The Moment We Began (A Fairhope New Adult Romance) (26 page)

He laughs. “An hour? Maybe longer?”

“No way,” I say. I bend to get a look
at the clock beside the bed. It’s ten after seven. “Holy
crap.”

“Yeah, hope no one else in the hotel needs
to shower tonight or they’re in for a rude awakening.”

“Welcome to my life for the past three
weeks,” I say. I giggle and let me towel drop to the floor.
“I’ll get dressed.”

His eyes travel over my naked body and he tightens
his grip on the paper bag. “You better hurry,” he says.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can hold onto my
self-control.”

I throw the dress on the bed, then make a show of
walking over to the chair where I left my bag last night. I find my
bra and panties and take my time getting dressed, like the opposite
of a strip tease.

Mason sets his bag down on the desk, then leans
against the wall and watches, his eyes devouring me. I love it when
he looks at me like that. It’s raw and pure and real. There’s
no room for lies or deception or misunderstanding. There’s just
desire.

I finally end his agony by pulling the dress over
my head. It’s a simple off-the-shoulder white dress with lace
around the bottom and a skirt that’s gathered around the waist
and poofs a little at the bottom. I adore it. After wearing nothing
but the same dirty cutoffs and tank tops for nearly a month, it may
as well be couture.

I pull my hair to the side and turn around in
front of him. “Zip me up?”

He takes his time, slipping his warm hand inside
and running his fingertips down my spine with one slow, deliberate
movement that sends a fire through my body. When he gets to the
bottom, he zips the dress up, then kisses my neck and pulls me close
to him.

If I wasn’t anxious to see what he has
planned for the night, I’d just tell him to unzip me and get
back into bed.

But this is the first time he’s done
something sneaky like this and made plans for us, so I want to know.
I want to experience whatever it is that’s coming next.

“What’s in the other bag?” I
ask.

He smiles and opens the brown bag. He pulls two
scratched up pairs of boots out and hands one to me. “I hope
they fit,” he says. “I thought we should at least try to
look the part if we’re going out.”

I laugh and pull the brown leather boots on.
They’re a perfect fit. I have no idea how he knew my size, but
when I look in the mirror, I’m so excited about our date I can
hardly stand it.

“How did we afford all this?”

A twinge of worry eats at the corners of my
happiness. If we still have weeks to go on the trip, he wouldn’t
be spending so much on the past couple of days.

“Don’t worry about that,” he
says. “We saved so much in Little Lake that we can afford to
live a little and have some fun while we’re here. I didn’t
spend that much, really. I got all this stuff at a thrift shop around
the corner. Besides, tonight is very special.”

“Oh?” I say, my heart fluttering. “Why
is that?”

One side of his mouth lifts in a smile that has
mischief written all over it. “You’ll see.”

I watch as he pulls a white button-up and a dusty
black cowboy hat out of the bag. He dresses quickly, pulling on his
boots and dusting off the hat before placing it perfectly on his
head. Damn, he looks good as a cowboy, especially with that little
bit of scruff on his face giving him a slightly rugged toughness.

I have never been so excited about a date in my
life.

I just pray it’s a beginning and not an end.

“Where are we going now?” I ask after
dinner.

“You’ll see,” he says. “Wait
here and I’ll pull the truck around.”

I stand in front of the restaurant. It’s the
first time we’ve eaten at a sit-down place that cost more than
ten or fifteen bucks since we left Fairhope. The food was delicious,
and it was fun to be dressed up again and feeling pretty.

As I’m waiting for him, I wonder at how
quickly perspective can change. Three weeks ago, I would have
complained about the food at a place like this. I would have said it
was too crowded or too common. I think back to all the times my
friends wanted to go out to grab fast food or sit down at a chain
restaurant. Sometimes I went and complained about, but sometimes I
insisted on going to a nicer place, proclaiming that I would pay the
check if we could go to the more expensive place.

Thinking about it, I’m amazed I have any
friends at all.

