{{ @souldivide }}
She didn’t really have any sort of valid excuse. A voice mail message left at eight o’clock in the morning giving rushed and vague details about a wendigo in Montreal hardly counts as excusable. And while she had left an envelope filled with her half of the rent’s finances for her duration of absence, she had made little to no attempt at checking up on him, talking to him, or... Anything at all, really.
Valerie didn’t trust Isaac.
At least, she didn’t when she first left. His confession to his vampiric status was genuine, but it was the timing that concerned her. If he had kept that a secret from her with such an ease, she worried what else he could have been hiding. Bravo suggested she never looked back after they hit the highway, and move back to Murdoc. She almost thought about it.
But the road gives better advice than any, and also the time and breathing room one needs to clear their head. The wendigos past the border were taken out by the time she had arrived, but Valerie valued the testimonials from survivors and hunters more so than the potential near-death experience. There was a time in her life where she would’ve held envy against those hunters, and she wonders if it’s a sign of maturity that she’s grateful she didn’t have to fight.
There’s a part of her that knows that she’s been gone for far too long, wandering and procrastinating around northern New York, sleeping in the driver’s seat and living off gas station cigarettes and coffee. The brisk October air dances through dark hair as she drives past the New Jersey state border. Her phone buzzes, and she glances over at the blinking words.
12:00 AM || 10/03 || ISAAC B-DAY
“Fuck,” And she laughs in an exhale, looking back to the road. ‘Just my luck’, she thinks. Valerie runs her mind for possibilities, for ideas, and best and worst case scenarios. She pulls off the highway, slowing the Italian muscle car down to a residential pace. There’s a quick stop at a Super Target, then back on course. She pulls in not to the apartment garage, rather, the record shop’s parking lot.
She should be nervous. Valerie takes a drink from her flask before she’s given the chance, then exits the car with a rectangular box behind her back. Heavy and lopsided steps make their way to the front door of the shop, and she peers into the now half-lit shop. She sees a figure, hopes it’s him, and raps her knuckles against the glass door, still peering in.
‘Way to make an appearance, Val...’
