Page 31 of That's Not My Name

I smile, then stare out the window for the rest of the drive, listening to the music as the ocean flickers in and out of view through the trees. Occasionally Wayne points out a lighthouse or a town and shares a quick memory. I appreciate the effort, but none of his stories spark anything.

After almost exactly an hour and a half, a sign for our exit flies past my window. Waybrooke. One mile. I’m so ready to get the hell out of this van.

I catch him eyeing my face as we take the exit. He glances between me and the road a few times, looking uneasy.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I was thinking we should probably stop and pick up some makeup or something real quick. We don’t need anyone seeing that face of yours.”

My face?

I catch sight of myself in the side mirror. The bruises under my eyes look worse somehow in the daylight.

I guess taking me out in public with this face looks pretty bad for him. But he doesn’t have to sound so…judgy. I didn’t ask to get cuddly with a steering wheel.

He smiles. “Don’t worry. Nobody will see you.”

I can’t explain the stab of unease that sentence brings.

TEN

MARY

DAY 3

Waybrooke looks like every other coastal town we’ve driven through. Wood shingled buildings, a cute little diner with black and red buoys hanging off the eaves, a few houses that someone turned into real estate or doctors’ offices, a hardware store, a beachy hotel, another beachy hotel, a crystal store, a used bookstore, and finally a pharmacy. Wayne insists I wait in the car, so I coach him on what concealer is, and it still takes him three trips inside to get the right thing. When he finally emerges, triumphant, I have to laugh.

I dab it under my eyes, adding a couple coats. It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s much better than it was. The girl in the visor mirror no longer looks like a human/raccoon hybrid. Though my nose is still a little swollen, it’s not as noticeable without the eyes adding to the effect.

The thrift store sits all the way at the end of the main drag of Waybrooke.

Wayne parks in one of a dozen empty spots and cuts the engine.

This place doesn’t look at all like what I expected. It too is coveredin ocean-weathered shingles. Old white shutters sit on either side of the windows, and a bird nest sits atop one. A big pink and white sign hangs above the front door.

Nana’s Favorites

Est 1989

Oh boy.

Wayne jumps out. “Come on, let’s find some treasures!”

I muster a smile and follow him inside, but this does not feel like somewhere I’d want to come back to more than once. If he says this is a regular stop for us, then maybe the inside is better?

The door jangles as we walk through it, and an old woman with white hair and thick pink glasses looks up from the counter. She smiles at us. This must be Nana.

“Welcome!”

I look around the store.

Nope. I was wrong. The inside’s just as bad.

The carpet is dark, and not in a good way—it looks like it would be a much lighter color if someone cleaned it. The walls are all wood paneled, and it smells vaguely like incense in here. But the clothing racks stretch all the way to the back of the store, and they look clean and organized. Possibly because they don’t get any customers and this poor woman has nothing to do but straighten the hangers and de-wrinkle everything.

Wayne strides over to the woman and unleashes a huge smile. He says something about this beingourfavorite thrift store, and I wander away to shop so they don’t fold me into the conversation. I don’t want to lie if she asks me about it. I’d rather pretend I can’t hear them.

I find the section with clothes that look like they’d fit me and leaf through the hangers. There’s actually some good stuff here. I find myself gravitating to all the darker stuff. Blacks and dark jewel tones.

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