17. George #2
“Just two lines.”
“Maybe two's enough for tonight.”
For half a second, something in my chest loosens. Then tightens again. Mack looks toward the dark. “Come find me if you need me.”
“I won't.”
“I know.” He says as he walks away.
It’s finally morning.
I can stop pretending to be asleep and get going with my day. Which of course starts with me finally reading the whole letter. I read about her waiting, about the calls or the lack of them, really. About the silence. The versions of me that came home.
“I learned when not to ask questions.”
That one lands heavily.
“I learned how to sleep beside someone who was somewhere else.”
I put the letter down, but quickly pick it up again.
“I told myself that loving you meant understanding. Then understanding became waiting.”
By the time I reach the end, I don't feel angry anymore.
I wish I did. Anger would be easier. Instead, I feel tired. The kind that sits in your bones. Because she isn't wrong. She’s actually right about most of it. If not all. I think about the night before I left. Her in the kitchen.
You're good at leaving.
I hated her for saying it.
Now I understand why she did.
I’m going to Paris.
This isn't me asking you to wait. And I'm not going to wait either.
I read the last lines twice. Then fold the letter along the same creases she made. That's it, years of my life reduced to one page. Nah. That isn't fair. Not to her. Not to me. The years were real.
This letter is just… the end of them, and I need to respect that.
It hurts like hell, but, it is what it is, I guess.
I’m not entirely sure I’m glad nighttime has arrived. I know I won’t be able to fall asleep. But this is the only time I get to be alone. And while being alone and in my head isn’t a smart thing to do right now, I’m kinda grateful for it.
I take Mia’s letter out of the envelope and read it again.
I’m still angry, but way less than before.
That bothers me. She opened my mail. All the letters that made it through.
I don’t even know which ones are. A stranger read things I could barely admit to Monica.
I should hate her, but then I reach a certain part of the letter, and I’m not sure I can hate her…
You have every right to be angry about that.
I know it was wrong. I won't pretend it wasn't.
She’s not giving me an excuse, or a justification, and that matters more than I want it to. I fold the letter and put it away. Ten minutes later, I take it out again. “Fuck—”
Jackson looks over from his bunk. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You keep arguing with a paper.”
“Mind your business, soldier.”
He grins. “Copy that Seargant.”
Who the hell is this Mia Matthews?
Three days pass before I write back.
I tell myself I'm not going to. There's no reason to write back to her.
She sent the letter. I got it. End of story.
Except I still have questions. About the apartment, my letters, why she kept them.
About why she cared enough to send Monica's letter, even though she could have done exactly what Monica told her to do.
So yeah, mostly, I want to know why.
That's dangerous, and not because of her. She's a stranger that’s just living in my apartment for the time being. It’s dangerous because I know myself well enough to recognize when I'm looking for something to hold onto. This is it, so I decide to wait another day.
See if it passes.
I find myself writing her anyway. I sit with a blank page balanced against my knee. For a long time, nothing comes.
But then finally, I find the words.
Mia,
I got your letter.
I stare at the sentence. Brilliant. Almost twenty years in the military and apparently this is the best I can do.
I exhale loudly, and I keep going.
I'm not going to lie. I was angry. You opened seventeen letters that weren't yours.
That's a hell of an introduction.
For the first time in days, the corner of my mouth moves a little.
I'm still not sure how I feel about it.
But you told me the truth about what you did. You didn't have to.
I stop, cross out the next sentence, and start again.
And you sent Monica's letter.
I wish I could say I didn't know. I think part of me did.
Knowing and seeing it written down are different things. So thank you.
I would rather know than keep writing to someone who had already left.
You said you still have my letters.
My jaw tightens. I almost write, burn them, but I don’t.
Also, for the record, Sergeant Barkley is not actually a sergeant. He has no official rank and has contributed nothing to this operation except theft.
Where the hell did that come from? I rub a hand over my face. She read the letters, so she knows about the dog. It’s too late now. I looked at the line, read it twice, and decided to leave it.
I hope the apartment is treating you okay.
The window sticks when it rains. You have to lift it a little before you pull.
And the light is best around seven, depending on the time of year.
I can see the place as I write. The living room. The kitchen. That stupid window. Too much. I almost cross it out. Don't.
Thanks for writing.
I'm safe.
—George
I stare at those two words. She said she hoped I was. And now, for some very strange reason, I want her to know. I feel like she deserves to know that I’m okay.
I read the letter once. It sounds like me. Unfortunately. I fold it before I can change anything. The envelope sits beside my knee. I write the address from memory. Then her name.
Mia Matthews
I don't know what she looks like. I don't know how old she is. I don't know why she moved into that apartment. I don't know why she kept letters from a man she had never met. I should leave it there. Instead, I look at her name for a second too long.
Why did she care?
The question has been sitting in my head for four days. I still don't have an answer, and what bothers me is that I want one.