Page 22 of Love Letters to Christmas

Progress is progress.

Amelia

I’m not sure I’m old enough to view this image.

Face scalding, I stare at my phone, at Brian’s feed, a place I haven’t been for a little while considering I’ve been living with the man himself…but I am weak. And you may consider this yet another regression.

“Good picture, isn’t it?” Brian asks, suddenly behind me, and so I do what any sane woman would.

I scream bloody murder, throw my phone across the room, and fall off the couch.

Panicked and on the floor, I hold my shaking self up on my arms and look up at Brian, who was supposed to be shopping. “You’re supposed to be shopping,” I inform him, breathlessly.

He lifts a bundle of grocery bags in his hands. “I just got back.” Sly, a smile curls his lips. “Were you too… engrossed to hear me come in?”

I was. I very, very much was. But what do you expect ?

When he posts a picture of himself posing in a puddle of the hundreds of red envelopes we collected yesterday…

it’s only natural that all my senses would turn off.

He is every woman’s scarlet letter, and seeing him unabashedly surrounded by them is not humane.

Making the matter about seventeen billion trillion times worse, he was holding my letter to Santa—white-and-red wax seal decorated in tiny polymer clay Christmas trees—to…his… lips . The sultry smile he fixed on the camera felt personal. As though he meant to stare directly into my soul.

So, yes , I was too preoccupied to hear he’d come home.

Stable as a baby deer, I try to peel myself off the floor as I find an excuse for my behavior. “I-I can’t believe you highlighted my letter.”

“I can’t believe it took me this many years to finally con one out of you.”

I slip back to the floor as he turns for the kitchen and unloads. “What?” I ask.

“Were my parents too subtle when they told you how much I love your work?”

I don’t think they were, actually. I…must be an idiot.

“Finally, I have my very own Amelia Original.”

“I can make you as many as you’d like. I love to play around and try new things.”

Brian tuts as he begins unpacking the groceries.

“That’s not how it works. Without a letter attached, seals are just pretty scraps of wax.

The mail is what gives them feelings . Depth.

Wonder. Purpose .” His brows wiggle. “Now, you’re more than welcome to write me as many letters as you’d like to go with the seals. ”

I gulp. What would I even say to him as myself ?

I couldn’t even bring myself to write a response of gratitude to the letter he gave me with my bonus or to the one he gave me at the ren faire.

I’m much too worried I’d ramble like a lunatic.

Or, worse, confess how I’ve always felt about him.

No, a casual letter to Brian won’t do at all.

Even if I really, really, really should put together a thank-you letter for allowing me to live here.

Which should be a safe topic.

Even though my nerves refuse to believe it is.

It’s actually despicable that I haven’t gotten over myself enough to just write one.

I’m the worst.

And I’m sitting on the floor while Brian unloads the groceries, which makes me the double worst.

Finding a deep breath and my legs, I rise. “Let me take care of that, and I’ll get dinner started.”

“Nope,” Brian says, stealing a milk carton before I can reach it. “I’m making dinner tonight.”

He’s…making dinner?

If he’s making dinner, what am I supposed to do?

“Relax,” he says, as though he’s heard my unspoken question, as though relaxing is something I’m capable of. “Start up a movie. Make sure your phone survived being thrown across the room.”

It should have. Ever since my first phone’s screen protector shattered on the sidewalk outside the Verizon store, I have invested in the practical lockbox cases. Needless to say, my phone’s prepped to handle my unique disposition.

My unique disposition is ill-equipped to handle being told to sit down and watch a movie while someone who already does so much for me makes me dinner.

“Can’t I help you?” I ask.

“Nope.”

I do not know what to do with my hands. “What…movie do you want to watch?”

“You decide.”

I hate this.

Twisting to look at the entertainment center, I locate the two movies he keeps on display and gravitate toward Klaus , because it’s Christmas.

Slipping the disc into the DVD player, I cast a look at Brian. He is merrily setting pots on the stove, pulling down the cookbook that those teens sold me, and scanning the pages. His nose scrunches on one page, and I suspect he’s just found the bran muffin recipe.

A thread of unease and regret prickles down my spine.

Stupid bran muffins.

I should have known better.

After I press play on the movie, I get my phone and escape the shame of Brian’s feed before it can haunt me anymore. One of the first things I did when I learned I’d be moving in with Brian was remove my Brian-themed phone and computer wallpapers.

I was supposed to be safe from this exact trauma.

Ugh.

I so desperately want Brian kissing my letter to be my new wallpaper.

But some things must be sacrificed for the sake of my sanity.

Uncomfortable, I sit myself down on the couch and pretend that every noise coming from the kitchen doesn’t add to the suffocation in my lungs.

I’m jittery right up until the moment Brian settles in beside me—close—with two plates. He hands me mine, finally providing my hands with something to do.

