Page 34 of Returned Mail

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

Mack shifts his rifle between his knees. “You ever look for him?”

The question catches me off guard.

“No.” That’s a lie. We both know it. Mack doesn’t call me on it. I rub my thumb along the edge of my glove. “I spent half my childhood waiting for a man who kept leaving. Then I grew up and picked a job that puts me in the perfect position to leave anyone around me.”

Mack goes still, and there it is, the thing I’ve spent years not looking at too closely. I laugh once. Nothing funny about it. “Pretty fucking stupid when you say it out loud.”

“No.”

I shake my head. “I spent years promising myself I’d never be that guy.”

“You’re not.”

His answer comes too fast, and I look away. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that I’ve watched your miserable ass write over twenty letters to the same woman.”

My jaw tightens.

“Your old man left because he wanted to.”

“Still gone.”

“You keep trying to come back.” The words land somewhere I don’t want them to. I look through the window. A cluster of low buildings sits in the distance.

“My old man used to make promises too,” he says, adjusting on his seat. “Said he’d come to birthdays.”

A pause.

“Games.”

Another.

“My graduation.”

The gum has stopped moving. “He didn’t.” I don’t say anything. “He wasn’t gone like yours,” Mack says. “Not exactly.” His mouth twists and I understand it. A person can be close enough to disappoint you over and over.

“Mom raised three kids,” he continues. “He’d show up when it suited him. Make a bunch of promises. Disappear before he had to keep any of them.”

The truck hits another rut.

Mack barely reacts.

“I waited for him for years.” He laughs once, sounding a bit bitter. “Like an idiot.”

“You were a kid.”

“Still felt stupid.” He looks toward the window. “Eventually I stopped expecting him.” The words sit between us, and I feel how my stomach tightens. Mack glances at me. “You know the difference?”

I don’t answer.