The last correspondence Vicente had had with Johnny Wagner had been prior to his discharge, the envelope is well loved with a firm crease down the middle from its time kept snugly in his BDU pockets. It had a home now in his jeans, something a summer home in his wallet when he could fold it small enough to be tucked within. One day he would perhaps forgo the envelope entirely, what with its ink long since faded and smeared; he swore he could still find grains of sand within.Â
Maybe he could write off his own relocation to Maple Hill as something of a desperate chase after what was. Something familiar that wasnât soâŠoverwhelming. While Johnny and he were not related by blood, their bond was just as strong; and in all honesty, his connections with his family had never been what one would call strong. Middle child. Not quite the black sheep but perhaps a smokey grey one.Â
Heâs hesitating. Looking for some excuse to not exit the vehicle and cross the street up the frankly beautiful slice of suburbia. Vicente was well aware that he had changed. Not necessarily for the better, since Johnny had left the service. What memories he had of the other, further coloured by the words starting to fade from too many times spent reread; felt almost alien.Â
Someone more qualified probably had a lot to say about that.Â
With that note, he opens the door and swings his legs out. One hand reaching out for his hat as he does and planting it on his head. After shutting the door behind himself, he doesnât bother locking it (the truck was old, beat up and bought secondhand from secondhand; out of place in such a gorgeous place) and crosses the street. The neighbourhood is pleasantly quiet, comfortably so.Â
Tucking the well loved, well worn, slice of safety; into his back pocket. His hands worry one another, twisting together before he jams them into the pockets of his jacket before he makes his way up the drive at a brisk pace. Before he can think better of it. Maybe he should have calledâeverybody seemed to know everyone here he was sure someone around the farm would be able to know something.Â
He doesnât let himself look around too closely, knows that it will overwhelm him to the point of further hesitation. If not worse: a retreat. Jamming a digit to the button twice, cutting the first pleasant chime of the doorbell off with a second. Thereâs a moment, then another; he swore he heard someone come to the door andâ
HeâŠrecognizes the woman in a way, a sense of familiarity he canât quite place. A name comes slowly to mind and he grimaces internally before trying to put on his best smile; a crooked almost awkward kind of thing âHi uhâŠâ
Eyes widen and he stands straighter in place, almost as though at attention âStevie right?â he should have planned for thisâexpect the unexpected, prepare for the worst (this was hardly the worst) âI uh, shit,â smooth âIâm sorry to just drop by unannounced but Iâm uh a friendâold friend really, kind of old kind of friend, of Johnnyâs.â
Pulling a hand from his pocket he offers it forth âVicente Santiago, I served with yourâŠâ were they married? He looks to her hand, catches the glint of a ring â...HusbandâŠ?â
