The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

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Keep Calm And Oink (Rachel)

This is so not my thing.

My butt already hurts from sitting on this wooden bench and the muggy air pulls sweat down my back in sticky streams. It’s hotter than the devil’s kitchen, which seems like a sacrilege for late September.

Mostly, it’s the noise that makes me question my life decisions.

The clamor from the outrageously huge trucks filling the arena could rival an elephant stampede. I’m just waiting for their belching exhaust fumes to send half the town to the ER, sputtering for oxygen.

I don’t know how Marty talked me into this.

God, why did I let my dork of a brother drag me here?

Granted, it’s a nice break from managing the B&B and worrying about Gram, even if I know she’s getting the best care possible at the hospital in Dickinson.

Her surgery went well. She was nervous before it happened, but went under the knife smiling, and woke up wearing the same defiant grin with a shiny new hip.

I hope her recovery goes just as smoothly.

She’ll be home tomorrow with a bundle of everything she’ll need for the next few weeks. Namely, a walker and cane. She’d scoffed at the idea of needing either.

Convincing her to rein it in so she can heal is going to be rough. I’m not sure she’s taken a day off life ever since Marty and I were dropped in her lap after our parents died.

I smile as I recall her last words before we left the hospital this afternoon.

“Just you wait and see,” Gram said. “By this time next week, young lady, I’ll be doing the strawberry sprint, racing Granny Coffey down the aisles.”

That got a laugh. Apparently, even a hip replacement won’t keep her away from her longtime arch-rivalry over fresh fruit with the only other senior in town as feisty as she is.

Honestly, feisty or not, I doubt Gram will be racing anyone next week.

The surgeon insisted it’ll be a good six to eight weeks before she’s back to normal. Even with two years of nagging pain, she wouldn’t book the procedure until I promised I’d come home to lend a hand at Amelia’s B&B.

So I’d packed my bags, caught the earliest flight out of D.C. yesterday morning, and left behind an intern gig with the Smithsonian for an all-too-familiar slice of nowhere on the plains.

Hello, North Dakota, here I am.

Watching these four-wheeled monsters huffing and puffing like they’re ready to blow everybody’s house down.

The town’s always liked its races and car shows, but I guess they’ve turned into a big deal ever since I’ve been away. I don’t remember monster trucks being a thing—or my grown brother reverting to a bouncy twelve-year-old over it.

It’s already been a long, strange homecoming to Dallas, North Dakota, where life couldn’t be more different from the nation’s bustling capital.

A loud whoop ringing out makes me jump, a reminder of just how different this place can be.

I glance at the crowd behind me. There must be twenty-five solid rows of benches overflowing with people wearing cowboy hats and mud-spattered boots.

They’re trying to outdo the trucks in the noise department, cheering and roaring like they’ve just struck gold. Though I guess black gold wouldn’t be out of place in this dusty little oil town.

Sighing, I turn back around.

I’ve been back here a few times over the years for holidays and such. But if it wasn’t for Gram’s health, I know I wouldn’t be basking in the evening sun, watching these obnoxious, hulking trucks climbing over the tops of old cars, squashing them flatter than cardboard boxes.

“Pop goes the weasel!” Marty gushes, elbowing me playfully in the side as a monster truck blows out the windows of a rusted van. “How are you not screaming, Shelly?”

I roll my eyes.