Page 39 of Returned Mail

“It's true.”

“Mia, you spent eight months waiting for your life to start because you were afraid of what leaving would cost.” I closed my eyes. “You don't have to love the idea of two years,” she said. “You just have to decide whether you want to keep making choices based on what happened with Sebastian.”

“That feels manipulative.”

“It is. But I'm right.”

I laughed, then looked at the email one more time.

Approved.

For the first time in eight months, something had opened instead of closed, so I signed the sublease the next morning.

Chapter Eleven

Monica

It’s been eight months since George left, about six weeks since I last wrote back, and two weeks since I decided to leave.

The leasing office smells like printer ink, stale coffee, and that artificial lemon cleaner landlords use when they want you to think a place is well-managed.

This is not that.

I cross my legs and glance at the clock on the wall for the third time. I shouldn’t be here this long. I have a meeting in forty minutes, and I’m already mentally rewriting my presentation because Todd will inevitably try to steal the opening slide again.

“Ms. Harris?”

I stand, smooth my blouse, and follow the leasing manager into her office. She shuts the door behind me and gestures toward the chair across from her desk. Her nails are chipped mauve. I try not to look at them. I fail. Details matter. Presentation matters. She should know that in her line of work.

“Alright,” she says, opening a folder. “I have the approved sublease paperwork here.”

“Good.”

“Since Mr. Hale is the primary leaseholder, the original lease will remain active. This agreement simply authorizes the approved tenant to occupy the unit for the two-year term.”

“I understand.”

“And the authorization you have on file allows us to process the arrangement while he’s deployed.”

“Okay.”

She glances down at the paperwork.

“The new tenant is a single applicant. Quiet, good references, income verified. Everything cleared without an issue.”

Good. Smooth is what I need. I don’t ask her name. I saw it on the application. Mia…something. I don’t remember the last name. It doesn’t matter. She needs somewhere to live. I need someone in the apartment. George needs a lease that doesn’t become another problem waiting for him whenever he comes back. Everyone gets something.

The manager pushes the agreement across the desk.

A thick stack of paper, probably half of which nobody reads. I read it. I skim the clauses I already reviewed digitally. Maintenance expectations. Security deposit. Building access. Termination conditions. Liability. I initial everywhere she indicates.

It should feel strange to sign over the apartment George and I shared, but it doesn’t. The place stopped feeling like ours months before he left. Maybe longer.

His uniform hanging from the closet door, boots beside the bed, that damn duffel bag always half-packed in the corner. Even when he was home, part of him seemed ready to go. I used to hate that bag. Stupid thing to resent. But some nights I’d lie in bed looking at it and wonder how long we had before he needed it again.

There was always another departure waiting somewhere. Maybe that’s why I stopped unpacking completely too. Not my clothes.

Me.