Page 18 of Returned Mail

She laughs again. This one sounds worse. “I want you to admit this sucks.”

“It does suck.”

“No.” Her voice rises. “I want you to actually feel it. I want you to stop acting like leaving me for seven months is no big deal.”

“I don't act like that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Monica—”

“You pack your bag. You check your lists. You make sure the bills are on autopay. You tell me where the paperwork is if something happens.” Her voice catches on the last part. I look away. “Then you leave.”

The kitchen goes quiet. I move toward her, but she steps back. It's barely half a step, but still hurts. “You think this is easy for me?”

Her eyes flash. “I think you're good at it.”

The answer comes too fast. Like she's had it ready. I stare at her. “What does that mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“No. I don't.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “You're good at leaving.”

Something in me goes hard. “That isn't fair.”

“Isn't it?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are we doing here?”

“I don't know!”

We both go still, and a tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away immediately. Angry at it or at me. Probably both. “You leave. You always leave,” she says. I don't have an answer for that. Because I do. “You disappear for months. And I just stay here.”

“Monica.”

Another tear, then another. “I wait for calls. I wait for texts. I wait for emails.” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. “I wake up in the middle of the night and check my phone before I'm even fully conscious.” My chest tightens. “Every unknown number.” She looks at me. “Do you know what that does to me?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Every knock on the door when I'm not expecting someone. Every news alert. Every time you go quiet for longer than usual.” Her breathing shakes. “I wonder if you're dead.”

The words hit me square in the chest. “Monica⁠—”

“No. You wanted to know what I mean? That's what I mean.”

I look down at the counter. At the beer. At my own hand beside it. “I know.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Stop saying that. You don't.”

I want to argue.

My first instinct is to tell her I know fear. I know what it sounds like when rounds hit too close. I know what it feels like to lose someone you ate with that morning. I know what fear tastes like. But that's not what she's talking about. So I keep my mouth shut.

She watches me.