Why didn’t anyone ever just say no? Or tell
me I was being a snotty bitch? Other than Jenna, none of my friends
ever really said no to me or told me they thought I was acting
selfish. That girl is one of the few friends I’ve made who
doesn’t seem to give a shit about my money or making me happy.
But Jenna is a rarity.

Most of my friends have gotten used to just going
along with whatever I want. I never really thought of myself as a
bully, but that’s sort of what I was. I insisted they all do
what I wanted to do, thinking that if I paid for it, that made it
okay to order them around. And what was worse, I made them feel bad
about the places they liked, telling them that those places weren’t
good enough for a girl like me.

I’m feeling ashamed of myself and when Mason
opens the door for me, he touches my arm.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “You
didn’t like the restaurant?”

I shake my head. “It’s not that,”
I say. “I’m having an amazing time.”

He frowns as I climb into the truck. He closes the
door and comes back around to the driver’s side. “Do you
want to talk about it?” he asks as he drives away from the
restaurant. “I really want tonight to be fun. Did I say
something that upset you?”

I’m touched that he noticed my mood without
me having to say a word, but I don’t want to destroy his plans.

“It’s not you at all,” I say. “I
was just thinking about the way I used to be. Before this trip. I was
kind of a bully, wasn’t I?”

His eyebrow twitches a little. “I wouldn’t
call you a bully,” he says. “You’ve just always
liked things the way you like them.”

“And anytime someone wanted to do something
or go somewhere I didn’t like, I offered them money to change
their mind and do it my way.”

He cringes. “You’re making it sound a
lot worse than it really was, Pen.”

I shrug. “I don’t know,” I say.
“I’m trying to think of one time when I didn’t get
my way and was happy about it. No complaining. No condescending
remarks. Just a selfless acceptance of whatever the group decided.”

He’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s
trying to think of an example. He shouldn’t waste his time. I
already know the truth. I just don’t know why I never saw it
for myself.

“I was standing outside that restaurant
thinking what a perfect night it’s been so far and wondering
how many perfect nights I’ve missed out on or ruined because I
was focused on the wrong things,” I say. “I should have
been happy with the people I was lucky to spend time with instead of
concentrating on the quality of the food or the prices on the menu.”

He pulls the truck into an empty lot and turns to
face me. “You aren’t seeing the whole picture,” he
says. “There’s nothing wrong with expecting excellence or
wanting the best in terms of food or atmosphere or whatever. The
problem isn’t that you want those things or that you value
those things. The problem is that you valued them above the people
you were spending time with. I used to do the same thing. If I
couldn’t have a drink in my hand and there wasn’t good
music blasting out of the speakers, I wasn’t there. I started
to kind of hate myself.”

I shake my head. “How is it possible that
we’ve changed in such a short period of time? Do you think when
we go back we’ll be able to hold onto this feeling? This
knowing? Or do you think we’ll go right back to the way we used
to be after a while?”

He smiles. “Maybe we’ll have to plan a
road trip like this once a year,” he says. “Just to keep
our feet planted firmly on the ground.”

It’s the first time he’s talked about
any plans for the future. Strange he mentioned keeping our feet on
the ground, because I suddenly feel like I’m floating.

“Now, I have one last stop before we head
can back to the hotel,” he says. “Are you up for it?”

I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and nod.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

He puts the truck in gear and drives us out of the
empty parking lot and back onto the main road. We drive for a while
before he finally pulls into the parking lot of a large building with
these two huge neon boots on top of it.

My confusion only lasts a second, but then I read
the name of the bar.

Knockin’ Boots.

Inside, it’s exactly how I would have
imagined a Texas honky-tonk.

The floors are a beautiful wood that’s
scuffed and scratched on the dance floor from years of wear. There’s
a band on stage and country music blasts through the dance hall.
Couples dressed just like us dance around the floor. I walk forward
and find an empty space just off to the side so I can watch.

The only kinds of clubs I’ve ever been to
have either been country clubs where mostly older couples dance
cheek-to-cheek or nightclubs where everyone’s bumping and
grinding and sweating like pigs.

