise. “Not doing anything about it wasn’t one of the options I gave.”

“Isn’t that what suffering means?”

He flicks the white pompom at the end of the Santa hat.

“Nope. You’ll either suffer yourself to improvement, or you’ll suffer yourself to a different decision.

People don’t stand still, even when it feels like they do.

Even against our will, we’re always going somewhere, always learning and discovering.

It’s a beautiful part of the human experience.

You know, the human part. It’s the unique reality that when we’re uncomfortable—” He cuts his attention down my outfit, which was supposed to be an elf one, then he lets his eyes close. “—we change.”

It becomes slightly hard to breathe, but for a reason entirely apart from my out-of-control nerves. Fighting to grasp the calm Brian offers, I say, “Is that why you left Bandera? Did something make you need a change?”

He exhales a brief laugh and kicks off the wall. “Something like that, I suppose. I wasn’t uncomfortable , per se, with Bandera. I was uncomfortable with the situation that my presence incited.”

“What situation?”

He glances at me. “Too many heirs.”

I blink.

He lifts a finger to his lips. “But that’s a secret I’ve never told anyone before, so make sure it stays just between us, all right?”

I…nod. Because I completely do not know what he means in the slightest, and a secret I don’t even understand is not exactly one I can share.