Page 16 of Returned Mail

“Why would it be weird?”

“Because my cheating ex-boyfriend gave it to me.”

Lyann shrugs. “He cheated on you. He didn't retroactively invent silver jewelry.”

I stare at her, and she stares back, making a face. Then I laugh. Harder than I expect. “That's your advice?”

“My advice is that if you like the necklace, keep the necklace. If looking at it makes you want to drive to his office and commit a felony, don't.”

I look down at the pendant. “It doesn't.”

“Then there's your answer.”

I run my thumb over the silver. The memory attached to it still hurts, but the necklace is still beautiful. And it's mine.

“Keep,” I say.

By the time the bedroom is mostly done, the apartment looks worse than when we started. There are boxes everywhere. Half-empty shelves. Cabinet doors open. A pile of things near the front door marked DONATE. Another marked SEBASTIAN, even though I don't know when I'll text him about it. And one small box in the bedroom with no label at all.

I stand in the living room and look around. For three years, this has been home. Sebastian and I hosted dinner parties here. Burned food here. Fought here. Made up here. Watched terrible movies here. Talked about houses, weddings, and children here.

I thought we'd leave this apartment together. I thought moving out would mean something good. Maybe getting a house, having more space. Or finally making the next step. I never imagined cardboard boxes on the floor and his name written in black marker across one of them.

“You okay?” Lyann asks.

I think about lying, but I don’t see the point. “Not really.”

She nods.

“But maybe a little more than yesterday.” Her expression softens. She smiles and hands me a glass of water.

We keep working, filling more boxes as we go.

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.”