Page 85 of Returned Mail

You here.

Not in some dramatic movie-scene way. Okay, sometimes in a dramatic movie-scene way. And sometimes in ways that are less dramatic and more… not appropriate for polite correspondence.

I stare at that line as my stomach flips. I laugh quietly. My cheeks are getting hot. Have I gone too far? Maybe. But George sent me his face. George crossed out someday and left it readable. George carried beautiful around for four days.

I can be brave too.

As for the picture being in your notebook, I don’t know what to do with that either.

Except tell you that yours is on my nightstand.

P.S. If anyone else sees what I’m sending, I will deny knowing you and also possibly leave the country.

—Mia

That is terrifyingly honest, but I leave it there.

For a moment, I think about the camera. I don’t know if we keep sending back and forth with the intention of keeping seeing each other, but… I want him to see me…again.

I walk to my bedroom and stare at the black robe that’s hanging in my closet. And beneath it, tucked in the back of a drawer, is lingerie I bought years ago and never wore.

“No,” I say aloud, but change into it anyway.

I’m standing in front of the mirror in black lace, heart pounding so hard I can see it in my chest. The photo develops slowly in my hand, and when the image appears, my stomach drops. I look exposed, not sexy, not powerful, but exposed. I stare at it for a long time, then put it face down on the dresser. “Not that one.”

My hands are shaking as I reach for the robe; it’s loose enough to slip off one shoulder. I leave it open just enough that the lace underneath is visible if he looks, but not enough that I feel like I’ve handed myself over completely.

Which makes no sense, but somehow does in my mind.

I take three more photos. One is terrible. One makes me look afraid. The third—the third is the one. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, one shoulder bare, the robe falling open at my thigh. My face is in it, but not all the way. Half-smile. Nervous eyes. A little challenge I didn’t realize I was giving until the camera caught it. It says enough.

I flip it over and write: Your move.

Then I panic for a full five minutes. Then I put it in the envelope before I can think too much about it, and I mail it barefoot at nine thirty-two at night.

By nine thirty-four, I regret everything.

By nine thirty-six, I’m smiling.

Seventeen days have passed.

Seventeen.

Every morning, I check the mailbox and prepare myself for humiliation. Every night, I imagine the envelope arriving wherever he is. I imagine him opening it. Seeing the photo. Reading my line.

Your move.

I alternate between wanting the earth to swallow me whole and wanting his answer so badly I can’t sleep.

On day eighteen, the package arrives with a letter inside, and a picture. We’ve been joking around about our heights since the first picture, and today he gave me an answer. Well, sort of…

Mia,

I’m taller than 6’0” and shorter than 6'5”.

That is all the information I’m willing to provide at this time.

I choke on a laugh, and my entire body warms.