I stare at the display. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Scallops?

Certain something isn’t quite right, I poke the entree with my fork to distract myself from Brian’s nearness.

He says, “King mushroom scallops. Courtesy of your parking lot book. We’re taste testing it for Liam.” He shoves a big one in his mouth and lets his eyes drift skyward as he chews. He swallows. “It’s…edible.”

I take my turn. Buttery garlic sauce floods the tender vegetable, and I swallow thinking that I’m maybe not suited to cook if this is what he’s capable of turning a mushroom into. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s oil-free.”

“Oil…free?” I look at what I swore was a garlic butter dressing the vegetable. Sure, it’s not quite pure butter and garlic, but I just assumed the flavor came from other seasonings.

“Broth with nutritional yeast whisked in.” He takes another bite. “Who’da thunk it?”

He’s an alchemist.

Meanwhile, I feed him bran muffins that offend his senses in every possible way. I didn’t think they were bad, really. They would have been better with some butter, but if we’re making oil-free vegan mollusks now, I’ll have to throw out all my muffin recipes in favor of steel cut oats.

I might, maybe, just a little bit, whimper.

Brian chuckles. Then he has the audacity to lie to me. “I prefer your cooking.”

“Surely not,” I whisper, falling in love with the fake food on my plate. Not mollusk. Not butter. I can’t believe it’s even dinner.

“Surely, surely. Your meat isn’t mushroom. I value that in a protein.”

“This is really good, though.”

“It’s passable.”

“It’s amazing.”

Brian’s brows dip as he looks at me. “It’s a fungi masquerading as a shellfish.

Amazing isn’t the adjective I’d use. Food just tastes better when it’s made for you.

I’m sorry that the first meal you’ve had made for you at home in months is only somewhat edible.

We’re giving that health book away to Liam as a Christmas gift and getting something from the girl who uses butter like it’s going out of style. ”

“Paula Deen?” I ask.

He nods, affirmative. “Paula Deen. The butter queen. If we both don’t die from a heart attack by Christmas in December, we’re doing something wrong.”

I laugh. “ Christmas in December ?”

“I think Christmas should be every month. Christmas in January. Christmas in February. We can break for October and November, but only because I’m scared of witchy girls and love Thanksgiving. Flood every other month with Christmas cheer and Christmas letters. The world would be a kinder place.”

Isn’t that just the theme of every Christmas movie out there? The power of kindness and generosity to combat the world’s natural tendency toward negativity and selfishness.

Sadly, the part that makes Christmas special and fresh often fades with time even when it’s only once a year.

Kids grow up. They lose the magic and gain the workload.

They join the elf and Santa force when they’re already tired.

It’s no longer about just enjoying the gifts given to them.

Now they have to be the ones to create those gifts for others.

It turns from selfish and easy, to selfless and hard.

That’s the beauty of what Brian does. All year round, he takes the brunt of the magic upon his shoulders and presents it to adults with tired children sleeping inside of them. He shares his joy, because other’s happiness compounds his own.

He is the least selfish, most wonderful person I have ever met.

And, for some reason, he thinks I’m worthy of the kindnesses he offers.

That has to mean something to me, right?

That has to heal something in me, doesn’t it?

It has to make me feel blessed rather than perpetually inadequate, right?

It has to result in gratitude instead of this hollow fear that I’ve somehow tricked him into thinking I deserve anything good…doesn’t it?

I…hate this.

I hate my brain. I hate the way I look at the world. I hate everything inside myself. I hate myself.

I hate my bitterness. I hate my fear. I hate my worry. I hate, hate, hate.

I am a direct opposite of Brian. I am everything he isn’t.

I am a nightmare. And it’s a nightmare to live inside my skull, trapped within the bone, constantly comparing, constantly battling for a fleeting sensation of peace or worth or meaning in this horrible landscape I create with my own two hands.

I am a product of the darkness and the sadness and the insults I grew entrenched in.

My spirit lies rooted in a subtle, constant negativity.

It does not know what it means to be enough.

It does not know what it means to see something good and enjoy it without wondering if it’s supposed to be better .

Logic demands I understand that there is nothing I can become that will ever seem good enough. Logic demands I recognize that peace isn’t in the potentials; it’s in the now. Peace is taking hold of what is in reach right now and demanding that you’re happy with it.

I am grateful to be here.

I am grateful for oil-free mushrooms.

I am grateful.

I am a grateful person.

And when I’m not, I will employ grace.

Because I’m still growing.

Like a sourdough starter, I just need to be patient and feed myself the truths that lead to growth. And if I spill out of my bowl and onto the counter in a dreadful mess? So be it.

That doesn’t mean I’m too much . It just means my environment needed to grow, too.

Forcing myself to take in air, I scoop a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, fix my eyes on the movie, and determine to thrive .