Page 18 of More With You

“Okay. Here’s how it’s done.” He holds up the crawfish, his fingers glistening with the red juice from the boil. “Take your thumb and forefinger and pinch the tail like this.” A seafood magician, he twists off the tail. “Then, gently squeeze the head and pop it off.”

Clumsy with my crawfish, I manage to get the tail off, but, as I start to remove the head, he jumps in, his hand closing over mine.

“Not too hard. Not too fast. Just easy, like this.” It was definitely starting to sound more and more like an innuendo. Still, I watch him as he picks out another crawfish and does it again, smoothly separating the head from the body. It’s all in the pinch, or so it seems.

Determined to get it right, I copy his actions, and the head literally… pops off, just as he said it would. I can’t say it’s the most appetizing thing I’ve ever seen in my life, with greenish, yellowish, blackish bits that don’t look like they’re supposed to be eaten. This has to be a joke, right? He’s pulling my leg, taking advantage of my lack of southern knowledge.

“Now, suck the head,” he says, and suck it he does, putting it between his lips to show me how it’s done. I can hear all the liquid and god knows what else being vacuumed out of the head, his fingers pinching and crunching the sunset-red shell to make sure he’s got every last bit of gunk out.

I gape at him. “You were serious? I’m literally going to suck the head of this thing—like, it’s brains and everything?” The sexy connotation evaporates with my appetite. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.” I move to put the head in the discard bag, but his hand closes over mine again and he shakes his head.

“If you want to be a local, you’ve got to suck the head. That’s how crawfish eating is done. The meat is nice and all, but the real flavor’s in here.” He waggles the head at me, making my nose wrinkle. “I swear, I’m not trying to trick you. Try it. Just one.”

Not wanting to be a killjoy, I stare at my crawfish. “Fine.” I shake my head in mock exasperation. “One, but if I throw up, it’s on you.” Maybe literally.

“You’ve mangled that one.” He grins and reaches into the bag to pull out an untouched crawfish. I feel a flicker of disappointment in my belly; I thought I’d done a decent job of beheading the thing. Still, I watch him expertly remove the head of the new one, and hold my breath as he leans closer, placing the exposed neck to my already burning lips. It shouldn’t be sexy, but he could make anything sexy. And, as he whispers, “Now… suck,” I’m about ready to lunge at him and kiss him until his lips are burning like mine. I might’ve acted on the impulse, if the innards of a crawfish weren’t staring me in the face, and he wasn’t looking at me with a sweet, adorable expression of anticipation.

I scrunch my eyes closed and do as he says, sucking the juices and every other damn thing from the crawfish head. I’m expecting it to taste how it looks: muddy, foul, brainy (if that was a flavor profile). Instead, my mouth fills with a savory rush of salt and spice and the sea, and something nutty that adds depth to the taste. None of the flavors are overwhelming, perfectly balanced out like a deliberate sauce.

“Wow…” My eyes open. “That’s… actually delicious!” I reach for another crawfish. “Consider me converted to your weird southern ways. Although, I’m probably going to need that entire six-pack of beer to get through these. It’s so…” I fan my mouth, like that’ll help, “… damn… spicy!”

Ben smiles. “That’s the point. Cheers!” We clink crawfish, then clink beer bottles, before tearing those tasty red suckers to pieces. Honestly, sitting on a plastic chair, next to a foldaway table, with the Gulf ahead of me and a handsome man at my side, I can’t remember feeling happier. Who needs fine dining when this exists?

“How come I’ve never heard of this place?” I ask through burning, addictive mouthfuls of seafood and beer.

Ben points back at the white wall behind us, where people have been coming in and out of a green swing door since we sat down. “They process the crawfish back there, so if there’s too much to do, Lucky doesn’t open up the bar area. Or he opens up later in the evening. We got… well, lucky.”

“There’s still so much I don’t know.” I meet his eyes with a half-smile, wondering if he can read the subtext in my gaze.

Clearly oblivious, he nods. “When you’ve lived here all your life, you know where all the best places are. Anyway, you’ve got yourself a personal tour guide now. If there’s anything you’ve ever wanted to see or do, I can make it happen.” He pauses. “I meant what I said about New Orleans, too. When I decide on a date for the show, I hope you’ll come with me.”

“I’d love to,” I say quietly. “How did you even end up with a gallery?”

He chuckles awkwardly and hands me a pile of wipes so we can clean our hands. “Are we doing the quickfire question thing again?”

“I’m just interested.” The tension is getting heavy again, so I nudge him to try and lighten it. “So far, I know you paint, you work as a booth tender, you ride a motorcycle, and you like to eat crawfish brains. This is what you do on a first date, right? You get to know each other. Saying that, it’s been… ooh, at least six years since my last date, so maybe they’ve changed the rules.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Six years?”

“Even then, it wasn’t really a date. I thought it was, he didn’t, so that was super awkward all around.” I touch my knuckles to my warmed cheeks, determined to blame it on the spice. It’s not easy to admit, at twenty-six, that your dating experience is basically zilch.

He rounds his lips in a low whistle. “All these places you used to work—were all the guys dense? If I’d been at one of your tables, I wouldn’t have left until I had your number.” He pauses. “Not in a creepy way, of course.”

“A few guys tried, but… I’m not a dater, really.” I’m suddenly intrigued by his dating history. He’s got a decade on me, and he looks like that, so he must’ve been around the block. It doesn’t bother me. Everyone has their past. But, I suppose it’s beneficial to find out what kind of baggage is coming into a relationship: carry-on, fragile or oversized.

He tilts his head. “Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind,” I confirm. “I’ve… uh… not had the best experience with guys, is probably the simplest way to put it. Not guys I’ve dated, since I don’t, but… other guys. Made me want to keep a wide berth.”

I leave it at that and hope he won’t press further. This is only the first date, and, maybe it’s hypocritical, but I don’t really want to offload all of my baggage and scare him off before I get to know him.

He smiles and lifts his fingertips to the underside of my chin, tilting my head up gently. “Then, I’m even happier you gave me a shot.”

“I left it up to fate, and you can’t argue with fate.” I lick the salt and spice and sweetness from my lips, and smile against his mouth as he kisses me. It’s slow and lingering and my stomach is turning somersaults: the tingling burn even more potent than the crawfish.

He pulls me closer, his hand slipping into my hair, running his fingertips through it as his kiss deepens. My arms loop around his neck as I press myself into him, needing to feel that steadying rise and fall of his chest against me. It’s like meditation, and I’ve been missing out on the resulting serenity for years.

A sharp whistle cuts through our passionate embrace. “Hey! You’re not at home now, Ben!” A bawdy laugh follows. “Don’t you be puttin’ off my other patrons, now. You’re supposed to suck crawfish heads, not each other’s faces!”

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