by Sarra Cannon
“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.
Chapter Thirty-Three
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,” sh
e 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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
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?”
“A tent,” Mason says.
She looks at me, and I get the distinct feeling she’s doubting my ability to sleep in a tent. “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” she says. “But I think you might want to try Little Lake campsite. The state one is real commercial outfit. Lots of RV’s and noise and such. Our little one here is real close to the beach and is a lot quieter. More off the beaten path, so to speak.”
“Do they have showers?” I ask.
She laughs. “Oh yeah,” she says. “They got all the modern conveniences a girl like you could need.”
She’s messing with me, and to be honest, it kind of scares the crap out of me. I’m tempted to tell Mason we should try our luck at the bigger site, but I can tell from the smile on his face that he’s already sold on this other one.
“Sounds perfect,” Mason tells her. “And if we stay, I’m sure we’ll be back for more of your amazing food.”
The woman smiles from ear to ear and I swear to God I see an actual blush creep across her cheeks.
I sneak a look over at Mason. I always knew he was a charmer, but this is a side to him I’ve never seen. He’s more humble and a lot less flashy. The Mason I have always known has always been more aggressively flirtatious. He’s usually the center of attention. Loud and pushy.
But this Mason is a real gentleman.
And I like it.
Before the waitress walks away, she pulls the check out of her apron and lays it face-down on the table. Mason turns it over, then throws a ten dollar bill down on the table.
“Ten dollars?” I grab the check and turn it over. Dang, no wonder this place is practically run into the ground. “All that food was only seven bucks? You’ve got to be kidding me. She didn’t even charge us for our drinks.”
“This place is a real find, huh? What did I tell you?” he says. “Let’s go check out the beach, then we’ll head down to the campground to see if there are any spots left for the night.”
“How long will we stay?” I ask as we get up and head out the door.
Mason turns to wave at Delores and Buddy before he leads us back out into the sunshine.
“As long as we want.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mason and I walk out toward the beach. It’s a sunny morning, but there aren’t very many people on this side of the beach. Pretty far down one side, we can see a colorful cluster of umbrellas and towels and bodies. On the other side, there’s the small, weathered pier.
“Which way?” I ask.
Mason studies them both. “Let’s check out the pier,” he says. “These old ones can be really cool sometimes.”
We step into the sand and I realize it’s going to be a tough walk with these boots on. “Hold on a sec,” I say.
I hesitate, looking around for a place to sit down. There’s no curb or anything. Just sidewalk and sand. I plop down on the beach, then nearly jump up as the hot sand practically
burns the back of my legs.
“Whoa,” I shout, crouching down. “It’s super hot.”
Mason pulls his t-shirt off and lays it down on the sand for me. “That should help.”
I stare up at him, wide-eyed. My pulse quickens at the sight of his defined abs and perfectly tanned skin. “When did you become such a gentleman?” I ask. “First you’re so sweet to the lady inside and now you’re being really nice to me.”
I sit down on his shirt and begin untying my laces and pulling off my boots and socks.
“Don’t act so surprised,” he says. “I’ve always been a gentleman at heart.”
I snort, but then see by the look on his face that I’ve hurt his feelings.
“Oh, Mason, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it.” I pull my other boot off, then stand up, the hot sand burning the bottom of my feet as I approach him. “It’s just that back home, you’re usually all about the hit-it-and-quit-it mentality with women. I mean, I’ve seen glimpses here and there of how sweet you can be when we’re alone together, but you can be a real asshole sometimes and you know it.”
He shrugs. “This is different,” he says.
“How?”
He leaves his shirt on the ground by my boots and we take off toward the pier. “Besides it being just you and me, I guess this is just more of my comfort zone,” he says. “This is more of how I grew up. The party guy got to be more of an act. It just felt like that was who everyone expected me to be, you know? That’s part of why I needed to get away. I was tired of being me, if that makes sense.”
My shoulder brushes against his as we walk. I want to lean in to him. To be in his arms. But he takes one step apart from me and our skin loses contact.
“It makes a lot of sense,” I say. “I feel that way all the time.”
“How is that possible?” he asks, shaking his head. “You’re perfect, Penny.”
“Ha! I’m far from perfect,” I say, leaning down to grab a pretty shell that caught my eye. As soon as I pull it from the sand, though, I see it has a huge hole in it. I throw it back down and keep searching. “You’re talking to the girl who got drunk and wrecked an eighty thousand dollar car. I’ve made so many mistakes it’s not even funny.”