The Moment We Began (A Fairhope New Adult Romance) (17 page)

I nod. “And in response, you decided to
strike out and do the opposite,” I say. “Drive to a place
where no one knows you in a truck that pretty much guarantees no one
will think you have money. Then what? What’s the goal?”

He leans back against the seat. “To just
live,” he says. “To experience a simpler kind of life
where the only thing that matters to people is what kind of person
you are. Not how much money you have or what kind of house you live
in.”

It seems like such a foreign concept to me, I can
hardly wrap my mind around it. “I’ve lived my entire life
opposite of that. I’ve made friends by inviting people to
parties on the yacht. Trips to Europe. I’ve always worn
expensive clothes and driven fast cars. People flock to me because of
those things, I think. I’ve always been scared that if I took
all that away, maybe there wouldn’t be much left to like about
me.”

He shakes his head and reaches across the seat to
grab my hand. “You’re so much more than all those things,
Pen.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” I say
with a laugh.

“Let’s pick a place and settle in for
a while, then,” he says. “We’ll be Penny and Mason,
drifters with no money, looking for a good time. Maybe without all
those other things to hide behind, we’ll learn all kinds of new
things about ourselves.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You have no idea how
scary that sounds.”

“Yes I do,” he says. “But it’ll
be fun, too. I promise.”

I let go of his hand and lift the map up, studying
all the possibilities.

My eyes land on the beach. I’ve always loved
the ocean more than anything, so why not, right? “Can we camp
on the beach?”

He smiles. “Maybe not directly on the beach,
depending on where we go, but I bet we could find a few campgrounds
that are close to beaches,” he says. “Look around the
gulf. Alabama, maybe? If you look, camp sites should be marked on the
map.”

I run my index finger along the gulf coast, then
see a little tree icon. “What about Gulf State Park?” I
ask.

“Sounds like a great place for a new start,”
he says. He takes my hand again and I get butterflies in my stomach
at his touch.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I say,
then scoot across the seat and turn the radio back up.

Mason’s hand is warm against my arm.

I shiver and lift my head. My neck is stiff from
leaning against the door frame for who-knows-how-long. My arm is
freezing from where the air conditioning has been blowing on it.

“I fell asleep,” I say, stretching.

“I noticed,” he says with a smile.
“You’re cute when you drool.”

My hand flies to my mouth to wipe away any drool.
I’m mortified, but when Mason clutches his stomach in laughter,
I give him an eat-shit look and punch his leg. “Jerk. I don’t
drool.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, moving away
fast so I don’t hit him again. “Next time I’ll get
pictures.”

“You better not,” I say. I chase him
out of the truck, crawling across to the driver’s side and
climbing out the other side.

The sun hits me full in the face and I lift my
hand to shield my eyes. It feels so good after the cold air inside
the truck. I’m surprised the air conditioning on that thing
works, but I’m glad it does.

The sound of waves crashing on the shore brings
goosebumps to my arms.

I look around, my heart lifting. “Are we
here?”

“Close,” he says. “I thought
we’d grab a late lunch and then go see if there’s a spot
at the campgrounds.”

I bounce up and down in my boots and clap my hands
together. The breeze lifts my hair off my neck and I lift my face to
the sun.

Mason puts his arms around me and I lean into him.

“How long was I sleeping?” I stayed
awake as long as I could, but eventually the adrenaline wore off and
I crashed.

“About four hours straight,” he says.
“Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

I rub my face with both hands and shake my head.
“Not a wink,” I say. “I spent half the night trying
to figure out how to get all my belongings into that tiny little
bag.”

“I was wondering how you did that,” he
says. “I’m half-expecting you to start unpacking it Mary
Poppins style later.” He stands up straight and I laugh at his
Mary Poppins impersonation. He pretends to be holding a large bag,
then opens it wide and peers down inside.

His eyes get wide and he puts one hand over his
mouth. Then, he pantomimes reaching in and pulling something out.

“What’d you find?” I ask,
playing along.

“A king-size bed,” he says, then looks
inside again. “And about sixty pairs of shoes.”

