The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

But I don’t sit down.

I make myself look at the arena, fixing my eyes on it like I’m staring down the gates of hell.

“Here he comes!” Marty bellows, elbowing me in the side again. Yeah, he’s got to stop doing that. “C’mon, Shel. Put those lungs to work. I’ve heard how you sing in the shower, belting out tunes.”

“Idiot,” I mouth back, shaking my head and pushing at him.

It’s doubly awkward when my big brother is so oblivious to my awkward history with his bestie.

Sure enough, Weston’s snorting blue truck plows ahead, lunging at the first car like a lion tackling a helpless gazelle. The big wheels bounce high in the air, tilting the monster truck for an uncertain second.

But the car gives way beneath his massive weight in two seconds flat.

Pop goes the weasel, as my dumb brother likes to say.

The glass.

The metal.

Me.

My heart soars into my throat as my nerves come alive, forcing me to look away.

That truck could roll over at any moment, hurting him, or worse. It seems so dangerous, so reckless, but what do I know?

I don’t need to dredge up bad thoughts again—the infinite nightmares I had about him being killed overseas. For the first year, I thought it was the reason he didn’t write.

There had to be something outside his control, right?

He wouldn’t just abandon me...

...until he did.

Don’t look at his truck again, I tell myself, pinching my eyes shut as the crowd releases another explosive, delighted roar.

When the noise dies down an agonizing minute later, my eyes flick back to the action. The monster truck is gone, making its way around the long lap, trailing behind the first vehicle.

There’s a new dragon on wheels, this tall front-end loader thing piling up crushed cars on top of each other for the next round of “entertainment” on the opposite end of the arena.

I follow it with my gaze, listening to a group of young boys behind me screech about how they’ll be driving next year after they get their licenses.

Anything to get my thoughts off Weston.

Whatever. If I was in a better mood, I might admit the atmosphere has a certain charm.

All the cheering, whooping, and banshee hollering is the soul of Dallas.

This town doesn’t need fancy concerts or endless rows of glassy shopping centers branded with famous logos to have fun. The people here make their own.

And when they’re not busy cooking up creative ways to obliterate tons of steel and glass, they’re pretty down-to-earth and kind to each other. Everyone still loves his neighbor—or affectionately tolerates him—and even in the recent situations I heard about that involved bad actors creeping into town, a helping hand was never far.

I’ve missed that.

Missed the wide-open spaces when I’m used to crowded city streets.

Missed the quiet nights where crickets and night birds sing softly through open windows. A soothing contrast with shrill sirens and bleating horns punching through closed windows, distorting my sweetest dreams.

All whining aside, I’d be having a little fun right now if it wasn’t for Weston living rent-free in my head.