Page 19 of Returned Mail

Waiting.

I don't know what she wants. Maybe she doesn't either.

“I'm sorry.” The words come out before I can think better of them. Monica goes still. So do I. I look down at the beer because apparently I can say this to a bottle easier than I can say it to her. “I know what I miss.” My voice sounds rough. “Birthdays. Anniversaries. Christmas.” I rub a hand over my jaw. She doesn't say anything. “I know what it costs me.” The next part takes longer. “I don't think about what you're doing while I'm gone.” Her face changes. “I don't think about you waking up and checking your phone.” My throat tightens. “Or the door.”

“George.”

“I should have.”

She closes her eyes.

“I should've thought about it.” The kitchen blurs for a second, and I blink hard. “I'm sorry.” She covers her mouth. I hate this. I hate that I'm doing this to her. I hate that part of me is still thinking about tomorrow's report time. I hate that both can be true. “I love what I do.”

The admission sits there between us. Ugly. But it’s the truth.

Monica lowers her hand. “I know.”

“And I love you.”

Her eyes close again. “I know you do.”

“But sometimes—” I stop, and she waits. I don't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole. Maybe there isn't a way. “Sometimes it feels like those things are asking me to choose.”

Monica goes completely still. For a second, I wish I could take it back. Then she nods. “I know.”

I stare at her. “You know?”

“Yes, George.” Her voice is barely there. “I know.” Something cold moves through my chest. She looks down at the floor. “And I'm terrified that one day I'm going to ask you to.”

I can't breathe for a second. “Monica.”

“I don't want to.” She wipes at her face. “I don't want to be that person.”

“You're not.”

Her eyes meet mine. “I don't know how many more times I can do this.” The words are quiet. No anger left in them. That makes them worse.

I stare at her. “What are you saying?”

“I don't know.”

“Monica.”

“I don't know, George.”

She presses both hands to her face. “I love you. I know that. I know I love you.” I move toward her again. This time, she doesn't step back. “I just don't know if loving you is always going to be enough to make this hurt less.” I reach for her, my hands settling at her waist. For a second, neither of us says anything.

Tomorrow I'll leave again. I'll get on another plane. She'll stay. The same thing we've done before. Except now I know something I didn't know yesterday. There might be a limit to how many times she'll watch me go.

She presses her forehead against mine. I feel her shaking. “I wish I could promise nothing will happen.”

She nods. “I know.”

“But I can't.”

My hands tighten at her waist as I kiss her forehead. When we pull apart, neither of us says anything. There isn't anything left to say. Tomorrow will come whether we're ready or not.

For the first time in six deployments, I find myself wondering how many more goodbyes we have left.