Two Thousand Miles (12 page)

I put Garrett’s sheets and comforter in the dryer and left a note saying I was with Mason on the kitchen counter before we left.

In Mason’s truck, I sat in the center of the bench seat, so I could be close to him.

“You eat pizza?” he asked.

“Yeah. I had it every Thursday night before I came here,” I blurted. He glanced over at me, like he expected me to say something more. I didn’t. 

“Chuck E. Cheese,” I laughed
, as Mason pulled into the parking lot.

“Yeah, you ever
been?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

He shook his head. “I know you’ve at least played Skee-Ball before,” he said.

“Yeah, my friend Brian has a
Skee-Ball machine in his game room. I have to warn you, I’m pretty good at it.”

“Alright,” he
nodded, a slight grin on his mouth.

Once inside, we ordered pepperoni pizza, got a cup full of tokens to share, and headed to the
Skee-Ball machines, dodging screaming, crying children along the way.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Mason joked after I’d tried to land the 50-point circle at the top and my ball bounced out and landed in the gutter.

“I’m just probably not warmed up yet,” I joked back.

He laughed. “You need to go outside and throw a few over-handed first?”

“Just give me a minute, I’m about to bring the pain.”

Mason laughed harder. “I can’t wait to see that.”

It took eight games, but I finally got a higher score than Mason. He gave me a high-five, threw his arm around my neck, and kissed the side of my forehead. By then our pizza was ready. We sat down at our table—on opposite sides—and watched Chuck E’s band lip-sing Beatles songs while we ate.

Before leaving, we gave our prize tickets to a couple kids who completely under appreciated the gesture.

Afterwards, Mason took me to a community theatre where we saw “Into the Woods.”

He’d fidgeted a lot during the show, seeming restless, but
he was a guy who probably didn’t frequent musicals.

“Do you come here a lot?” I asked, half joking as we exited the theatre.

“First time,” he exhaled hard. “I thought you would like it.”

“I did like it, but I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“It was okay.”

“You didn’t have to bring me here,” I said.

“I know. I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” I said
, and sweetly kissed his lips.

“This is a date by the way,”
Mason said. I laughed.

“Okay, so now I understand the difference between a date and you being
friendly
. Friendly stuff is fun for you, date stuff isn’t.”

“Hey, Chuck E
. Cheese was fun!” he argued.

“How about we do something you like now?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like the play.”

“If you weren’t here, where would you be right now?”

Mason grinned, hesitating.

“Spill it,” I said.

“The mud run in Saint Tammany Parrish,” he finally admitted.

“Then let’s go there.”

“You’re gonna get dirty,” Mason warned with a smile.

“How am I going to get dirty?”
I wasn’t participating
.

“You just are.”

“Fine. I can do dirty,” I boasted.

Mason gave me a wide smile. “Alright, let’s go get dirty then,” he said and helped me into the truck.

The mud run took place on a private farm. We parked in a freshly cut field and walked to a table sitting in front of a newer looking wood slat fence that seemed to go on forever. The gate was open, tied back with a long piece of white nylon rope. 

The sign on the table read
,
ADMISSION $5 PROCEEDS TO THE DELK FAMILY.

A
poster taped to the front of the table had photos of the family. Their youngest child had recently had a kidney transplant, and they needed help paying medical expenses. “She’s so sweet,” I mumbled looking at the three-year-old girl in the photos. She was smiling, her nose wrinkled, her baby teeth showing. Her wispy blond hair rested in ringlets against her shoulders. Her bright green eyes full of life.

“The
Babin’s—the people who own this farm have been doin’ this as long as I can remember. Every year they choose a family in need and give them the money they raise,” Mason said.

“That’s so nice of them,” I gasped. I hadn’t ever been in a position where I couldn’t pay for something. I couldn’t imagine
what a burden it must have been to have a sick child and trying to manage the everyday while worrying about bills they couldn’t pay.

I had a fifty-dollar bill in my pocket. Marion had given it to me before I boarded the plane to come to Slidell. She said I should have some cash on me just in case I needed some before I could get to a bank. So far
, I hadn’t needed any cash at all.

When it was our turn at the ticket table
, one of the women taking money lit up when she saw Mason.

“Mason,” she smiled.
“How you doin’ baby?”

“I’m good, Mrs. Landry.”

“Come hug my neck,” she said, and held her arms open wide. “It’s good to see you, child.”

“Good to see you, too, ma’am.”

“Your lady friend got a name?” she asked. Mason grabbed my hand. “This is Kat.”

“Hi,” I said. The woman smiled, her dark skin wrinkling around her eyes. “She’s a pretty one,” she said to Mason. “Nice to meet you, sweetie,” she said to me. “Y’all go on—have some fun now,” she directed.

Mason handed her a ten-dollar
bill, and she gave him two tickets. “Like always, them are good for the raffle. Don’t throw ‘em out now,” she teased.

I pulled the fifty from my pocket and put it in her hand. “I’d like to make a donation
to the family,” I said. “Oh, thank you, baby,” the woman said, and squeezed my hand. “It’s goin’ to a good cause,” she smiled. “A good cause,” she repeated before letting me go.

I had the best feeling wash over me. It felt so good to contribute
. To know I was helping that adorable little girl and her family. My father regularly gave to charity, and I had attended charity functions with him before, but I hadn’t ever seen who the money we gave benefited. It was nice to put a face to it.

