The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

A sound like the entire world being ripped in half blows out my ears.

My vision goes white, red, purple, black.

The explosion in the hills through the gaping hole in the wall scalds my eyes, even when they’re pinched shut so tight I think they’re glued together.

And I see her then, for what I’m sure will be the last time alive.

I see her lush green eyes, her smiling face, and hear her laugh when I can’t actually hear anything at all.

If this is the angel sent to drag me out of hell, I’m glad it looks like Rachel Simon.

* * *

Present

“West, did you hear me?”

I spin around and look at the waitress, who pops her chewing gum loudly.

Stacy. A blond with dark roots and even darker eyeshadow and thinning patience for my wandering mind.

“Sorry,” I mutter, slapping the side of my head. “Guess I’m with the space cadets today.”

“Ha, I hope they’re happy thoughts. Two more drafts, hon!” She laughs. “Jeepers, it’s so loud in here tonight a person can’t hear themselves think!”

I nod, only wishing she was right.

Forcing myself to clear my head and get back in the game, I grab two mugs, fill them, and slide them across the bar.

Stacy’s right about one thing. The Bobcat is hopping tonight, the cooling nights driving people together for fires and the patio and neverending dart matches over bottomless brews.

Weekend nights are always hectic with the holidays creeping up, and that’s why I work them.

Uncle Grady needs extra hands on deck the most on nights like these, when he makes the most money.

The crowd surge usually lets up around ten o’clock. For those who come to eat, that is.

The folks who drop by for drinks, pool, and endless rounds of bawdy conversation usually stick around until well after midnight.

This place used to be a seedy biker bar years ago, but Grady buying it changed all that.

And with his newfound fame as a local hero of sorts thanks to his infamous tiger rescue and that big cat sanctuary they opened, we get more traffic than ever.

Now families journey here from several towns over to play arcade games, and couples finish off day trips to see the tigers with tall drinks and deep-fried bites.

I’m proud of my uncle and happy to help him out all I can, of course, which means keeping a certain annoying firecracker off my mind so I can focus on the shit that matters.

The shit I can control.

The next couple hours fly by, and talking to the regulars helps me clear my head till one of them mentions the “Simon girl” coming home for Thelma.

Damn.

It shouldn’t be this hard, struggling to see her as that scrawny kid she used to be.

Not the bombshell redhead with a body that oozes sex.

So perfect, so tempting, so much like a ripe strawberry goading my teeth for a forbidden bite.