21. George
Chapter Twenty-One
George
Mail arrives at dusk.
I know because I’ve started pretending not to wait for it, while I totally wait for it. That’s a bad sign.
Waiting used to belong to Monica. Waiting used to mean checking for her name, her handwriting, some proof that the life I’d left behind still had a place for me. Now I know better. Now I wait for different handwriting.
Mia’s.
And that should probably worry me more than it does.
The original date I was supposed to go home has already passed. It came and went without much ceremony. So I don’t think about going home much anymore.
Now, I think about mail day, which is worse.
I’m halfway through cleaning my rifle when Mack comes jogging over with a small box in his hand.
“Your accountant wrote back.” He says, holding it up.
My hand stills on the rifle, and I hate that my body reacts before I can tell it not to.
Mack notices. “Careful,” he says. “Your face almost did something.”
“Give me the box.”
“Romantic.”
“Mack, the box and fuck off.” He hands it over.
My pulse kicks once, hard. I tell myself it’s because I sent a photograph of myself to a woman I’ve never met and have spent the better part of three weeks regretting it.
Which is true, mostly anyway.
I wait until the tent quiets down to open the box. I don’t know what to expect, but I know what thing. The camera is here, which only means two things: she sent it back because she wants nothing to do with it, or because she wants me to have it for future…I shake my head and just open it.
“Stop imagining things, and open the fucking box.” I slide my thumb under the flap. Inside is a letter, like always, but a photograph slips out before I’m ready. It lands face down against my thigh. I stare at the back of it, just two words in her handwriting.
“Your turn.”
I stop breathing for a second, then I turn it over.
Fuck.
I was not ready for that.
She’s by the window, my window. Well, not anymore.
Now it’s her window, ours? What the hell do I know.
Still, I recognize the light before I fully process her face.
The angle of it. The way it comes in soft from the side and catches the edge of the room.
I know that window. I know what time of day it is from the way the floor glows behind her.
Then I see her.
Hair loose around her shoulders. Mouth curved like she got caught in the middle of a laugh. Not looking straight at the camera, not quite, but close enough that it feels like she almost did and then got nervous. She looks real. That’s the first word that comes into my mind.
My eyes go back to her mouth.
Bad idea.
Then to her hand, worse… I look away, then look back. Because apparently I’m a fucking idiot. She’s beautiful. But it’s the laugh that gets me, that almost-smile. Like she was nervous and amused and brave all at once. My chest tightens.
I pick up the letter because if I keep staring at the photo, I’m going to forget how to act like a grown man.
George,
First, I need you to know that “the apartment, I mean. Mostly” was deeply annoying.
I laughed.
I hope you’re happy.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Thank you for the camera.
And the picture.
You’re beautiful.
My hand tightens on the page.
I read it again. ‘You’re beautiful.’ She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The picture was taken in bad lighting, with exhaustion and a cut on my face I didn’t bother hiding. Beautiful is not a word that belongs anywhere near me.
Then I keep reading.
And before you make that weird or pretend I didn’t say it, I mean it.
I close my eyes for half a second.
She knows me too well for someone who doesn’t know me at all.
You look tired.
You look like you’ve had a hard few months.
You also look real.
I think that’s what got me.
The air leaves my lungs slowly. No one has ever said it like that. Not like a compliment. Not like she is seeing the worn parts and refusing to look away. I don’t know what to do with that.
So I read the next part.
Here’s me.
Three failed attempts because apparently I forgot how cameras work the second I realized you were going to see my face.
This is the least terrifying one.
For whatever it’s worth, I’m glad I’m the one living here too.
Mostly.
That makes me laugh again.
This time, Mack definitely hears it. “Oh, this is bad,” he calls.
“Mind your business.”
“Can’t. You’re being weird in public.”
“I’m on my bunk.”
“Public.”
I fold the letter halfway and glare at him. He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. I wait until he looks away before I read the letter again. Then I look at the picture, then the letter, then the picture again. This is not curiosity anymore.
I don’t know what it is, but it is not that.
It’s been five days since I saw her, well, her picture, and I’m trying to feel normal about it, but I’m failing miserably.
I can’t stop thinking about her, about what to send her back. I need to be busy. I need things to do, so that’s what I do. I work. I move. I check gear, go where I’m told, listen when I need to, and sleep when my body finally gives me no other choice.
But her picture goes into my notebook, tucked behind the back cover. Not because I’m hiding it— who the fuck am I kidding? I am absolutely hiding it.
I tell myself it’s safer there. It’s protected, and out of sight. Then I take it out every night anyway. Which is exactly the kind of lie a man tells himself when he knows he’s already lost control of something.
The first night, I look at it and think about the window. The second, I think about her laugh. The third, I notice the way her hair falls over one shoulder and spend the next ten minutes irritated at myself for noticing. By the fourth, I stop pretending I'm only looking at the photograph.
I'm looking at her, and there's a difference.
Her mouth.
That's what gets me first. The kind of mouth that makes a man think things he shouldn't. I stare at it longer than I mean to. Then I think about what it would feel like against mine, against my neck.
