Page 1 of Finding Tane
Chapter One
Tane
Leaving L.A. was exactly what I needed.
I drove my rental car fast and blew the cobwebs out. I blasted music (K-Pop, a musical world away from the stuff I performed), rolled the windows down and relished the feeling of escape.
I’d done it. I’d made a stupid, rash decision and driven away from my life.
I’d left a message for my agent so he wouldn’t send out search parties, turned off my phone and stuffed it in the bottom of my bag. I bought a new one and downloaded my favourite music app and that was all I needed. Booked a rental car and drove out of Los Angeles.
I pulled into Foggy Basin around three thirty in the afternoon, having taken a few stops for snacks and bathroom breaks, along with a visit to a roadside attraction for the hell of it. Hey, it wasn’t everyday you got to see the world’s biggest ball of string.Except I think there are at least five of the world’s biggest balls of string around the country.
Anyway, I pulled into the cute little town and felt a wave of relief flood my brain, my blood pressure went down I was sure of it.
This little town was distinctly American, I saw flags here and there, and the signs and stuff felt like classic Americana. A movie from the 1950s just barely updated. The town was arranged down a single street, called Main Street, naturally.
I drove past my motel, determined to find some food and orient myself to the town before checking in and crashing for the night. I’d have a long shower and wash the memory of L.A. smog off my skin.
Main Street had a bookstore which also appeared to be a coffee shop, and there were a collection of other, cute little businesses. I looked forward to checking them all out in my own time. But first, the grocery store.
I found a parking lot and pulled in. I reached for a baseball cap out of habit and paused.
The folks walking up and down Main Street looked painfully normal. A grey-haired older lady walked down the road with a newspaper tucked under one arm. There were a couple of kids on scooters zipping down the sidewalk. A young man carried a bunch of roses, he looked nervous.
If I put on a baseball cap and my dark glasses, I was going to stand out like a sore thumb. I sat back in my seat and marvelled at the thought I’d actually be less conspicuous with my face bare. I shrugged, pocketed my phone and wallet and hopped out of the car. My legs protested at the stretch.
I headed up the street with a bona fide spring in my step. I was taking control of my life, I was anonymous in a cute little small town and my body felt like it might float away with the joy of it.
I had no idea what tomorrow held, and that was the most soothing thought I’d had in a while.
Foggy Basin Grocery had an automatic door, which I was slightly disappointed by. I’d hoped to have a little bell that rang, announcing my presence.
Inside the rows of shelves had an old-fashioned look to them, but otherwise it looked like any other mini-mart or large convenience store I’d been in. I thought of Four Square shops back home.
My stomach rumbled and I picked up a basket and started around the aisles.
I lost myself in the simple act of considering what food I wanted, letting my mind slide to focus on only this task, relaxing into it.
I didn't see anyone near me until I was reaching for a box of cereal on the top shelf when a hand reached past mine and retrieved the cereal for me. I startled, heart thudding, as I turned to the man who stood a good few inches taller than me.
“Here you are,” he gave me a wide, even-toothed smile. His eyes were a warm sort of blue and his hair was trim, a mousey brown or ash blond color.
If my heart hadn’t been thudding from the surprise it may have started from how cute this guy was. “Thanks?” I managed to say, voice lilting up at the end of the word — a hangover from my Kiwi accent that I was never able to fully erase.
“You’re welcome, let me know if you need help reaching anything else, okay?”
The guy was wearing a smart, pressed, blue apron and the nameDillonwas embroidered over the chest. The logo for the grocery was emblazoned on the pocket. “Thanks Dillon, you work here?”
I took the cereal and busied myself putting it in the basket, trying to pull myself together. I wasn’t even that short, but hewas tall enough to make me feel small and vulnerable, which I wasn’t sure I liked.
“I own the place, as of fairly recently,” Dillon said. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
I swallowed and looked back at him — suddenly afraid this was about the color of my skin (Maori blood sometimes read as Mexican or even Middle Eastern to those who weren’t familiar, and sometimes people were racist).
“Oh I just mean, your accent, I don’t think I’ve heard it before.” Dillon took a half-step back, as if he’d read my mind. He smiled again, a little more uncertain.
Relieved to have misread him, I shook my head. “Yeah, nah I’m from Aotearoa, uh. New Zealand?”
