Page 51 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“I did. There’s one in my toiletry bag, and I always have one in the glove compartment. But I haven’t had to use it since I was fourteen. I know how to be careful, don’t worry. This is the no-worries, escape-from-our-troubles trip, remember?”
“I do.” She settles back in her seat, gazing out the window as the sun rises higher in the sky, promising a perfect day. “I can’t wait to eat crawdaddies until my belly drags the ground.”
“Hot,” I murmur, making her laugh again.
It’s good to see her embracing the spirit of the adventure.
For the past two days, she’s been all business—planning routes, booking accommodations, and baking road trip provisions with the focus of someone preparing for war. The one time I tried to bring up Friday night—the kiss, the bathroom, the clear more-than-friendliness happening between us—she’d suddenly remember an urgent need to pack an extra mosquito net and vanish.
I have no idea what rules we’re playing by on this trip, but I’m trying to see that as part of the fun.
Will we make out on that mattress in the back of my truck bed tonight? Or spend the entire evening fighting the sexual tension on the opposite side of the “separation pillow” she packed? We’ll find out in fourteen to sixteen hours, depending on how long it takes the beer and food to put us down for the count.
Three hours later, we’re in the middle of nowhere, finally hitting traffic as we near the fairgrounds where the Mudbug Mayhem Festival is celebrating seventy-five years of honoring the noble crawfish—Louisiana’s tinier, creepier lobster cousin. I’m honestly not a huge fan of crawdaddies—cracking open their tail shell is a lot of effort for a tiny bite—but anything that puts a gleam in Makena’s eye is a winner in my book.
And what’s not to love about a festival with fifteen different food vendors and a crawfish costume contest?
We park in our assigned camping spot at the edge of a massive field, already half full at ten-thirty in the morning. Our closest neighbors are only twenty feet away. But they’re a young family, currently letting their baby crawl around on a blanket in the shade while they make sandwiches, so I’m not worried about the rowdy factor later tonight. I probably won’t have to brawl with anyone before bed, which is good, but not always a given at a Louisiana party.
Especially when people start drinking before lunch…
A group of girls in short shorts and barely-there tank tops wanders by on their way to the entrance, Coors Lights in hand, already giggling in a way that makes me suspect those beers aren’t their first.
Makena clucks her tongue. “Amateurs,” she whispers. “You have to get a base coat of food down before you start with the beer. They’re going to regret their choices later.”
“But we won’t,” I say, patting my stomach. “My biscuity base coat is going to do me proud. You done good, woman.”
She grins. “Thanks. Should we do a loop of the festival before we decide what to start eating first? Is your knee up for it?”
“My knee’s fine,” I say as we start across the field. “I’ve been sitting all morning. I’m ready to explore.”
“Me, too.” There’s a bounce in her step that hasn’t been there in a while, making me certain this trip was what she needed. Whether we decide to date or not, hopefully, our adventure will remind her of all the reasons a bold, brave life lived on her own terms is worth fighting for.
The registration tent is manned by a woman with feathered bangs and a t-shirt that says “I’ll Be Your Crawdaddy” with a picture of a silver fox crawfish smoldering into the camera underneath.
I’m about to ask her where she got it, when Makena breathes, “Oh my God, I love your shirt! Are they for sale anywhere around here?”
“Sure are,” the woman says, smacking her bright pink gum. “My sister, Shelly, and I sell all kinds of fun crawdaddy merch. Our tent is on the far right of the vendor section. Hope y’all will check us out.”
“We will,” Makena assures her. She touches a light hand to my arm as she adds, “Parker needs one of those. Don’t you, Parker?”
“I was thinkingyouneeded one of those,” I say. “But we can get a medium and share it.”
“Or get matching shirts,” Gum Lady says. “That’s couple goals right there. Now, let’s get you two ready to party. Ten bucks general admission or twenty apiece gets you cleared to compete in all the events, includin’ the callin’, the racin’, and the eatin’ contest.” She leans closer as she adds, “Though I don’t recommend the last one unless you’ve got good insurance. We had three people end up in the hospital last year. And Ricky Weems always wins anyway. He put down twelve pounds in twelve minutes last year and is determined to beat his record again this year.”
“Twelve pounds?” I blink as I try to math that out. If a single crawfish tail weighs maybe an ounce, how many mudbugs lost their life to Ricky last year?
The answer—a whole fucking lot.
“Would’ve been more, but his esophagus seized up.” Gum Lady shrugs. “But I mean, feel free to go for it, if you want. Just for the experience and all. There’s limited space at the eatin’ contest table, though. So be there at least thirty minutes early to check in if you want to throw your bib in the ring.”
“I think we’ll be fine just watching that one,” Makena says with a laugh. “Don’t want to fly too close to the sun our first time out.”
“Yeah, and it’s going to be a hot one,” the woman agrees. “So, stay hydrated.”
We pay our twenty bucks each and get matching wristbands that declare us “Certified Mudbug Maniacs.” After an exploratory trek around the perimeter, we decide on deep-fried cornmeal crawfish tails as our first mudbug snack and head to the races. They’re being held in massive kiddie pools with lanes marked by pool noodles, with a new heat taking off every fifteen minutes.
The crawfish, clearly having not signed up for this, mostly sit there looking existentially confused.