Lower.
My cock twitches before I can stop the thought.
“Fuck.”
The fact that I am thirty-six years old and getting hard looking at a picture like a teenager is embarrassing. I should put it away. There’s a line there, one I should probably respect. She is thousands of miles away.
My hand moves to my belt before I realize what I'm doing. “Absolutely not. Don’t go there.” I mutter to myself, but my body doesn't care about my restraint.
I'm already half-hard, and the thought of her in that apartment, in my bed, wearing God knows what, is enough to make my jaw lock. I think about her reading my letter.
I would like to see you.
I wonder if she blushed. I wonder if she touched herself, thinking about me, the way I’m about to touch myself, thinking about her. That thought breaks something. I shove the photo back into my notebook and stand up too fast.
My cock is pressing hard against my pants, aching, demanding attention I'm not going to give it.
The fifth night, I take the photo out again.
This time I don't pretend it's innocent. I'm alone behind the supply container. The desert is dark and quiet around me. No one to see. No one to know. Just me, the photograph, and the fact that I haven't been this hard in months.
I look at her mouth again. Then lower, at the curve of her neck.
The line of her collarbone visible at the edge of her shirt.
I can see the shape of her breasts beneath the fabric.
It’s not much, but enough to make me wonder what she looks like underneath.
Whether she's soft there. Whether she'd gasp if I put my mouth on her.
My hand moves to my belt again, and this time I don't stop it. I undo the buckle slowly, then the button, then the zipper. My cock is already pressing against my boxers, hard and aching and desperate for friction.
I wrap my hand around it through the fabric first, just to put some pressure on it, just enough to take the edge off.
It doesn't work. I think about Mia's mouth, at what it would feel like wrapped around me.
Whether she'd look up at me while she did it.
Whether she'd take me deep or tease me until I begged.
“Fuck.”
I pull my cock out. I’m painfully hard, already wet at the tip.
I stroke slowly once, and my head falls back against the container.
I think about her in the loft, standing at the window, lying in bed.
Touching herself the way I'm touching myself now.
I wonder if she's wet. I wonder if she's thought about me inside her.
My hand moves faster, as I stare at the photograph.
At her eyes. Her mouth. I think about pulling her shirt off, and seeing her tits for the first time.
Putting my mouth on them. Hearing her moan.
I think about spreading her legs, about tasting her.
Feeling her come on my tongue. Then sliding inside her.
Slow at first, then harder. Until she's saying my name.
My hand is moving fast now. It’s rough, and desperate. I'm so close. I think about her pussy. Tight. Wet. Clenching around me. I think about fucking her until she can't remember her own name. Until the only thing she knows is me.
“Fuck, Mia—”
Her name rips out of me when I come. I’m pulsing and spilling over my hand in thick, hot waves. I stand there for a long time after, still breathing hard, and staring at the photograph. At the woman who just made me come harder than I have in months without even knowing it.
“Fuck.”
I clean myself up and put the photo away, trying to pretend that didn't just happen.
It doesn't fucking work, because now I know what it feels like to want her.
Not just emotionally. Not just because she's kind, funny, or honest. But physically, and desperately.
The kind of want that makes a man stupid.
This morning, I write back to her, or I try.
The first version is too short.
Mia,
Got the picture.
No. I tear it out. The second version is too careful, and the third makes me sound like I’m filing a report.
The fourth starts with “You’re beautiful too”, and I stare at it for five full minutes before crossing it out.
I want to tell her the truth. The problem is the truth keeps trying to become something I’m not ready to hand her.
Finally, I start again.
Mia,
You wrote “your turn” on the back of the picture. That was rude. Effective, but rude.
For the record, I am happy you laughed at “mostly.” I did regret writing it for about three days, so I’m glad my suffering served a purpose.
Thank you for the picture.
I’m going to say this badly, but seeing you made the apartment feel different in my head. Not gone. Not mine either. Just different.
I recognized the light first, then I saw you.
You looked nervous, and like you were trying not to laugh. That got me.
You called me beautiful, and I’m not sure what to do with that. But I’ve carried it around for four days.
The photo too.
It’s in my notebook.
I’m not going to make this heavier than it needs to be. But I want you to know I’m glad you sent it. I’m glad I know your face now.
My chest tightens. I’m being too honest and not careful enough.
I keep thinking about that window. You standing there now. Me standing there before. Strange how close two people can get to sharing a place without ever being in it at the same time.
My hand stops for a moment, but then I add…
Maybe someday we fix that.
I stare at the sentence.
No, fuck, absolutely not. I cross it out. Then stare at the crossed-out words. They’re still readable. “Fuck”, I should rewrite the page. “Don’t be a coward.” Well, coward or not, I want her to see that I almost said it.
I finish before I can do more damage.
Write when you can.
And stop insulting your cooking. I’m sure the garlic had it coming.
—George
I fold the letter, unfold it, look at the crossed-out line, and fold it again.
I seal it before I can rewrite the whole thing.