Page 1 of Returned Mail

Chapter One

Mia

Today is one of those days when you know something is wrong the second you walk through the door.

Not because of anything obvious.

The apartment looks exactly the same. The framed photo from our trip to Charleston still hangs crooked above the entry table because Sebastian always said he'd fix it ‘next weekend’, and he never did. The dishes are still on the drying rack next to the sink, and the smell of the vanilla candle I lit this morning still lingers faintly in the air.

My purse lands on the kitchen counter beside a stack of junk mail. There’s nothing important, nothing worth opening. Everything is normal, and yet something feels off. It’s that kind of feeling that starts in your stomach, even before your brain can catch up.

I close the door behind me and call for him.

“Sebastian?” Nothing. I slip off my shoes and walk farther into the apartment.

That's when I see him. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, waiting.

Waiting for what? For me?

My stomach drops a little when I see his face. His hands are clasped together, and his eyes are fixed on the table’s wood grain. He looks like he has rehearsed this moment, like he’s been sitting there for a while, just preparing for it. Then, I notice his overnight bag near the front door.

“Hey,” I say slowly.

His head lifts. “Hey.”

My pulse starts climbing. Something is definitely wrong. “Is everything okay?” I manage to ask, but he pauses for way too fucking long.

“Yeah.”

That lie lands between us immediately.

Six years together teaches you a person's tells. I know the slight tension in his jaw when he’s saying something he doesn’t want to say. The way he avoids eye contact when he can’t bring himself to be confrontational. The way he presses his thumb against his knuckle when he's anxious.

I know all of them.

Which is why I know that he's lying.

I force a smile anyway. “Okay, now you're scaring me.” He looks down again, and my heart begins beating harder. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?” He exhales slowly, and suddenly every terrible possibility flashes through my head. Maybe someone died. Maybe he's sick. Did he lose his job? Did something happen to his parents?

My mind races through every disaster imaginable, and I’m sure as hell hoping none of them come close to the truth.

“Can you sit down?” The words make my stomach twist.

I laugh nervously.

“Why are you talking like that?” He doesn’t say anything, which makes things way worse. He keeps that same look on his face. That same awful expression. I slowly pull out the chair across from him and sit. “What's going on?”

He rubs both hands over his face, and I just sit there, staring at him, watching his movements, waiting for something. Waiting for him to explain whatever the hell is happening.

“Mia...”

My chest tightens. Oh no. Not that tone. I know that tone. That’s the kind of tone people use before they ruin your life.

“Mia, I don't really know how to say this.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t know how to say what?” My ears start ringing, and my eyes start watering.

He swallows and looks away from me. He starts looking around the dining room, around the kitchen, the living room. He’s looking everywhere except at me. Suddenly I know. Call it women’s intuition, sixth sense, whatever the hell it is, but I know.