Page 5 of Love Letters to Christmas

Cutie patootie.

Brian

Flag Day.

A Flag Day wedding.

Which I am, specifically, staring at a non-invitation for.

Mars has officially un-invited me to his wedding.

He says I am not allowed to come. He has put glitter in an envelope and told me to stay far, far away from his fiancée until she’s stuck with him, and then—maybe—he’ll let me meet her.

But not before he convinces her to get a ring tattooed on her finger.

I am uncertain how to take this.

The invitation is beautiful, handwritten in script, decorated with stickers I’m certain he stole from his brother, Jove. He put time into this, just to tell me—and I quote—to flag off .

What a way to begin the weekend.

Peeking behind me at the kitchen, I locate my sweet roomie, who is humming “Dandelions” by Ruth B.

as she dances through the kitchen, taking advantage of every counter in a way that is neither chaotic nor messy.

I do not know how she does it. She has made baking several treats on top of meal prepping for this week a pristine effort.

Her flowing dress sleeves maintain cleanliness as she sweeps from cutting vegetables to stirring something on the stove to topping a casserole in French onions.

She’s beautiful.

Resting my chin atop the back couch cushions, I let the trance consume me, nearly forgetting that I’m covered in glitter and I’m not sure if I’m actually not invited to Mars’s wedding or if this is a joke. I’d text him to ask…but…the man commits to a bit with a passion that rivals my love of mail.

I’d like to go to his wedding.

I’d like to show up and say I thought that covering me in glitter and sending a perfect, careful letter was a joke indicating that I was more than welcome.

If I text him, his dedication to the un-invited bit might hurt my feelings. If I write back asking for clarification, he’d definitely text me instead of writing another letter, so there’s not even a way to get more mail out of this situation.

My nose scrunches at that very concept.

I swear sometimes he does things just to bug me.

And, then, other times, he sends me an angel who adores mail and cooks and cleans and sings while she works and gets adequately excited when letters with colored envelopes come in.

Huh…

Bracing my arm atop the cushions, I nestle my chin into the crook and stare at Amelia’s perfect, crisp hair bun.

I would have thought that after living together for several weeks I’d have seen her with her hair down at least once, but I have never in my life seen it down.

She has always, even when we were small, kept it up in this perfect, pinned bun.

Sometimes it’s high. Sometimes it’s low.

Sometimes she puts flowers or ornaments that match her dresses in it. But it is always, always up.

Makes a man curious.

“A-mail-ia?”

Amelia squeaks, whirling in a twirl of her gauzy skirt. Potato and peeler in hand, she stares at me. “Y-yes?” A peeling drops to the ground, and she flinches as her attention snags on it. “Sorry. I’ll clean that up.”

…I am covered in glitter. My living room will never not have glitter in it again. My couch will rot away someday and leave a pile of glitter behind. I think my kitchen floor will survive a potato peeling. “You know…” I begin.

In lieu of paying attention to me, she locates a paper towel and ducks down below my kitchen island.

I rise, scattering glitter across my floor as I approach to lean against the granite and peek over at her.

Furiously, she scrubs.

I blink. “A-mail-ia?”

Her head whips up, giant brown eyes fixing on me.

Gracious…she looks pretty, skirts all splayed around her. She’s spring and summer, bound together with warmth and gentleness. As comforting as a letter from a friend, who would never add glitter to it.

I forget entirely what I’m saying for a solid minute, then I shake my head and remember. “You don’t have to do all this.”

Tension floods her body as her eyes go ever larger. “I-I’m sorry. Am I being too loud?”

“No?” She could stand to be louder so I don’t have to strain to hear her singing, actually. She has a lilting, musical voice. Some mixture of fantasy and nature, pooling together. She’s like a fairytale princess.

“Is it…not helpful to have meals ready for after we get back from work?” she asks.

“It’s incredibly helpful.”

Confusion fills her doe eyes.

I walk around the counter and crouch beside her, bracing my arms on my knees and grinning. “I just mean you do not need to be so helpful. It’s Saturday. I’ve not cooked once since you got here eleven days ago. You’re gonna make me worry that I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Taking advantage of me?” she whispers. “When…you’re letting me live here for free and you’ve given me a full-time job, with benefits, and an hourly wage I could only ever have dreamed of? Aren’t I taking advantage of you at that point?”

I tilt my head against my knees, and glitter brushes from my pants onto the floor.

Amelia notices and has my smallest dustpan retrieved from beneath the kitchen sink before I can answer her. Staring at her hands as they literally clean up around me, I dare to say, “No. I don’t think you know how to do that.”

Once the floor is clean, I breathe, and it is no longer clean.

Distress rampant in her eyes, Amelia’s lashes flutter. “Why are you covered in glitter?”

“Because my friends hate me.”

Her attention lifts. “What?”

“Mars sent me a letter filled with glitter to tell me I’m not invited to his wedding.”

Amelia’s mouth opens, and closes. Finally, she says, “I’m sure that’s a joke.”

“I’ll be treating it like one, yes.”

She sweeps up more of the glitter, lip pouted. “I’ll vacuum after I’m done cooking. Maybe you should change your clothes…”

“Are you going to lay them out for me?”

Face erupting with fireworks of pink, Amelia flicks her gaze to my eyes, then away. “W-what?”

“I fear I may grow useless should you continue taking care of me so well, A-mail-ia,” I provide, seriously.

“I’ve never been this spoiled before in my life.

My parents are great, but they aren’t entirely homemakers.

After a long day of school and work, all of us would forage for dinner.

Sometimes, all we’d have is Kraft singles and saltines. ”

Her pretty brown eyes break as she whispers, “That’s horrible.”

I shrug. “Not really. We were all busy with mail. But—still—this whole warm meal thing you’re doing?

” I smile. “It’s spoiling me something awful.

So…” I reach for her dustpan and slip it from her hands.

“…maybe let me clean up my own mess.” I get a wonderful idea.

“ And maybe after you’re done here, you could come with me somewhere? ”

“Come with you…somewhere?”

I grin, and rise, scattering more fairy dust as I offer her my free hand. “Let me help you wrap up here, then we’ll go on an adventure.”

Lips parted, Amelia looks up at me, glances at my hand, then brings her shaking fingers into my grasp. I help her to her feet, but I don’t let go.

She tries to pull free; I don’t let her. Her slender fingers shiver in my hold. “U-um…”

“Hm.” I turn her hand over in mine, look at her palm, drag my thumb up from the center of her lifeline to her middle finger. “Your hands are really small,” I say.

“They…” Amelia’s breath quakes on her inhale. “…are?”

I swipe my thumb across her palm. “Yeah.” Practically fragile. I’m not used to people’s hands feeling so small in mine. Since I’m barely above average height for men at five-foot-ten, most of the time I find myself in the presence of giants.

Looking at Amelia now and remembering hugging her in this very spot, it’s kinda clear. She’s tiny.

“You’re cute,” I say.

Amelia squeaks as her mouth falls open.

Smiling, I release her hand, spin a flurry of glitter around me, and start toward my room. “Let me get cleaned up, then I’ll help you, so we can go on our adventure.”

“I— You— Uh—” She grips her hands to her chest. “O-kay. Yes. A-adventure.”

Heh. Yeah. She’s really so stinkin’ cute.