12. Mia
Chapter Twelve
Mia
Moving day arrives with two suitcases, eleven boxes, and a text from Lyann at seven-twelve in the morning.
Lyann: TODAY'S THE DAY, BABE. FRESH START. NEW CHAPTER. ALL THE CLICHéS.
I smile at my phone.
Me: You know I hate clichés.
Her response comes immediately.
Lyann: You write in a journal when you're sad. Shut the hell up.
I laugh. Then look at the door in front of me.
Today is the day.
The key gets stuck. Of course it does. It’s like it knows I need more things going wrong.
The leasing agent warned me. “The lock's a little stubborn. You have to jiggle it.” I get it. We all are like that sometimes.
I jiggle, but nothing happens. I turn the key back and try again. Still nothing.
“Oh, come on.”
I shift the box balanced against my hip and try a third time. The key catches, resists a little, but then finally turns. The lock gives, and the door opens.
I stand there for a second. I take a deep breath, and then I step inside. For the first time in eight months, I walk into a home that has never belonged to Sebastian. The thought hits harder than I expect. I set the box down, turn the key to close the door behind me until the latch clicks.
And something in my chest loosens. Not completely. I don't think healing works like that. But enough for now.
My suitcase wheels thump against the hardwood as I drag them farther inside. The loft is empty. Quiet. There's a faint smell of fresh paint and lemon cleaner in the air, the same artificial citrus scent from the leasing office.
Apparently that's the official smell of new beginnings.
“Okay, we got this,” I whisper to myself, and I can hear how my voice echoes slightly.
Then I see the window.
The photos didn't do it justice. It stretches almost from floor to ceiling. You can see the city in one direction, the freeway cutting through the distance, and the trees beyond it. The afternoon light spills across the floor as I walk toward it. For a while, I just stand there. Admiring it all.
I'm twenty-six. I’m old enough to know starting over isn't romantic, but I’m also young enough to hope it is.
Signing a two-year sublease still feels slightly insane. My mother thinks I'm having a crisis. Lyann calls it character development. I don't know what it is yet. A reinvention, an escape, a transition? Maybe none of those, or maybe all of them.
I look out at the city and see all the cars moving far below. People going somewhere, or coming from somewhere. Living lives I know nothing about. My shoulders loosen another inch.
“Okay, we got this,” I say again.
This time, I almost believe myself.
I head toward the kitchen to drop my purse, and that's when I see some letters on the counter.
There are eight envelopes neatly stacked and held together with a rubber band.
I stop for half a second. I assume they're mine.
Maybe when I changed my address, they started forwarding my mail here. Then I see the name.
MONICA HARRIS
The recipient is the same on every envelope.
There are different postmarks, and the dates span several weeks.
I set my purse down to take a better look at them.
The leasing agent mentioned something about the mail.
Anything for previous occupants should be set aside.
Don't forward it independently. That’s easy.
I pick up the stack. The envelopes are handwritten, so they are not junk mail.
Definitely not bills. They are letters. Actual letters.
I turn the first one over.
George Hale
I read the name once. Then again. I have no idea who he is. But I can see his handwriting is neat, a little bit controlled. The kind that looks like someone took their time writing these.
That is all I know.
I remind myself of that immediately. I don't know these people. I don't know why George Hale is writing Monica Harris. I don't know why eight letters are sitting in an empty loft. And I definitely don't need to invent a story in my mind about it.
“Nope.” I place the stack back on the counter. “Not my business.”
The loft echoes my voice back at me. Not my business.
Good. We agree. I slide the letters into a kitchen drawer for safekeeping. Then I start unpacking.
By nine that night, I have unpacked exactly enough to create the illusion of progress.
My bed is made, and most of my clothes are put away. Which means the bedroom is basically done. The kitchen is halfway functional, which is enough for now. The rest of the loft looks like cardboard boxes reproduced themselves while I wasn't watching.
I stand in the kitchen holding a garlic press I don't remember buying. I'm not entirely sure I've ever pressed garlic. I put it in a drawer anyway. Everything should have a place. Plates. Cups. Utensils. Me, eventually.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
Lyann: You alive?
Oh shit, I forgot to text her.
Me: Sorry. I’m alive. I’ve been unpacking.
Her reply comes immediately.
Lyann: Knowing you, you're either organizing coffee mugs or underwear.
Me: Underwear is already folded.
Three dots.
Lyann: Oh, so coffee mugs it is.
I laugh.
Me: I hate you.
Lyann: No, you don't. Send pics tomorrow. Proud of you.
My smile fades slightly. I know she’s proud of me, but I’m not sure if I’m proud of myself… Not yet at least.
Me: Love you.
The loft is quiet.
I can only hear the hum from the refrigerator. Some sirens passing through somewhere outside, in the distance. Which make sme remember that even though this place is cozy and tucked away in the suburbs, the city is still close enough.
I keep unpacking.
I find a whisk, too many measuring spoons, and a bendy silicone thing whose purpose I still don’t know. Then I open the wrong drawer.
The letters again.
I stop. The eight envelopes are still there. Obviously. I close the drawer, just to quickly open it again. “This is weird, right?” No response. Good.
I close it and walk away. I make it almost five minutes before I come back. Is not that I want to open it. I mean, I’m a curious person, so yeah, a part of me wants to open them, but I’m not a criminal. So I won’t.
The leasing agent said to set aside mail, but I feel like the owner should know she has mail here.
“Oh, the contract.” I have Monica’s information in the contract.
A responsible tenant would clarify, right?
And since I’m a responsible tenant, I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it. Find the number, and press call.
It rings twice.
“This is Monica.”
Her voice is clipped. Professional. I straighten without meaning to. “Hi. Um, this is Mia. The new tenant at the loft.”
A pause. Then, “Yes. Hello, Mia. Is everything alright with the apartment?”
“Yeah. Yes. Everything's fine.”
“Good.”
“I'm sorry to bother you. I just had a question.”
“Of course.”
I glance at the drawer. “There was some mail left here.” Silence. “Several letters, actually. They're addressed to you.” Another pause, so I continue. “The return name is George Hale. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to hold onto them or—”
“Oh.”
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.
“I’m not throwing you all away.”
I say as I close the drawer and walk away.