5. George
Chapter Five
George
The suitcase is already packed.
That's the worst part tonight, I think.
Not the flight tomorrow, or the paperwork. Not even the seven months waiting on the other side of it. Is the fucking suitcase. Because once it's packed, there's no pretending anymore.
My uniform hangs on the closet door. Boots lined up beside the bed. Duffel bag at the foot of the dresser. Everything is ready.
Except me.
I stand in the kitchen drinking a beer I don't want, while Monica scrubs an already-clean plate in the sink. Neither of us speaks. We've been doing this all week.
Pretending.
Acting like tomorrow isn't coming. Like this isn't our sixth deployment. Like somehow doing this before makes doing it again easier. It doesn't. You just know what's coming.
Monica finally turns off the faucet. The silence afterward is worse than the water. She dries her hands on the dish towel but doesn't look at me. “Did you finish your paperwork?”
Her voice is careful.
“Yeah.”
“Beneficiary forms?”
I look at the bottle in my hand. “Done.”
“Emergency contacts?”
“Done.”
She nods once. Beneficiary forms. Emergency contacts. Updated will. The usual pre-deployment checklist. Normal paperwork, if you ignore what all of it is preparing for.
I take another sip. The beer tastes like shit. I don't know why I opened it. Habit, probably. Or maybe I needed something to do with my hands. Something other than to reach for her.
“Monica.”
She starts wiping the counter. Same spot. Small, tight circles. “Mm.”
“Look at me.”
Her hand stops. For a second, I think she won’t, but then she turns.
And there it is, the fear. She's been hiding it all week behind grocery lists, laundry, and questions about whether I packed enough socks.
But I know her. I know what she looks like when she's angry.
I know what she looks like when she's tired.
This is fear, and I'm the reason for it.
“I'm okay,” I tell her.
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they're wrong. A laugh escapes her. It's sharp because there's nothing funny about it. “Don't.”
My chest tightens. “Monica—”
“Don't say you're okay.” The towel lands on the counter. “Don't tell me everything's going to be fine.”
“I wasn't—”
“You were.”
I shut my mouth. Her eyes are already wet, and that gets me. Monica doesn't cry in arguments. She gets quiet. Cold. And right now, I’d almost rather have that.
“I'm not stupid, George.”
“I know.”
She turns toward me fully now, and I can see the anger coming in. Good. Anger I know what to do with. “You act like this is normal.”
“It is normal.”
The second I say it, her face changes.
Fuck.
“That's the problem.”
I set the beer down.
For me, this is normal. Training and deploying. Coming home. Leaving again. It's been my life for nearly two decades, since I was a stupid kid who thought putting on a uniform would make me a man. Monica didn't choose that.
I did.
She just chose me.
“I don't know what you want me to say.”
She laughs again. This one sounds worse. “I want you to admit this sucks.”
“It does suck.”
“No.” Her voice rises. “I want you to actually feel it. I want you to stop acting like leaving me for seven months is no big deal.”
“I don't act like that.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Monica—”
“You pack your bag. You check your lists. You make sure the bills are on autopay. You tell me where the paperwork is if something happens.” Her voice catches on the last part. I look away. “Then you leave.”
The kitchen goes quiet. I move toward her, but she steps back. It's barely half a step, but still hurts. “You think this is easy for me?”
Her eyes flash. “I think you're good at it.”
The answer comes too fast. Like she's had it ready. I stare at her. “What does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“No. I don't.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “You're good at leaving.”
Something in me goes hard. “That isn't fair.”
“Isn't it?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell are we doing here?”
“I don't know!”
We both go still, and a tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away immediately. Angry at it or at me. Probably both. “You leave. You always leave,” she says. I don't have an answer for that. Because I do. “You disappear for months. And I just stay here.”
“Monica.”
Another tear, then another. “I wait for calls. I wait for texts. I wait for emails.” She wipes at her face with the back of her hand.
“I wake up in the middle of the night and check my phone before I'm even fully conscious.” My chest tightens.
“Every unknown number.” She looks at me. “Do you know what that does to me?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Every knock on the door when I'm not expecting someone. Every news alert. Every time you go quiet for longer than usual.” Her breathing shakes. “I wonder if you're dead.”
The words hit me square in the chest. “Monica—”
“No. You wanted to know what I mean? That's what I mean.”
I look down at the counter. At the beer. At my own hand beside it. “I know.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Stop saying that. You don't.”
I want to argue.
My first instinct is to tell her I know fear. I know what it sounds like when rounds hit too close. I know what it feels like to lose someone you ate with that morning. I know what fear tastes like. But that's not what she's talking about. So I keep my mouth shut.
She watches me.
Waiting.
I don't know what she wants. Maybe she doesn't either.
“I'm sorry.” The words come out before I can think better of them.
Monica goes still. So do I. I look down at the beer because apparently I can say this to a bottle easier than I can say it to her.
“I know what I miss.” My voice sounds rough.
“Birthdays. Anniversaries. Christmas.” I rub a hand over my jaw.
She doesn't say anything. “I know what it costs me.” The next part takes longer.
“I don't think about what you're doing while I'm gone.” Her face changes.
“I don't think about you waking up and checking your phone.” My throat tightens. “Or the door.”
“George.”
“I should have.”
She closes her eyes.
“I should've thought about it.” The kitchen blurs for a second, and I blink hard. “I'm sorry.” She covers her mouth. I hate this. I hate that I'm doing this to her. I hate that part of me is still thinking about tomorrow's report time. I hate that both can be true. “I love what I do.”
The admission sits there between us. Ugly. But it’s the truth.
Monica lowers her hand. “I know.”
“And I love you.”
Her eyes close again. “I know you do.”
“But sometimes—” I stop, and she waits. I don't know how to say it without sounding like an asshole. Maybe there isn't a way. “Sometimes it feels like those things are asking me to choose.”
Monica goes completely still. For a second, I wish I could take it back. Then she nods. “I know.”
I stare at her. “You know?”
“Yes, George.” Her voice is barely there. “I know.” Something cold moves through my chest. She looks down at the floor. “And I'm terrified that one day I'm going to ask you to.”
I can't breathe for a second. “Monica.”
“I don't want to.” She wipes at her face. “I don't want to be that person.”
“You're not.”
Her eyes meet mine. “I don't know how many more times I can do this.” The words are quiet. No anger left in them. That makes them worse.
I stare at her. “What are you saying?”
“I don't know.”
“Monica.”
“I don't know, George.”
She presses both hands to her face. “I love you. I know that. I know I love you.” I move toward her again.
This time, she doesn't step back. “I just don't know if loving you is always going to be enough to make this hurt less.” I reach for her, my hands settling at her waist. For a second, neither of us says anything.
Tomorrow I'll leave again. I'll get on another plane. She'll stay. The same thing we've done before. Except now I know something I didn't know yesterday. There might be a limit to how many times she'll watch me go.
She presses her forehead against mine. I feel her shaking. “I wish I could promise nothing will happen.”
She nods. “I know.”
“But I can't.”
My hands tighten at her waist as I kiss her forehead. When we pull apart, neither of us says anything. There isn't anything left to say. Tomorrow will come whether we're ready or not.
For the first time in six deployments, I find myself wondering how many more goodbyes we have left.