Page 17 of Returned Mail

“Beneficiary forms?”

I look at the bottle in my hand. “Done.”

“Emergency contacts?”

“Done.”

She nods once. Beneficiary forms. Emergency contacts. Updated will. The usual pre-deployment checklist. Normal paperwork, if you ignore what all of it is preparing for.

I take another sip. The beer tastes like shit. I don't know why I opened it. Habit, probably. Or maybe I needed something to do with my hands. Something other than to reach for her.

“Monica.”

She starts wiping the counter. Same spot. Small, tight circles. “Mm.”

“Look at me.”

Her hand stops. For a second, I think she won’t, but then she turns. And there it is, the fear. She's been hiding it all week behind grocery lists, laundry, and questions about whether I packed enough socks. But I know her. I know what she looks like when she's angry. I know what she looks like when she's tired.

This is fear, and I'm the reason for it.

“I'm okay,” I tell her.

The second the words leave my mouth, I know they're wrong. A laugh escapes her. It's sharp because there's nothing funny about it. “Don't.”

My chest tightens. “Monica⁠—”

“Don't say you're okay.” The towel lands on the counter. “Don't tell me everything's going to be fine.”

“I wasn't⁠—”

“You were.”

I shut my mouth. Her eyes are already wet, and that gets me. Monica doesn't cry in arguments. She gets quiet. Cold. And right now, I’d almost rather have that.

“I'm not stupid, George.”

“I know.”

She turns toward me fully now, and I can see the anger coming in. Good. Anger I know what to do with. “You act like this is normal.”

“It is normal.”

The second I say it, her face changes.

Fuck.

“That's the problem.”

I set the beer down.

For me, this is normal. Training and deploying. Coming home. Leaving again. It's been my life for nearly two decades, since I was a stupid kid who thought putting on a uniform would make me a man. Monica didn't choose that.

I did.

She just chose me.

“I don't know what you want me to say.”