Two Thousand Miles

by Jennifer Davis

  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 gushed. “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 sounds 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?”

  “Yeah, so. They are. I went to school with them most of my life. They do shit like that to get boys to look at them. I do shit like that because I want to.”

  “What are we talkin’ about?” Mason asked.

  “Crazy Debbie,” Shelby said.

  “She’s nice,” Mason defended.

  “To you!” I snapped. “She called me a fucking cheerleader.” He laughed. “Want a bite?” Mason asked, holding out a plastic fork loaded with buttermilk pie.

  “No thanks,” I frowned.

  “Yes you do,” Shelby said. “The stalker’s in full stalk mode.” I turned to look and Debbie flipped me a bird.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Shelby.

  “Sure did. I’d be pissed if I were you,” she egged me on.

  I turned to Mason. “I think I will have a taste of that pie,” I said through gritted teeth.

&n
bsp; Mason looked scared to death. “Hold this,” I told Shelby, swiping the paper plate from Mason’s hands. “Oh shit,” he mumbled right before I kissed him.

  I’d never kissed anybody with food in their mouth before, but at least it was pie and not something gross like boiled eggs or liver. Mason didn’t seem to mind it either. And it wasn’t like he’d just taken a big bite, it was mostly sugary remnants.

  Shelby laughed so hard I thought she might pee her pants.

  “Mmmm,” Mason cooed when we separated. “I think you taste better than that pie ever thought about.” I laughed.

  “Let’s go ride that damn bull,” I told Shelby, suddenly feeling like I could do anything.

  Chapter 19

  Shelby was right; Cody and Ben were watching the stupid bitches ride the plastic bull. “Get up there, babe,” Cody told Shelby and slapped her on the butt as she walked by. She turned and gave him a coy smile before telling the girl who thought she was going next to get out of the way and hopping on the barrel.

  The girl she’d just shoved aside and her friends quickly grabbed the ropes and shook Shelby off without warning, landing her in the mud. “It was my turn,” the girl said.

  “Aw hell,” Cody breathed. I knew the situation was about to get ugly. Shelby was tough, but there were five of them and only one of her.

  As the girl tried to climb onto the saddle, Shelby grabbed hold of her shirt and yanked her to the ground. The girl tried to get her hands around Shelby’s neck, but Shelby was able to roll her over and gain control. Two of the girl’s friends jumped in and pulled Shelby off of her, holding her by the arms while the girl sprang up from the mud and punched Shelby in the mouth.

  About the same time I remember thinking how unfair that was, I realized I was in the mud. I’d knocked the girl down, and although she was kicking and trying her hardest to punch me, I held my own. I was so full of adrenaline that I wouldn’t have wanted to “tangle” with me, as Dixie would have put it.

  After a few minutes, Mason pulled me away from the girl who was screaming at me. The only thing I heard was, “Crazy bitch.”

  “You all right?” Mason asked, shocked.

  “I think so,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t really feel anything. It was as if I was weightless or numb or something. It must have been from the adrenaline rush. I knew that once it wore off, I would be sore.

  “You are a crazy bitch,” Shelby laughed and hugged me hard around my neck. Her lip was cut and bleeding. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Me either,” Cody blurted, wide eyed. It had all happened so fast that everyone was still trying to process it.

  “Fuck that bull, I’m ‘bout ready for a cold beer,” Shelby announced, using the neck of her shirt to pat the blood from her mouth. I thought I could use a beer, too. “Let’s go,” I said.

  “You’re not gettin’ in my truck like that,” Mason laughed, shaking his head.

  “So, you’re going to leave me here?” I asked, my hands on my hips.

  “No, I’d hate for one of the police officers trollin’ this place to carry your scrappin’ ass to jail. Go rinse off.”

  “Getting my clothes wet is only going to make it worse,” I complained.

  “Alright,” he said, hesitantly. “We’ll see y’all at the house,” he told Shelby, Cody, and Ben.

  Walking to his truck, Mason laughed. “I told you you’d get dirty.” I was filthy, covered almost completely in mud. “But you didn’t tell me I’d end up in a fight.”

  “Cali girl, I don’t think Nostradamus could have seen that shit comin’.” I laughed, mostly because I’d never heard anyone use Nostradamus in a sentence before.

  Mason pulled a towel from the back seat of his truck and laid it across the front seat for me.

  “Don’t you sometimes run this thing through the mud? I’m pretty sure it was caked in it the day we met—and y’all were wet. My seat was wet,” I spit, remembering the back of my favorite dress being ruined because of it.

  “I’ve shampooed the interior since then. But I’m thinkin’ I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant I’d get to watch you roll around with Sissy Coombs some more,” he grinned.

  “Very funny,” I smirked, then asked, “does everybody know everybody in Louisiana?”

  He laughed, “I don’t know everybody.”