This, though, is something different entirely. On
the floor, I see couples my age and couples older than my
grandparents all dancing the same basic steps. A few fancy couples
add in some extra swirls and whirls, but others seem more than happy
sticking to the basics. There’s a railing that goes in a circle
all around the dance-floor, separating the watchers from the dancers.
And on top of the railing is a ledge where people can set their
drinks while they stand and chat and watch.

Mason leads me to a place along the railing, then
tells me he’s going to go grab a few drinks.

I can’t take my eyes off the dancers.
There’s a strange beauty in the way they move. It’s all
variations on a theme. Everyone an individual, yet also part of the
group.

When the song changes, the dance changes with it.
This one’s a slow song and couples come together. But it’s
not the kind of stand-in-one-place swaying back and forth kind of
slow dance I’m used to seeing. These couples glide together
across the floor, almost moving collectively in one big circle.

I stand watching until the slow song ends, then
realize that Mason should have been back by now.

I lean over, trying to figure out where the actual
bar is in this place. I search the crowd in the direction where he
went, but don’t see him anywhere. With their hats on, all the
men in this place seem to blend together in the darkness outside the
center.

I don’t dare go looking for him. We might
never find each other again in this crowd.

When Delores said her brother managed a bar in
Texas, I imagined some rinky-dink little place with sawdust on the
floor and an outdated jukebox. Maybe four or five tables scattered
about. Knockin’ Boots is massive compared to what I pictured.
And it’s a Saturday night, so the place is totally packed.

Maybe the bar is just really backed up. Or maybe
he went around asking about Delores’ brother. I don’t
really have any choice but to stand here and wait, but I start to
wish I’d just gone with him.

After the song ends, there’s a break in the
music. A tall man with graying hair steps out onto the stage and
whispers something to the lead singer of the band. The crowd on the
dance-floor stops and turns to see why the music has stopped.

“Good evenin’ foks,” the man
says. “My name is Lester Jenkins and my wife Caroline and I
would like to officially welcome y’all to Knockin’
Boots.”

The crowd cheers. A few people let out whoops and
whistles.

“Now, I know this is a little unorthodox for
us on a Saturday night, but I’ve had a special request that I
just couldn’t refuse. I hope you won’t mind indulging us
a little tonight. What do you say folks, do you want to hear a
special song from a brand new friend of mine?”

I turn in the direction of the bar again, tempted
to just forget my decision to stay put and go look for him after all.
There’s no way it’s taken him fifteen minutes to get a
drink. Maybe he got lost.

The crowd dies down and from out of the silence,
the music begins.

A single guitar, simple and soft. My eyes
naturally drift back to the small stage.

That’s when I see him.

Mason walks up to the microphone stand and takes
it in his hands The guitarist moves to the side and behind him, the
rest of the band gradually joins in. A steel guitar. The drums.
Keyboard.

I raise my hand to my heart and press it hard
against my chest. Tears sting my eyes. I’m so surprised, I’m
laughing and crying at the same time. I lean forward against the
railing, wanting to be closer. Wanting not to miss a single detail of
this moment.

His fingers grip the mic effortlessly, like he’s
not even nervous at all. I watch in awe, unable to believe this could
be real. Did he do all this for me?

Seeing him there, my heart has never been so open
or so fragile.

And when he begins to sing, the world around me
quiets to nothing. In this moment, there’s no one on earth but
the two of us.

I recognize the song instantly. It’s an
older song by Garth Brooks. She’s Every Woman. I used to listen
to it on repeat when I was younger and going through a country music
phase where I couldn’t get enough. He used to tease me about
it. How could he possibly remember that? It was years ago.

Something about this song always left me with a
longing inside.

It’s all about a woman who is everything to
her man. She’s complicated and beautiful and difficult, but to
him, she’s both his fantasy and his reality. Through the good
and the bad, he’s come to appreciate her for all that she is.
Not just a woman up on a pedestal, but a real woman, flaws and all.