Page 30 of Returned Mail

I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m an extra in my own life.

I stare at the sentence. It’s too much, too raw. My first instinct is to cross it out. Instead, I underline it. Once. Let her see it. If she reads it. That thought comes fast enough to make my stomach turn. I look at her name on the envelope.

Forty-three days, and twenty-three letters sent. Nothing back. Maybe the mail is really delayed, or got lost. Maybe. I’m tired of that word.

A fist hits the door twice. “Hale.”

I know the voice. Don’t need the warning behind it explained. “Two minutes.”

“Copy.” Footsteps move away.

I look down at the letter one last time, and add…

I miss you.

Even if it doesn’t feel like I’m allowed to say that anymore.

That line hurts the most, which probably means it stays.

I sign it.

—George

The generator rattles, my ribs throb, and sweat runs down the back of my neck.

I fold the paper slowly and press along the crease. Slide it into the envelope.

MONICA HARRIS

The neat letters look like they belong to a younger version of me. Some hopeful idiot who believed you could build a life on wanting it badly enough. I stand. My ribs scream in protest. I wait for it to pass, grab my helmet, then shove the envelope into my pocket.

Time to work.

The heat outside hits like an open oven.

I cross the base quickly, the envelope pressed against my thigh with every step. Around me, people move with that clipped, efficient speed that means something is coming. Radios crackle, engines turn over, and gear gets checked again and again.

The mail room sits inside one of the beige containers near the center of the base. The sign above the door hangs crooked. Inside, it’s barely bigger than a closet. There are boxes everywhere with stacks of envelopes. A fan in the corner is turning slowly and accomplishing absolutely nothing.

A guy behind the counter looks up when I enter. “Dropping?”

“Yeah.”

He nods toward a crate on the table. “Plane’s wheels up in a couple hours.” I pull the envelope from my pocket. The crate is already half full with letters, small boxes, and padded mailers.

To Mom.

To Jess.

To Dad.

Pieces of people heading home before the rest of us can.

My fingers hesitate over the crate. This could be the last thing Monica gets from me for a while. I think about pulling it back, maybe reading it again. Changing something, taking out the apology, or adding another one. Or maybe even writing “I love you” even though she stopped saying it first.

“Everything good?”

I look up and see the guy behind the counter is watching me. “Yeah.”