39. George
Chapter Thirty-Nine
George
Monica is standing in the living room, arms folded, foot tapping like she owns the place. Like she didn’t sign her ownership away the moment she mailed me a breakup instead of showing up like a grown woman.
“I want her out,” she says before I get a word out. “We need to talk privately.”
“No,” I say flatly.
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and offended. “Excuse me?”
“This is my apartment,” I say. “And she lives here. Not you.”
She laughs, bitter and sharp. “Since when does she get more say in your life than I do?”
“Since you walked away,” I continue, voice steady. “Since you mailed me a letter instead of showing up like—”
“We never got the chance to talk about anything that happened. I know I sent you the letter but—”
“You broke up with me, Monica. You broke off our engagement, without even waiting for a reply. You stopped replying to my letters for months.” I say.
“There were things to discuss, George. I said we could talk later.” She snaps. “You can’t just—she can’t just waltz in and—”
“She didn't waltz anywhere.” My voice drops. “She picked up the pieces you left behind.”
Then her chin lifts. “So what?” she says finally. “You're replacing me with her? That's what this is?”
“I'm not replacing you, Monica. I'm moving on from you. There's a difference. We knew things were bad, but I never stopped writing to you. Never. Not until I found out you were gone. We’ve been over for a year, Mon. This is more than done.” I say, stepping closer, voice dropping.
Her face goes stiff, like she might cry. “You used to love me,” she says.
I swallow hard. Because she's right. “I did,” I say honestly.
“And now?”
“Now it’s time to move on.” The truth sits right there between us.
She swallows and starts walking around the kitchen.
“I mailed you that letter, and I never heard anything from you. I know I decided it that way, but you were supposed to come home in a couple of months, and when you didn’t call or reach out, I thought—I thought you were done, too.
” She looks away, but I can see how tight her jaw is.
“And then I almost died, Monica. I woke up in a hospital on the other side of the world,” I say. “And the only person who came for me was the woman you just called a slut.”
Monica's face twists. It’s like pain and shame are fighting for dominance. “I didn't know… And even if I did, I wouldn’t know if you wanted me there,” she says finally. Her voice sounds so small now. “After everything, I—”
“You didn't ask.” The words are quiet. But they land like a punch.
Monica's breath hitches. “You didn't call,” I continue.
“You didn't write again. You didn't show up.
You made your choice, Monica. And I'm not blaming you for it.
I respect it. But you don't get to be angry that I made one too.” Silence stretches between us.
Then finally, Monica speaks. “So, this is it? You're choosing her.” Her voice is hollow.
“Yes.” I don't hesitate. “I am.”
“I hope you know what you're doing then,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper.
“I do,” I say, and I mean it.
She gathers her purse and walks towards the door. Pauses, her hand on the knob, but doesn't look back. “I loved you.” She says quietly.
“I know.”
“I'm sorry I couldn't—” She stops. Swallows. “I'm sorry.”
“Me too.”
The door clicks shut, and finally—finally—silence settles over the apartment.
I let out a long breath. A weight I didn't realize I was still carrying slides off my shoulders.
It doesn't feel like victory. It feels like grief.
The ending of something real, even if it wasn't right. Not for me, not for her.
When I get to the bedroom, Mia is standing near the window, wrapped in a blanket, arms tucked close to her body. She looks up when she hears me. A worry tightens her expression. “Is she gone?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
She nods once, like she's not sure what to do with that information. I cross the room slowly, and when I reach her, I take her face gently in my hands. “Hey,” I say quietly. “Look at me.”
She does. Her eyes are glassy, still shaken.
God, those eyes. Those eyes deserve better than what today threw at them. “I'm so sorry for all of this. The things she said, how she appeared here. I’m truly sorry.” I say, and I mean every word.
“You defended me.” She whispers. Like she can't quite believe it.
“Of course I did. How could I not?” I brush my thumb along her cheek, and she leans into the touch like she needs the grounding. “Mia, I would always defend you. Always.”
“No one's ever done that for me,” she says, her voice barely audible. The confession breaks something in my chest.
I drop my hands to hers, intertwining our fingers.
“Then you've been around the wrong people your entire life,” I tell her firmly.
“Because defending you, choosing you, that's not something I do reluctantly.
It's not something I'm learning to do.” I pause, making sure she's really listening.
“It's something I want to do. Every single day.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she bites her lip like she's trying to hold something back. I kiss her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, so get used to it.” I can feel her closer, and can see a faint smile on her lips.
I step closer, and the blanket slips between us. “When I was deployed,” I say, “Monica and I were already falling apart. You know that; you read everything.”
She nods, watching me carefully.
“We were holding on out of habit,” I say, taking her hand and pressing it to my chest. Over my heart. “And when I got hurt,” I say, voice thickening, “when everything went black and someone needed to come—You did.”
Mia's fingers tremble against my chest, and she closes her eyes like the weight of that knowledge physically hurts.
“You got on a plane and flew across the world. Not because you owed me anything, but because you cared. Because you're the kind of person who shows up.”
“George…” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“And I realized,” I continue, lifting her chin so I can see her eyes, “that everything I needed was standing in front of me. Everything.”
Her lips part. Her breath is shaky. “I was scared,” she admits softly. “I didn't know if—”
“I know. But you came anyway.” She nods, a tear sliding down her cheek.
I brush it away with my thumb. “You live here now,” I say, brushing my forehead against hers. “With me.”
Her breath catches. “George, I can't ask you—”
“You're not asking,” I interrupt gently.
“I’m telling you. This is your home too.
You don't need to keep paying rent. You don't need to sleep in the other room or pretend you're not already woven into every piece of this place.” I pull back just enough to look at her.
“You're already here. I want you to stop acting like you might leave.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can see the fear flickering across her face—the part of her that's waiting for the catch, the rejection.
“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice so small it almost breaks me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.” I take her chin gently and tilt her face up to mine. “I love you, Mia. I’ve known this for a while now. I just— I didn’t know if it was okay for me to say it.” The words leave me like they've been waiting on the tip of my tongue for months.
She gasps. A soft, broken little sound. Then she whispers, “I love you too.”
My chest cracks open. I pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her. The blanket falls around us both, and she melts into my chest. Her breath is warm against my skin. Her fingers curl into my back like she's anchoring herself to something she's finally allowed to want.
“You're not going anywhere,” I murmur against her lips.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes still shining with tears, but smiling now. “Neither are you,” she says. And there's something in her voice, a certainty, a claiming. Like she's not just accepting my promise, she's making one right back.
And in this moment, with Monica gone, with the storm finally quiet, with Mia choosing me right back, everything feels exactly right. This is the woman I chose. The woman I want. The woman I'm going to keep.
For the first time since I left for deployment, I believe it.
I believe we have a future, and it is with her.