Page 1 of Finding Tane (Foggy Basin Season Two)

Tane

L eaving 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 name Dillon was 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 he was 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 (Māori 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?”

Dillon’s eyes widened. “Oh wow. I don’t know if we’ve ever had a New Zealander in Foggy Basin before.”

I chuckled. “Well, I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit there,” Dillon said. “After seeing Lord of the Rings, you know.”

I did know. This was the number one thing that people overseas seemed to know about Aotearoa. Well, that and our nation’s rugby prowess.

“Sure, everyone wants to be a hobbit,” I said.

Dillon chuckled. “Are you staying long in Foggy Basin?”

I shrugged. “I dunno, a week or so at least.” I had no real idea what my future held, after all.

“Well, I’m Dillon, like you saw on my apron.” He held out a hand and I juggled my basket to shake it. He had a firm, sure handshake. I tried to match his energy.

“Tane.” I pronounced it clearly so he wouldn’t get it wrong.

“Welcome to town Tane,” he started to back off. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“I will, thanks.” I added another sugary cereal to my basket, some packets of instant ramen, a couple of snack cakes and bars of chocolate and a bag of chocolate chip cookies. For drinks I got instant coffee and some sports drinks. It wasn’t exactly a healthy spread, but it was what my body wanted.

Some guy with Christian stitched onto his apron rang me up and thankfully, didn’t say anything about my choices, made pleasant small talk and bagged my stuff up.

I practically ran out of there. Maybe it was because Dillon had asked about my future? Maybe it was because Dillon was so... nice? So is the All-American good guy nice?

I wasn’t used to that. In L.A. people were nice to me because they wanted something. They wanted me to make them money, they wanted me to appear on their TV shows or Instagram Livestreams.

Had I really been in such rarefied air so long that I’d lost touch with the kinds of people who were just nice for the sake of it?

Whatever the reason, I hurried back to the car and checked into my little motel room as quickly as possible.