I laugh and realize I’m using muscles I
didn’t even know I had. I’ve never laughed so free and so
pure in my life. I feel like a new person. A completely different
version of myself.

“I swear, there’s no king-size bed in
my bag,” I say. “But if I had known you had those huge
duffel bags, I would have stolen one.”

“I bet,” he says.

He throws an arm around my shoulder and I love the
weight of it against my neck. I reach up and grab his hand in mine
and we walk together toward a small strip of beach-front restaurants
and bars.

This place is nothing like Fairhope. Most of the
shore-line in Fairhope is crowded with boutique shops and bars that
cater to the wealthier college kids with lots of disposable income.
There are shops where you can buy things like expensive sea shells
and original beach-themed art by local artisans.

Here, everything is run down and battered. There’s
a short boardwalk that has seen better days, the wood washed out and
worn. I don’t see any tourist traps or art galleries. Instead,
there’s a bar that just has a simple red sign that reads “Open”
and a bait and tackle shop leading up to a decrepit old pier that
looks like it could fall back into the ocean at any moment.

There are a couple places that look like they’ve
been closed down for a while, judging by the spiderwebs and grime on
the windows.

I start to wonder if there’s going to be any
place to eat around here when finally, down on the end, there’s
a restaurant called Dottie’s Diner. Mason opens the door for me
and I walk in. I’ve never been in a place like this. If I
thought Knox’s bar was a dive, then this place is whatever
comes three steps below dive.

A few rickety tables are arranged haphazardly
around the room. The chairs are all mismatched and dingy.

The floor of the place is some kind of
institutional-looking tile, like something from public school, only
worse. I think it might have been white at some point, but it’s
scratched and stained and dirty now.

Along the right side is a counter where three
scruffy-looking men sit drinking coffee.

The bell dings as we walk in and a couple of the
guys turn to look, then do a double-take. I don’t know whether
to smile or run.

And we’re supposed to eat in this place? I
seriously would not be surprised to see a roach crawling across the
floor at any second. But I promised Mason I’d be a good sport.
And we are at the beach, at least. I’ll just eat something
light and relatively safe and we can get the hell out of here.

“Hey there,” Mason says, nodding
toward the woman behind the counter. “Sit anywhere?”

“Yes sir,” she says. The woman is
wearing a pair of baggy jeans and a t-shirt that’s covered in
flour and grease splatters.

Mason leads us to a table in the middle of the
room. He pulls a chair out for me and I thank him and sit down.
There’s no silverware on the table, just one of those silver
napkin dispensers with tiny little napkins and a couple of plastic
salt and pepper shakers.

I can feel his eyes on me, studying my reaction. I
am trying very hard not to have one.

I clasp my hands together and set them on the
table, then think better of it and move them to my lap. “This
looks nice,” I say.

“Liar,” he says, leaning forward. He
grabs a laminated menu from the table next to ours. “You said
you were hungry, right? You’d be surprised what kind of food
you can find in a place like this.”

I desperately want to make a joke about roach
salad or rat soup, but I restrain myself and opt for a lame nod
instead.

“I’m serious. Southern cooking at its
best. And I bet the seafood is really fresh. Here, take a look.”

Mason hands me the menu. There’s something
sticky on the side of it. I’m going to hope it’s syrup.

The menu lists everything from breakfast to steak.
I search for the most harmless item. My stomach growls. All I’ve
had to eat today is half an oatmeal breakfast bar. I’m
starving.

The waitress from earlier comes around the corner
with a notepad and pencil. She’s middle-aged with graying hair.
She’s not unattractive, but she’s also not trying very
hard. “Hi folks, what can I get ya started with today?”

“I’ll take a Coke,” Mason says,
then looks to me.

“I’d like a bottled water,” I
say.

“We got tap water,” she says, her
voice flat.

I shake my head. No way I’m drinking tap
water in a place like this. “I guess I’ll just take a
Sprite, then.”

The waitress gives me a look. I know that look.
She’s annoyed by me. She thinks I’m acting like I’m
too good for this place.

Am I? I have been trying my best not to show any
kind of dislike for it.

