Page 47 of That's Not My Name

None of it makes sense, and it’s a confusing end to an otherwise good day. I finally felt like I had a handle onme, and now everything is all fuzzy again.

He looks over; he must be waiting for me to say something.

“These things happen, right?” I think I’m talking more to myself than to him.

His features droop. “I suppose they do.”

The road straightens out ahead of the van, and I spot the cabin, blinking in and out of sight through the trees.

Wayne sighs. “Home sweet home.”

He slows to turn into the driveway as someone rounds the corner up ahead. An old man in a buffalo-plaid baseball cap and puffy blue vest walks in our direction. His smile lights up the road. He waves both hands over his head, and Wayne grumbles under his breath, glancing again at the V-neck beneath my jacket.

The tires lurch to a stop half a foot short of the cabin stairs. “Why don’t you head inside,” he says, stabbing the latch of my seatbelt with his finger. “I’ll see what he wants.”

I turn in my seat. The man’s reached the end of the driveway and waits there with his hands in the pockets of his vest. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know. A neighbor, maybe? Seems friendly.”

Then why do I have to go inside? To keep him from seeing my collarbone? Oh, the horror. Also, the old guymaybe a neighbor? If we come up here all the time, wouldn’t Wayne know who lives nearby and who doesn’t?

I climb out of the van.

The old man catches my gaze as I ease to the ground, and he pulls a hand from his pocket to give me a little salute. “Afternoon.”

Wayne shuts his door and reappears around the back of the van a few steps later, shrugging into his jacket. His heavy footfalls echo in the quiet. “Afternoon. Can I help you?”

The old guy smiles again. Tufts of gray hair peak out beneath his hat, and reading glasses hang from his vest pocket. Wrinkles the size of canyons line his face. The good kind. Like he’s spent decades smiling.

“No help needed,” the man says, reaching out a hand. I wanted to introduce myself. “I’m Ben Hooper, and I live about a quarter mile up the road.”

He points in the direction we came from.

Wayne clears his throat and shakes Ben’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Wayne.”

Ben shifts his gaze to me. “And who might you be, darlin’?”

I don’t have to look at Wayne to know his gaze slides to me. His stare weighs more than that scratchy afghan on the couch. “This is my daughter, Mary.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ben says, with as much lightness and enthusiasm as I’ve ever heard a person use. He’s effortlessly casual and happy in a way that makes me sad.

I don’t know how to be…that. Have I ever been able to smile that easily?

I want to.

“You too,” I mumble.

He smiles, tips his head to the side, and squints at my face. “You know, something about you looks so familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.”

I match his squint. “Really?”

“She gets that a lot,” Wayne says with a grin. “She has one of those faces.”

I do?

“Huh. Okay,” Ben says with a shrug, and turns his smile back to Wayne. “Well, anyway, just wanted to say that if you guys need anything and don’t feel like stomping back down the mountain, you let me know. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Wayne says. “That’s very nice of you. We really appreciate it.”

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