Chapter 20: No Letters, Mercer

The Union mailroom at noon on the Wednesday before graduation held at least fifty people.

Seniors were mailing boxes home.

Underclassmen shoved into the line for package pickup.

Someone was arguing about a missing parcel at the counter.

Clara stood at the door with her backpack on both shoulders.

She had not slept.

She had put on her cleanest sweater, then taken it off and put on the one she always wore.

Beth was beside her.

"You don't have to do this," Beth said.

"Yes, I do."

"I'll tell everyone there's a fire."

"Beth."

"I'm only saying, I have a lighter in my bag."

Clara laughed, and the laugh steadied her.

Across the room, by the wall of brass mailboxes, Miles was waiting.

He wore the navy blazer with the worn elbows, and his hair was falling forward.

He had one hand in his pocket.

He was looking at her down the length of the room.

It was the same spot where he had stood a month ago.

The air smelled of cardboard and wet umbrellas.

She started walking.

People moved out of her way without knowing why.

A girl from her seminar glanced at her and then, with interest, at Miles.

She stopped three feet from him.

The nearest conversations died, and the next ones, and then there was a ring of faces turned toward them.

"Hi," said Miles.

"Hi."

"Do you want to know why I picked noon?"

"So there'd be an audience."

"So there'd be witnesses," he said.

"I'm not trying to humiliate you. I'm giving you what you didn't get last time."

"A room full of people who can hear you say it."

His voice shook a little on the last word.