  “Just all the girls?”

  He laughed harder. “No.”

  “I don’t think I believe that.”

  “Believe what you want,” he shrugged.

  “Wow, you didn’t even try to argue.”

  “What’s to argue about? You already think one way; me telling you different probably won’t change your mind.”

  “Okay,” I admitted. He was a little bit right. “I’ll put it this way then, you’re popular with the girls around here. They know you, even if you don’t know them. Is that more right?”

  “More right? What kind of grammar is that?”

  “You’re one to question a person’s grammar,” I snickered. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

  “I bet the boys in Malibu know who you are, too,” he defended.

  “Touché,” I said.

  Mason laughed hard. “My grammar may not be the best, but at least I don’t say dumb words like touché.”

  “Touché is not a dumb word; it’s French. And it’s meant as a compliment.”

  “I know what it means. I took French in high school.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “Whattya mean what?”

  “I just figured that you’d taken Spanish.”

  “Dammit girl, you really don’t know much about this part of the world, do ya? A lot of us have French Canadian descendents called Acadian’s. It’s where the word Cajun came from.”

  “I’m pretty sure the Spanish controlled Louisiana at some point.”

  “They did, but only for, like, forty years or somethin’. But then it went back to the French, who later sold it to the United States.”

  “I took French in high school, too,” I said. “I considered going on a school trip to France this summer.”

  “You passed up France for Slidell?” Mason asked.

  “I wasn’t sure my stomach could handle such a long flight,” I lied.

  “I don’t like to fly either,” Mason said.

  “Say something in French,” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “No. Uh, I mean Non,” he smiled.

  “Funny,” I smirked. Non was no in French, so technically he’d said something in French, but it wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

  We were still almost forty minutes from the Broussard’s house and I was starting to feel mummified as the mud dried, especially on my neck and arms. It didn’t help that the windows were down, aiding the drying process. I imagined my hair looked like Medusa’s.

  “You look pretty uncomfortable,” Mason said.

  “I feel like a prune.”

  “There’s a little creek a few miles down. We used to go swimming out there sometimes when we were kids. Been a while since I’ve been there and wouldn’t mind stoppin’ in.”

  The creek was located on the back side of an old park. There was a swing set with four swings and an ancient looking merry-go-round.

  “What happened here?”

  “This place was once a pretty popular campground. After Hurricane Katrina, the guy who ran it left and decided not to come back. He lives in Tennessee now, I think.”

  “Wow. That was in 2005 and this place is still sitting empty?”

  “Yeah, the guy doesn’t want to sell the land and I don’t think too many people come around here anymore. An old campground isn’t exactly at the top of Louisiana’s priority list.”

  I looked around. The land was nice, and I could imagine it as a thriving campground. “The place is pretty beautiful,” I said. “It’s a shame nobody is getting any use out of it.”

  “When I was a kid, I used to dream about takin’ it over. It was so differen
t then. My granddad was friends with the owner, Mr. Willis, and he’d bring me out here a lot on the weekends to camp. I’ve got a lot of great memories of this place. The old man, Mr. Willis, had this antique projector, like the kind they used to show movies on in theatres, and he’d set it up and hang a sheet between a couple trees and show “The Goonies” or “Six Pack.” Stuff from the ‘80’s, but I loved it.”

  I took Mason’s hand, bringing him out of the fog of memories he’d been sifting through in his head. He smiled at me. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  The creek was so peaceful that I almost hated to get in and disturb it. I left my sandals on and stepped into the cool, clear water and sank down, letting my legs drift out in front of me until my whole body was covered. I dunked my head and agitated my hair with my fingers, working to release the clumps of dirt. I pulled off my denim shorts, wrung them out, and placed them on a nearby rock bathing in the sun. I did the same with my top.

  “You don’t want to get in?” I asked Mason.

  “Nah.”

  “Chicken.”

  “I am no chicken, Cali girl.”

  “So, get in then.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “Maybe you’re just a chicken,” I quipped. “Suit yourself.” I dunked my head one more time to make sure I’d emptied all the mud I could from my hair. When I came back up, Mason was navigating the water toward me. He’d stripped down to his boxer shorts.

  “How do you wear those things?” I asked.

  “Boxers?”

  “Yeah, doesn’t it feel like you’re wearing two pair of shorts?”

  “No, but you’re probably used to those metro sexual dudes who wear bikini underwear and get their nails done and all that.”

  I laughed. “Um, no. I’ve never dated a dude who got his nails done.”

  “Eyebrows waxed?” he asked, grinning.

  “No, I’ve never dated a guy who had his eyebrows waxed.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Do you ever take that thing off?” I asked Mason, pointing to his purple and gold cap.

  “Only when I absolutely have to,” he said, his tone serious. “I take it off for the basics; showering, sleeping and school.”