Page 28 of Returned Mail

Monica,

Still haven’t heard from you.

That’s as far as I got last night. Five words and a sentence I’ve been avoiding for forty-three days. I stare at them.

“Gear check in ten,” someone calls from outside.

Mack gets to his feet and starts adjusting his kit. “You coming?”

“In a minute.”

He looks at the paper in my hand. Then at me. “You said that yesterday.”

“I know.”

“And the day before.”

“I know.”

He studies me for a second. Mack knows about the letters. Not everything, but enough. “Don’t be late,” he says finally. “I’m not covering for your old ass when they come looking.”

“You’ve never covered for me in your life.”

“Exactly. Don’t expect me to start now.” He grabs his gear and heads for the door. Before stepping out, he looks back. “George.”

I wait.

His eyes drop to the letter. “Say what you need to say and get it done.”

Then he’s gone.

The door slams behind him. For a few seconds, I sit there listening to the generator choke against the wall. I look down at the page.

Her letters got shorter with time. The last one that came had three lines, maybe four.

Busy with work.

Things are hectic.

Hope you’re staying safe.

There was no “I miss you” or “I love you.”

Nothing about the wedding. Nothing about home. I’ve spent forty-three days pretending that doesn’t mean anything. But I’m running out of ways to lie to myself.

I put the pen to paper.

Hey. It’s me.

I stare at the words. Fucking stupid, of course it’s me. Who else would it be? I scratch them out.

I hope you’re okay.

The pen stops. I almost cross that out too, but I force myself to keep going.

We’re heading out again soon. It might be a while before I can write, and I didn’t want to leave without saying something first.

Okay, this is better.