I smile at her to try to get her to warm up to me,
but she’s already looking at Mason. Her eyes have stayed on him
most of the time we’ve been here.

And I honestly can’t blame her. He looks so
good in those tight jeans, and his green t-shirt shows off the deep
emerald of his eyes. His hair is a touch longer than normal and he’s
got two days worth of stubble on his chin. He looks like the kind of
guy who belongs in a beach town in California. A bronzed surfer god.

And I’m just the snotty bitch he walked in
with.

I decide to try harder.

I study the menu, doing my best to be optimistic.
I could get pancakes and eggs or something, but the pancakes might be
too heavy for my stomach if we’re going to spend the rest of
the day on the beach. My mom has been a carb-nazi for years, though,
so the thought of a really good pancake sounds amazing.

They offer a couple of different sandwiches, but
none of them sound very good. I know Mason says the seafood is fresh,
but the thought of a fish sandwich turns my stomach. You’d have
to be really brave—or stupid—to order fish in a place
called Dottie’s Diner.

“Do you kids know what you want? Or do you
need a few more minutes?”

“I think I’m ready,” Mason says,
but looks to me questioningly.

I smile politely. “I could use another
minute if you don’t mind.”

She does everything but actually roll her eyes,
but from her slumped shoulders and the long sigh, I know she hates
me. And I’ve only been in here for two minutes.

She walks away and Mason grabs the menu from me.
“What are you thinking of?” he asks. “Or do you
just want me to order for you?”

I snatch it back from him. “I was thinking
about the pancakes, but—”

“No buts,” he says. “Do it.
Gotta go with your first instinct in a place like this. Whatever
sounds good probably is.”

“What are you getting?”

“The fish sandwich,” he says.

And I start laughing.

Half an hour later, almost every pancake on my
plate has been devoured. I lean back against the chair. “Oh my
god, I’m so full.”

Mason nods. “I told you,” he says.
“Sometimes the places you find off the beaten path are the best
in the world. You find some real duds here and there, but there’s
just something about finding a place like this that’s part of
the adventure. See, the secret is that these mom and pop diners use a
lot of homemade recipes and tricks. Stuff passed down for generations
or developed by the cook after years of working the same menu. You
don’t get that at chain restaurants where half the food is
frozen and exactly the same as everywhere else.”

I look down at my plate and am honestly tempted to
lick the rest of the syrup off of it.

“Did you folks enjoy your meal?” the
waitress asks. She comes up and grabs all the plates at once. No
tray. She just keeps stacking them on one arm like a pyramid of
dishes.

“It was so good,” I say. ‘Those
were the best pancakes I’ve ever had in my life.”

She actually smiles at me.

“Those are my secret recipe,” she
says. “I’m really glad you liked ’em.”

I look at Mason and he gives me an ‘I-told-you-so’
look.

“Are you Dottie?” I ask.

She smiles. “Oh hell no,” she says.
“Dottie’s been dead goin’ on five years now. Mean
old bat. But I bought the place from her greedy son when he inherited
it. I’ve worked here since I turned sixteen and this kid from
St. Louis we’ve never seen comes in here in his suit and tie,
telling us he’s going to close the place down if he can’t
find a buyer.”

She shakes her head.

“I didn’t think we’d be able to
come up with the money at first, but I really think he was just glad
to get the place off his hands. Sold it to me and Buddy there real
cheap,” she says. She points toward the counter and one of the
men sitting there with his back to us raises his hand in greeting,
not even bothering to turn around. “My name’s Delores.”

“Well, it was really great, Delores, thank
you,” I say.

“You two just passing through?” she
asks, still balancing all those plates and silverware like it was
nothing.

Mason leans forward. “We were actually
hoping to find a place along the beach where we could camp out,”
he says. “Is the Gulf State Campgrounds around here?”

“Oh yeah, that’s just a few miles on
down the road,” she says. “Might not be lots of room
there this time of year, though. Lots of folks make reservations and
come stay for a while. You might have better luck at the smaller one
right here in town. It’s privately owned and usually has more
of a community atmosphere to it. You guys in tents? Or you got an
RV?”