John

The rain has soaked my jacket as I lean against the lamppost, staring at the door you just walked out of. My fingers tighten around the wrapped package in my pocket. "I've waited twenty-seven years for you," I say, my voice hoarse from the cold. "You weren't supposed to be born yet, but here you are. Were you sent or did you come?" I step closer, raindrops dripping from my hair onto the sidewalk between us.

Your boyfriend is handsome, but you saw his fangs.