“Ready?” I question as I start heading for the parking lot with the shirt she got me draped over my right shoulder.
“Ready for what?” She follows me. “To show me how good you are?”
I love this girl.
“Yup, and I know the perfect place to start.” I take her hand as we walk through the green gates of the track and out to my Jeep.
“I should have brought a hair tie,” she notes as she climbs into the passenger side.
“I can put the windows on if you want.”
“No, that’s okay. It’s a nice night.” She wrings her long blonde hair around her wrist.
I throw the car into drive and head north out of the parking lot.
“So where are we going?”
“I’m going to make a quick stop, then you’ll see.”
I pull into a tiny strip mall. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her as I hop out of the Jeep and walk over to the entrance of the liquor store. I grab a six pack of Hard Lemonade, a bag of chips, a few Slim Jims, and some trail mix. Not exactly gourmet, but we can have real food later.
I place the paper bag in the trunk then hop back into the driver’s seat and take off.
“What did you get?” Alana asks curiously.
“You’ll see.”
“You don’t like to divulge much, huh?”
“It’s more exciting if it’s a surprise.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the entrance of Sandy Hook. A peninsula-shaped state park located on the northern most tip of the Jersey Shore. On the right side is the Atlantic Ocean, on the left side Sandy Hook Bay.
Alana looks over at me inquisitively. I can tell because her brows furrow just above her sunglasses.
I drive as far as I can on the main strip of road, before veering right and off-roading over some sand dunes and onto the beach. She gasps when she sees the panoramic view of the New York City skyline. It’s so close it looks like you can almost reach out and touch it.
“I thought it might be cool to watch the sun set over Manhattan.”
Alana smiles brightly. I wish she would take off those goddamn sunglasses, because I want more than anything to just see her eyes.
I park, and we hop out of the Jeep. Alana shakes out her hair while I grab the bag and a blanket out of the tiny trunk. We walk thirty yards, getting closer to the water, and plop down on the slightly warm sand.
“Okay,” she concedes, “you’re good. There isn’t any place I love more than the city.”
“Oh yeah?” I reach into the brown bag and pull out two bottles. “So, I know you’re underage” — I pop off one top — “but just how underage are you?”
“Eighteen.” She goes to grab the lemonade, but I pull the bottle back.
“You don’t act eighteen.”
She shrugs. “I had to grow up fast.”
“Me too.” I hand her the drink then open one for myself. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you have to grow up fast?” I coax.