Page 42 of Returned Mail

—Monica

I sit there with the letter in my hands.

There are no more tears. I cried those weeks ago. Months ago, maybe. In the shower. In bed. Once in the grocery store because I reached for the coffee George liked and realized I had no idea when he’d drink it again.

I’m done crying now, at least today.

I fold the letter back into thirds. Slide it into the envelope. Seal it. My thumb presses firmly across the adhesive. Something final. Something clean. It’s not that I didn’t love him.

I did.

Maybe I still do.

But love isn’t enough. Not when every conversation becomes a guessing game. Not when I have to parse every silence like evidence. Not when he disappears into himself for weeks, then comes back expecting everything to be where he left it. Including me.

Especially me.

I start the car. The AC blasts cold air across my face. For a moment, I sit there with both hands on the wheel, and drive off to the post office.

The line is short. Thank God. I stand behind a man holding three padded envelopes and a woman trying to keep a toddler from licking the counter.

When it’s my turn, I step forward, and the clerk looks at me. “Just this?”

“Yes,” I say, sliding the letter into the counter. The clerk processes it. There should be something strange about that, but there isn’t. I wait to feel something, maybe regret, sadness, panic even. The sudden urge to reach inside and take it back, but nothing comes.

Just a quiet thought.

It’s better this way.

…and I leave.

Chapter Twelve

Mia

Moving day arrives with two suitcases, eleven boxes, and a text from Lyann at seven-twelve in the morning.

Lyann: TODAY'S THE DAY, BABE. FRESH START. NEW CHAPTER. ALL THE CLICHÉS.

I smile at my phone.

Me: You know I hate clichés.

Her response comes immediately.

Lyann: You write in a journal when you're sad. Shut the hell up.

I laugh. Then look at the door in front of me.

Today is the day.

The key gets stuck. Of course it does. It’s like it knows I need more things going wrong.

The leasing agent warned me. “The lock's a little stubborn. You have to jiggle it.” I get it. We all are like that sometimes.

I jiggle, but nothing happens. I turn the key back and try again. Still nothing.

“Oh, come on.”