Page 33 of That's Not My Name

Eloise smiles even wider. “You’re from Alton? My brother used to live up there. Gorgeous trees up that mountain. I’ve never seen anything like it. But then again, you’d be hard pressed to find any place in Oregon that’s not beautiful.”

I squint at her. She looks like the kind of woman who’s lived her whole life in the same town. I wonder if she’s been anywhere else. Alton hasn’t impressed me so far.

Wayne smiles down at me. “Of course, you should be comfortable. Change into whatever you want. I’ll finish up here.”

Though he sends a meaningful look at that peach monstrosity, I snag a black T-shirt, pair of jeans, socks, sneakers, and my first clean pair of underwear in three days and slip into the dressing room. When I’m done changing, I look in the mirror and sigh.

This is more like it. Some well-fitting clothes and shoes are better than an egg-free breakfast experience. I feel like a new me. Or the old me? Whatever.

I tuck my short hair behind my ears, trying to get it out of my face,and wish I’d added mascara to Wayne’s pharmacy run, but all in all, I don’t look like someone who woke up in a ditch two nights ago, and that excites me more than anything. I pinch my cheeks to bring some color back into them and drag my finger across the freckles on my nose.

I probably stand there looking at myself for too long, but I eventually gather Wayne’s clothes and my jacket. I find him waiting for me by the door, holding a big pink bag with the “Nana’s” logo on the side.

Eloise looks me over from her perch at the counter. “Much better, dear!”

The heat of a blush crawls across my cheeks and I wish her a nice afternoon.

“You too! You both have a safe drive home, okay? And come back soon!”

“Well, don’t you look happy,” Wayne says, when we step outside. He holds open the shopping bag so I can dump the clothes I changed out of inside.

“Oh my god, I am.” I twirl around in the new clothes. “You were right, this place is great. We’ll have to come back.”

We cross the parking lot, and a waft of something sweet soars through the air. My stomach grumbles. I suddenly wish I ate something more substantial than cinnamon toast for breakfast.

I spot the diner down the road. “Do you want to grab some food?”

He stops by the front of the van. “We have food at home.”

“Yeah, but it’s almost two. We haven’t had lunch, and it’ll be three thirty before we even get back. The diner’s right here…waiting to feed us. Please, please,please, it smells so good.”

He scrubs at his chin stubble and looks down the road like he’s trying to predict what traffic we’ll hit if we wait. “Fine. But we have tomake it quick. I want to get home and so you can rest. If you’re going to crash again, I’d rather it be at the cabin.”

“Same.”

He smiles and hands me the hot-pink shopping bag. “I’m surprised you’re not the one draggingmehome.”

Yeah, yeah, homebody whatever. I practically skip to my side of the van. “A new pair of shoes does wonders for the mood.”

He rolls his eyes at me, and I laugh. I feel…happy? Or content at the very least. I almost feel normal, even without my memories, and that’s a goddamned miracle.

The parking lot of the Waybrooke Diner is mostly empty, which makes no sense because, even from outside, the food smells amazing. Like warm syrup and coffee and baking bread. My stomach growls again as I slip my jacket back on.

The inside is all black, white, and red. Black-and-white checkered floors. Black-and-white photos on the walls, surrounded by red frames. Red curtains. Red salt and pepper shakers. Red ceiling fans.

A round woman with a gorgeous face, and the most amazing eyelashes I’ve ever seen, shows us to a booth.

Wayne sits facing the door, and I take the opposite bench. I watch a man in a white baking smock pull a whole platter of cinnamon rolls the size of my face out of an oven and sweep them over to a display case by the hostess station. I might die if I don’t get one of those immediately. Especially when I see he’s stocking them behind a very important sign.

Vegan.

Which means no eggs.

“My name is Sandra,” the woman says, forcing me to refocus. She slides napkins and silverware across the fake marble tabletop. “Can I take your drink order or do you need a few minutes?”

“I’ll have coffee,” Wayne says. “And a water.”

She smiles. “You got it. And for this pretty young thing over here?”

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