Page 120 of Returned Mail

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—”