Page 86 of Returned Mail

The picture was unfair.

I looked at it longer than I should have.

That’s all I’m saying about that.

For now…

“Oh, my God.” I press the page against my chest.

I’m trying to be respectful here.

You are making that difficult.

Also, if anyone saw that photo, I would have to fake my own death. So we’re even.

For the record, this seemed fair after what you sent me.

Your move.

—George

I sit down on the edge of the bed before my knees make the decision for me. A laugh shakes out of me, then I reach the last lines. My hand hovers over the Polaroid. I turn it over and forget how to breathe.

George is shirtless.

Still in uniform pants that are slightly undone, so I can see the hem of his underwear. Sitting on the edge of that narrow bunk again, dog tags resting against his chest. The photo is not polished. Not posed in the way someone trying too hard would pose. But he knew what he was doing.

Absolutely.

His shoulders are broad. His chest is strong, marked by shadows and a few scars I want to ask about and also never want to ask about. His arms are full of tattoos. His hair is messy, his eyes tired, his mouth unsmiling. His body is exactly as I imagined it the other day and in the days after that.

I set the photo down, just to quickly pick it back up. “Oh, George.” Even saying his name sounds different now. I read the line again, ‘I looked at it longer than I should have’. Heat pools low in my stomach.

He is thousands of miles away. I have never heard his voice. Never touched him. Never stood in the same room. But my body does not care about distance. Or logic. Or this country’s Postal Service.

I want whatever this is…

I want his words, his pictures…

I want him…

Chapter Twenty-Three

George

a few weeks later

I know there’s no mail today, but I check anyway.

The crate sits near the side of the container, half in shadow, exactly where it was yesterday when I checked and found nothing. There are three envelopes inside, none with my name on them, and a package wrapped in enough tape to survive the end of the world.

“Hale.” I roll my eyes. Mack is leaning against the side of the container with a cup of coffee in one hand. Or something pretending to be coffee. Hard to tell around here.

“What?”

“You know, staring at it won’t make mail appear.”

“I wasn’t staring.”