Page 72

I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and for a second, I barely recognize the woman looking back. Not because she looks different. Because she looks like she picked every single thing on her own.

As I smooth a little oil over the ends of my curls, another thought slips in. I’ve been here long enough that I’ll need to find a salon soon. The realization catches me off guard. Finding someone new to trust with my hair feels strangely permanent.

Back home, I never thought about it. I had the same stylist for years. She knew exactly how my curls behaved, which products my hair hated, and how to trim it without destroying the shape.

Here, I don’t even know where to begin. I make a mental note to ask Marge. If anyone knows where a Black woman can get their hair done in a small Pennsylvania town, it’ll be the woman who seems to know everyone.

I slide my coat on and then step outside. The cold catches in my lungs.

Winter in Brooklyn is all wind tunnels between buildings, dirty snow pushed against curbs, and the constant threat of ice hidden beneath slush. Ashbourne’s cold feels different. The air smells like pine and woodsmoke, and the snow along the path behind the motel is mostly untouched except for a trail of small paw prints disappearing between the trees.

I follow them until they veer into the woods.

It takes less than ten minutes to get to Main St from the walking path, though the incline makes me question whether Pennsylvania believes sidewalks should double as hiking trails.

The diner comes into view, warm light spilling across the sidewalk. I find myself smiling before I reach the door. I hadn't realized how much I'd been looking forward to seeing a familiar face.

The bell over the door announces me, and Marge looks up from behind the counter. Her smile arrives so quickly that something inside my chest answers before I can stop it.

“There she is.” Her eyes catch on my skirt before I’ve even gotten my coat unbuttoned. “Well, look at you.”

I pause halfway through unbuttoning my coat. “Too much?”

“Not even close to too much.” She tilts her head, taking it in properly. “That’s a good color on you.”

“I was at Second Chance yesterday and couldn’t resist.”

“Look at you thrifting like a local already.”

“Guilty.”

“You moving in?” She nods toward my bag.

“Studying.”

“That sounds less interesting.”

“It probably is.”

I slide into the same booth I occupied yesterday and tuck my coat beside me. Marge appears with a coffee mug before I finish taking out my laptop. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

She fills the mug, then glances at the manual on my screen. “Pennsylvania Driver’s Manual.”

“I’ve made several questionable decisions lately. Apparently, learning to drive is next.”

Her brows rise. "You don't know how?"

"I've never had a driver's license."

She studies me for a second before nodding. "I guess not everybody grows up where a car's a necessity."

"No,” I say and take a sip of the steaming coffee. “But I need to learn because I bought a scooter yesterday.”

"You bought a scooter before you got your license?"

"It made sense at the time."