Oops! I Married a Rock Star

She signs up for the competition at a booth close to the main entrance. I look at the competition options at the festival.

The Best Barbecue in the Whole Wide World

The Best Pie in the Whole Wide World

The Best Crack Shot in Texas

The Best Archer in Texas

The Best Band in Texas

Becca comes over, stuffing a slip she got from the competition signup booth into a back pocket. I gesture at the sign. “Why do they need a competition for the best band in Texas? Axelrod is obviously the clear winner. Actually, it’s the best band in the whole wide world.”

“That’s probably why they didn’t say the best in the whole world. Axelrod is clearly too good to enter.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “But they should have one called the Biggest Ego in the Whole Wide World just for you.”

I shrug. “Hey, can’t help it if we’re the best. But seriously, how come barbecue and pie get to be the best in the world, but the other things are just the best in Texas?”

“Easy. Drover has the best of best in the world when it comes to barbecue and pies. The rest? Probably just best in the state.”

Gotta love that small-town pride. But it doesn’t seem unwarranted, based on the smells wafting from some of the huge smokers people have set up. Hmm. I wonder if it’s too late to sign up to be a judge for the best barbecue competition.

“Is Margaret competing?” I ask, remembering how she bragged at the dinner.

Becca nods. “She and Sylvie always enter together.” Her tone says they never ask her to join them, but she doesn’t sound sad. But then, who would want to ruin a perfectly fine weekend by spending it with those two?

I offer her my arm, and she loops hers through it. We eat ice cream and cotton candy and corn dogs and whatever else catches our eye. Drink home-brewed beers and buy heart-shaped red balloons from a vendor, a fat, jolly fellow in a boater who says that every lady needs at least one to know she’s loved.

We laugh, and I take a few selfies. Not to be shared on social media, but for me to keep on my phone, as a collection of carefully preserved memories. They can go into an album titled “Our First Year” and we can look back on them when we’re older. Like “we’re starting to have gray hair” older.

When Becca says she needs to use the bathroom, I hold her balloons and wait by the booths with games and prizes. A dark-haired man in his early thirties, who’s been staring at me for the last half an hour or so, finally wanders over. Based on the sheepish grin, he’s probably a shy fan. People in Drover seem to be too proud to act like the usual crazies, but there are still some who approach for autographs or whatever.

“You’re Devlin Marsh, right? From Axelrod?” His face is bright red now.

“The one and only,” I say with a smile that’s mostly polite with a dollop of warmth. It’s the smile I reserve for fans.

“Wow. I had no idea you were in Drover. I’m a huge fan.” He extends a hand.

I shake it, doing my best to ignore the fact that his palm is unpleasantly damp. Just nervous sweat, not liquid anthrax.

“So. Um. I heard you got married.”

“Yep. Don’t tell me you had hots for me, man.”

He laughs. “No, no. Nothing like that. Just wanted to say congratulations. Mind if I get an autograph?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He hands me a marker and points to the white T-shirt he’s wearing. “You can sign here.”

“Okay. Hold it and stretch it out a little. Yeah, like that.” I uncap the marker to—

“Hey, you bastard! How dare you show your face around here!”

I look up and see Tasha charging like some kind of blue-haired bull. I don’t think she’s talking to me, though, because Mr. Shy Fan flinches away, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Tasha notices the marker. “Were you about to give him an autograph?”

I put the cap back on the marker. “Nope. I was, uh, gonna throw it at him.” Seems like a safer answer.