Page 45 of Returned Mail

One word. Which is barely anything. Still, something changes in her tone. Enough that I notice. “I can keep them somewhere safe,” I offer. “Or if there's an address you want me to forward them to⁠—”

“No.” The answer comes quickly.

I wait.

Monica's voice is controlled when she continues. “That won't be necessary.”

“Okay.”

“You can discard them.”

I look at the drawer. “Throw them away?”

“Yes.”

I frown. “There are eight.”

A pause. “I understand.”

“They look personal.” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They are not my business. Remember? Monica exhales.

“Mia, I appreciate you calling.” Her tone is still polite, but I can sense she is annoyed by this conversation. “Anything from George can be discarded.”

I lean against the counter. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” No hesitation this time. Just yes.

“Okay.”

Another pause. “Thank you for letting me know,” she says.

“Of course.” She says and ends the call.

I lower the phone. For a few seconds, I stand there staring at the screen. “Well.” The refrigerator hums. “That was normal.” I set the phone on the counter, open the drawer, and stare at the eight envelopes.

Anything from George can be discarded.

I pull the stack out and carry it toward the trash can. Then I stop. This is ridiculous. She told me what to do. They're her letters, not mine. Her business. Not mine. I don't know George Hale. I don't know Monica Harris. I don't know what happened between them. Maybe he's terrible. Maybe she is. Maybe neither of them is.

Maybe the letters contain grocery lists. Unlikely, but possible.

“Tomorrow.”

I put the letters back in the drawer. I’m discarding them, just not right now. This is just a delay in following instructions. That’s all.

At least that's what I tell myself as I walk away from them.

The loft feels bigger at night.

It’s not that I feel lonely here. I’m okay with being alone. But it feels unfamiliar. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. I have no memories here. This is just a room full of possibilities, with my bed—well, the bed that was here—but my new sheets, my new pillows. My boxes, my mess, my life.

I turn onto my side, pull the blanket higher. Five minutes pass, maybe ten. I don’t know. I sit up and exhale harder than needed.

“Seriously?”

The room offers no opinion.

I get out of bed. Walk barefoot through the dark loft, feeling the cold kitchen floor beneath my feet. I open the drawer and stare at the eight envelopes. I stand there for a long time.