22. Mia
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mia
It’s insane the feeling I get every time a new letter arrives.
I can’t even wait to get to my room anymore, so this one I open right in the kitchen.
Mia,
You wrote “your turn” on the back of the picture. That was rude. Effective, but rude.
A laugh bursts out of me. I sink down against the door, smiling so hard my face hurts.
“Oh, you poor thing,” I whisper, and keep reading.
There is something about being seen after the place that nearly undoes me.
Like he is still careful with the apartment.
Careful with me. Careful with the life he lost and the one I stepped into.
I stop breathing for a second mid-letter, wait, he carried my words around for four days? My throat tightens, but I keep reading.
The photo too.
It’s in my notebook.
“Oh.”
The sound is barely there.
I don’t know why that hits harder than it should.
Maybe because his notebook is where he keeps things that matter.
Maybe because I know he’s carrying me somewhere close, tucked between pages, hidden from everyone else.
I keep reading until I see a sentence that is crossed out, not well enough, because I can still see it.
I think I shouldn’t read it, but if he left it there…
Maybe someday we fix that.
Everything in me goes still. I stare at the words until they blur. My eyes are watering, my heart is doing some weird shit in my chest…”Oh”
Write when you can.
And stop insulting your cooking. I’m sure the garlic had it coming.
—George
He wants to stand here with me, or he almost wanted to, or he wanted to and regretted admitting it. I don’t know which version is more dangerous. I sit at the kitchen table with his letter beside me and a blank page in front of me.
George,
For the record, I saw what you crossed out.
You are terrible at hiding things from a woman who has already committed mail crimes.
I grin before I can stop myself.
Also, “effective, but rude” is the nicest compliment I have ever received.
I keep thinking about the window too.
About you standing here before. About me standing here now. About the fact that you almost wrote ‘someday’.
I glance toward the window. The room is dark now, city lights scattered beyond the glass.
I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve imagined it too.
You here.
Not in some dramatic movie-scene way. Okay, sometimes in a dramatic movie-scene way. And sometimes in ways that are less dramatic and more… not appropriate for polite correspondence.
I stare at that line as my stomach flips. I laugh quietly. My cheeks are getting hot. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But George sent me his face. George crossed out someday and left it readable. George carried beautiful around for four days.
I can be brave too.
As for the picture being in your notebook, I don’t know what to do with that either.
Except tell you that yours is on my nightstand.
P.S. If anyone else sees what I’m sending, I will deny knowing you and also possibly leave the country.
—Mia
That is terrifyingly honest, but I leave it there.
For a moment, I think about the camera. I don’t know if we keep sending back and forth with the intention of keeping seeing each other, but… I want him to see me…again.
I walk to my bedroom and stare at the black robe that’s hanging in my closet. And beneath it, tucked in the back of a drawer, is lingerie I bought years ago and never wore.
“No,” I say aloud, but change into it anyway.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in black lace, heart pounding so hard I can see it in my chest. The photo develops slowly in my hand, and when the image appears, my stomach drops.
I look exposed, not sexy, not powerful, but exposed.
I stare at it for a long time, then put it face down on the dresser. “Not that one.”
My hands are shaking as I reach for the robe; it’s loose enough to slip off one shoulder. I leave it open just enough that the lace underneath is visible if he looks, but not enough that I feel like I’ve handed myself over completely.
Which makes no sense, but somehow does in my mind.
I take three more photos. One is terrible.
One makes me look afraid. The third—the third is the one.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, one shoulder bare, the robe falling open at my thigh.
My face is in it, but not all the way. Half-smile.
Nervous eyes. A little challenge I didn’t realize I was giving until the camera caught it. It says enough.
I flip it over and write: Your move.
Then I panic for a full five minutes. Then I put it in the envelope before I can think too much about it, and I mail it barefoot at nine thirty-two at night.
By nine thirty-four, I regret everything.
By nine thirty-six, I’m smiling.
Seventeen days have passed.
Seventeen.
Every morning, I check the mailbox and prepare myself for humiliation. Every night, I imagine the envelope arriving wherever he is. I imagine him opening it. Seeing the photo. Reading my line.
Your move.
I alternate between wanting the earth to swallow me whole and wanting his answer so badly I can’t sleep.
On day eighteen, the package arrives with a letter inside, and a picture. We’ve been joking around about our heights since the first picture, and today he gave me an answer. Well, sort of…
Mia,
I’m taller than 6’0” and shorter than 6'5”.
That is all the information I’m willing to provide at this time.
I choke on a laugh, and my entire body warms.
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…