Mason smiled at me. “Where do you
wanna start?” he asked. I shrugged. I had no idea; I’d never been to a mud run before. “Alright, let’s head to the big field first.”

On our way there
, I spotted a group of people surrounding a plastic barrel strapped to four posts with a mud pit underneath it. They yanked on the straps as a girl with mud on her hands and knees rode the barrel like it was a bull.

“You
wanna ride next?” Mason asked, a wide grin on his face. I gave him a look that made my answer clear. No. There was no way I was doing that. He laughed.

As we walked, it clicked that the mud run wasn’t what I’d imagined. I thought we would be watching something like a marathon with mud
. Instead, it was an unorganized obstacle course that anyone could participate in.

There were inflatable slides covered in mud and swimming pools filled with muddy water, a two sided slick hill with ropes for climbing up one side, then sliding down the other. There was a
tightrope walk that was only about a foot off the ground—probably because there was a lot of beer being consumed, and the owner’s didn’t want to risk people injuring themselves. There were other events, like muddy potato sack races, wheel barrel races—with actual wheel barrels. There were also makeshift shower stations for people to rinse off.

“Now I know why you said I would get dirty,” I told Mason.

“You only get dirty if you do it,” he said, like he knew I’d never in a million years roll around in the mud.

In the big field
, riding lawnmower races were taking place. It was funny to watch because the mowers had been modified to go really fast. Behind that, was a large pond where paddle boat races were happening. That looked like fun and was something I thought I could do without getting too dirty.

The smell of
barbecue wafted through the air, getting my attention. It came from a big barn with fading red and black paint next to the lawnmower races. A closer look made me realize it had been turned into a temporary restaurant. There were tables set up inside, draped with red and white checked tablecloths. The ceiling was decorated with string lights that looked like miniature light bulbs. A cash register sat on a long, wooden table that also held buffet style offerings of several meats, sides, and desserts. Canned drinks were in large iced down coolers.

“Pie,” Mason said,
seeming almost possessed. I laughed. “Ms. Mary Landry, the lady I was talkin’ to at the ticket table, she makes the best buttermilk pie in the entire state of Louisiana.”

My face distorted
. “Buttermilk pie,” I repeated. That sounded super gross. I didn’t even like regular milk.

Mason laughed, pulling my hand as he lurched toward the barn. “Trust me,” he said, giving me a crooked smile.

Girls were always being accused of using their “special powers of persuasion” when it came to getting a guy to do what she wanted, but boys were just as guilty.

“What can I get y’all?” a woman asked as Mason scanned the desserts on the table.

“I was hopin’ for a slice of Ms. Mary’s buttermilk pie,” he said.

“Sorry, sweetie.
We’re all sold out.”

“Macy!” A
high-pitched squeal came from somewhere behind the woman. Then a girl our age came around the table and threw her arms around Mason—while he was still holding my hand. I let go, mostly because I was forced to.

“Hey, Deb,” Mason said, his voice strained. The girl looked at Mason long and hard with adoration, smiling so wide I thought her face might crack like an egg.

“You know I saved you a slice of that pie, right?” she said, a giggle in her voice.

“You did? How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I sensed it,” she g
ushed. “I knew I’d see you today—felt it as soon as I opened my eyes this mornin’.”

“Alright, well thanks for
holdin’ on to that pie for me. I was lookin’ forward to it.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Macy,” she sang.

Macy
. I didn’t know if I should laugh or puke. Mason didn’t seem interested in the girl, or to care that she was the nutty stalker type.

The girl bounced away
; I smiled at Mason.

“Wow, she’s fun,” I exclaimed.

“Don’t even start,” he said.

The girl returned holding a paper plate full of pie. “Here you go,” she said, smiling dreamily at Mason.

“Thanks,” he told her
, then looked at me. “You want anything?”

The smile instantly fell from the girl’s face. “Who’s the cheerleader?” she asked Mason.

“I have never been a cheerleader!” I screeched.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you,” she snapped back, hands on her hips.

“You were talking about me.”

“Watch out Debra, this one won’t hesitate to whoop your crazy ass if you don’t put a sock in it,” Shelby said, pointing at me. I was so glad to see her.

“Shut up
, Shelby Broussard! Nobody was talkin’ to you either.”

“Mason doesn’t like you psycho. He has a girlfriend. Leave him alone,” Shelby said. I didn’t know how Mason felt about Shelby calling me his girlfriend, but it didn’t seem to faze him.

“Thank you for holding the pie for me Deb,” he
told her.

“Anytime,” she smiled.

I turned my back and looked at Shelby. “Who are you with?” I asked.

“Cody and Ben.
They’re around here somewhere—probably watchin’ those dumb bitches ride that barrel.”

“You don’t ride the barrel?” I asked, figuring that was the whole reason she was there. It seemed right up her alley.

“I will if you will,” she said.

I laughed, caught off guard.

“That’s what I thought,” she smirked.

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sound
s like.”

“You don’t think I’ll do it!” I gasped.

“Nope,” she shrugged, shamelessly. My mouth dropped open. “I’ve tried all sorts of new things since I’ve been here. Tubing, four wheeling, frog gigging—I set up a tent and slept
outside
.” That was everything I could think of; the list didn’t sound all that impressive. I knew it hadn’t impressed Shelby at all. She’d probably been doing those things since kindergarten.

“Sure,
but those are basic things anybody can do. Not anybody can ride that barrel bull.”

“Didn’t you just say the girls over there are dumb?”