Waindale

thirty-six. what are you

I walk down the road with my hands warm in my jacket pockets. Sunlight filters through the forest beside me, bringing a kiss of heat to my face in the cold air around me. The cold doesn't feel so cold anymore, only a sensation that neither pleasures nor hurts me. I'm sure if it were snowing, I'd feel differently, but right now I am content. It reminds me of when I would wake up in the middle of the night, hungry. The chill from the fridge would caress me as I stood with the doors wide open. I would look over the same foods until my snack standards lowered. My problems used to be much simpler then—disappointment over the fact that my mother ate the last piece of that evening's dessert, or maybe, at the most stressful, a poor test score in one of my classes.

The quiet helps me as I try to sort through my thoughts once again. Every now and then a car will pass by, or a noise will call from the trees, but other than that, I'm alone. Privacy is one of Waindale's redeeming qualities. If I want to take a walk by myself, I can. There aren't people everywhere; I can feel isolated out in the open if I desire.

I stop suddenly along the two-way street that slices through the dense woods like a knife. I glance behind me, then to the side, then to the other side. When my eyes aim forward, there's a man. Not just any man—John Aymon.

Questioning my sanity, I stay put. My hands grip the fabric inside my pockets and my lips stay parted. I watch as he takes the few steps necessary until he's standing right in front of me. He's wearing a large jacket and hiking boots as if he's been out here for a while and didn't simply teleport to my location. I wait in utter shock for him to either speak or vanish.

"Wrenley," he says then, solidifying his presence, "I don't mean to scare you."

A breath flows into my lungs then back out. My mouth remains still.

"We need to talk. We didn't have the time to earlier, but I don't think this can wait much longer."

I blink hard. "How are you here? W-Where did you come from?"

John Aymon, with a genuine look on his timeless face, says, "I can explain everything if you let me."

"You've been in contact with my mom?" I ask because it's the only way he could know the things he knows.

"No. I haven't. Again, I can explain everything."

My warm hands lift to my face, making me realize how cold I am as my frigid cheeks surprise me. My hands wipe down suddenly. "What do you want? Why are you here? How do you know how I am?"

He sighs. "The diner is just down the street. Can we talk there?"

I walk just in front of him the few minutes it takes to reach the intersection where the diner is. In my mind, I'm trying to decide what I want to know first, but part of me is curious to know what he has to say without my prompting.

Once inside, we sit toward the back at a booth against the windows. I shimmy out of my winter jacket and stuff it into the space between me and the wall. Maybe I would be more nervous if I had known of my father for more than a day. I'm grateful for my calmness, though.

Laura greets me warmly. John watches the interaction but doesn't question how I know the waitress. I order a hot chocolate and my father asks for a coffee. When Laura leaves, we face each other. Before I can ask anything, he begins talking.

"I haven't spoken to your mother since the night we made you," he says. "I know this is confusing, but your knowledge of the world should make this easier to accept. As you grew up, I would check in on you every now and then, from afar. You never saw me and neither did your mother. I wasn't there to interrupt, only to see that you were doing well."